The Deepest Blue (26 page)

“Can we go yet?” I ask.

Ms. Young checks her watch. “Let's head out.”

chapter 21

Things go pretty much as Ms. Young predicted. McIntyre blasts away at Dad, asking Julia crap like “How bad did he treat you?” and “How devastated were you when they left?” Julie gives the expected answers. She cries fake tears and tries to look pathetic and heartbroken. But I can see what she's doing. I can see through the act, and underneath I know she is smiling, thinking she is winning. Anger and nausea duke it out in my gut, each one slugging away at the other for dominance. Acid rises in the back of my throat, and there are a few times I think I might hurl all over the slick tabletop.

But I keep it together. I realize that if I give in, if I call Julia a liar, a lunatic, and all the other names running through my head, I'll tip my hand; I'll help her win. I watch her sitting in the chair and realize, with a little bit of shock and a lot of horror, that I sort of look like her. Everyone has always said I look just like my dad, but they never saw Julia to compare me to. Her hair is dark, too,
but it's her mouth where I see it. My eyes, my cheeks, my jaw, that's all my dad. But the mouth and nose on her face are what I look at every day in the mirror.

After about an hour of listening to McIntyre blather on about what a jerk Dad was and about all the wonderful things Julia has done in her life since Dad and I left, McIntyre finally says, “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Ms. Young is slow to rise. She flips through notes on her legal pad, scanning them as if she might have nothing to say. Eventually she stands, makes her way to the podium in the center of the room, folds her pudgy fingers over the legal pad, and turns her head to Julia.

“Mrs. Mayers, why did it take you so long to attempt to reconnect with your son?”

“At first,” Julia says, “I didn't have the funds to hire someone to track them down. When I finally did have the money, it was more difficult to find them because they had moved a few times.”

I knew this was a lie. After the drive to North Carolina, we lived in one apartment in Wilmington before Dad bought the house in Atlantic Beach. We have lived in that same house for almost nine years, so it's not like we were that hard to track down.

“Did you hire a private detective?”

“Yes, I did. Two of them, actually.”

“And who were they?” Ms. Young leans on the podium and looks right at Julia.

“I don't recall their names right now.”

Just like Ms. Young said at lunch.

“And when did you hire each of them?”

Julia's eyes roll up to the ceiling. “The first one was about six years ago, after I married my second husband. He didn't have any luck tracking them down. About a year later I hired another one, and he found the address in North Carolina for me.”

“But you don't recall their names or the dates you hired them?”

“I'm sure,” Julia said, a smirk forming on her lips, “I have it at home somewhere.”

“Mrs. Mayers,” Ms. Young says in a voice that practically drips with sugar, “have you ever heard the term ‘borderline personality disorder'?”

Julia blinks quickly, but her face doesn't change. “I'm sure I've heard it somewhere before.”

“Have you heard it in any way applied to you?” Ms. Young's voice is still sweet and gentle.

“Absolutely not,” Julia says, mimicking the sugary tone of Ms. Young.

“Could you explain to me, then,” Ms. Young says, producing a few sheets of stapled paper from under the notepad with all the flair of a TV legal show, “why the Seattle Office of Child and Family Welfare ordered you to seek therapy and take medication for a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder ten years ago before they would grant you the opportunity to visit with your son without your ex-husband being present?” Julia hands the paper to the bailiff, who looks at it and hands it to the judge.

Julia's face doesn't flinch. “It was a misdiagnosis, one which I fought against for the next five years.”

“I thought you just said you weren't aware of this diagnosis as it applied to you personally.”

“It didn't,” Julia says, her voice calm. “I was previously diagnosed with anxiety and depression, both of which I was treated for as part of postpartum depression after Michael was born.”

“And for which you continued taking medication even up to the time that your ex-husband left and removed Michael from the home?”

“Yes, until Richard stole Michael from me.”

“Only, you weren't actually taking the medication. Michael watched you dump it down the sink on at least one occasion.”

“He was just a little kid. His memory is confused by the lies his father told him for so many years.”

Ms. Young tears out the drawing I made at lunchtime and hands it to the bailiff, who hands it to the judge. The judge looks it over, then looks at Ms. Young and nods.

“Mrs. Mayers,” Ms. Young says, “do you recognize this?” She hands the drawing to Julia, who takes it as if Ms. Young were handing her a snake.

“It's the floor plan to the home we lived in when Michael was very small.”

“Would you say, then, that it's a fairly accurate representation?”

“Not to scale, maybe, but yes, fairly accurate.”

“Detailed?”

Julia looks. She studies it.

I even drew in her bay window with the house plants and my toy chest in the closet of my room.

“Very detailed,” Julia says, her voice faint as if she realizes she has been caught.

“Would you be surprised to know that Michael drew this from memory during our lunch break?”

Julia doesn't respond.

“Mrs. Mayers, does that surprise you?” Ms. Young says more emphatically this time.

“I haven't seen my son in more than ten years. I don't know him well enough to be surprised.”

“But you're certain he can't have a good memory, that he can't remember you pouring medication into the sink.”

“His father told him that so he would hate me.” There is a hiss in Julia's voice, and I know she is frustrated at having been caught.

“Is that how you explain all the negative memories your son has of you?” Ms. Young says.

“Objection, Your Honor,” Mr. McIntyre says.

“Sustained,” the judge says. “Ms. Young, please continue without leading the witness.” It's a warning, not a polite request.

“Let me rephrase the question,” Ms. Young says. “Why is it that your son can recall pleasant memories with detail, but those that are not so flattering to you are lies implanted by his father?'

“Objection,” McIntyre says again, almost yelling at the judge.

“Overruled,” the judge replies. “Mrs. Mayer, answer the question.”

Julia looks at her lawyer, her eyes reflect just a hint of panic. “I'm not a psychologist. I can't answer that.”

“Would you agree that it is reasonable, then,” continues Ms. Young in her syrupy sweet voice, “that some of those unflattering memories might just be true?”

“If you're asking me was I a perfect mother, then the answer is no. But I was not the monster I'm being made out to be.” There is fear and frustration welling up in Julia. You can hear it in her voice, see it at the corners of her eyes.

Ms. Young walks to her briefcase and sets it on the table next to me. She flips the latches open and reaches inside, then pulls out a small tape recorder, which she carries to the podium.

“Your Honor,” Mr. McIntyre says, “may I inquire as to what nonsense Ms. Young is preparing for?”

“It's in the disclosure I faxed to you yesterday, Mr. McIntyre,” Ms. Young says. “If you'll look on page five, you'll see it there.” She takes another set of stapled papers from under the legal pad and hands them to the bailiff. “Transcripts,” she says.

The bailiff nods, walks the papers to the judge, and returns to her post by the blonde woman whose fingers are flying over some sort of typewriter.

The judge nods and sets the papers on her desk. “Proceed, Ms. Young.”

Ms. Young looks at Julia, who is sitting up straight in
defiance of her frustration. “Do you recall a phone call placed on or about July 12, nine years ago?”

“I'm sure I don't,” Julia says.

“Do you recall referring to your son Michael as a,” she looks at her notes, then back at Julia, ‘parasite who can't be far enough away'?”

“I would never refer to Michael like that.”

From the corner of my eye I see McIntyre squirm in his chair as he flips through a stack of white paper.

Ms. Young switches on the small recorder, and it crackles to life in the microphone. There is a beep, like the sound of our old answering machine, and then a pause. Then it's Julia's voice, overlain with static and some unidentifiable noise in the background.

“Pick up the phone, Rich.” There is a long pause and then a loud, obviously annoyed sigh. “Quit letting him call me, Rich. I don't have the money to change my phone number, so quit having that little brat leave me messages trying to make me feel guilty. He's nothing but a parasite who can't be far enough away from me, and I don't appreciate your trying to force me to interact with him.”

There is the sound of a phone disconnecting with a violent slamming, then Ms. Young clicks off the tape recorder. The trick up the sleeve. Dad must have saved this, given it to Chuck years ago to keep in case something like this ever came up.
Got it under control.

Julia is stunned. McIntyre is leaning back in his chair, patting his face with a white handkerchief.

I feel relieved. I feel like finally someone else knows
the truth about her. Every muscle in my body twitches with excitement, but I hold perfectly still and fight to keep the smile off my face.

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Ms. Young collects her things and returns to the chair beside me. I want to jump up and hug her, but I hold completely still. She reaches over and pats my knee beneath the table, and then she scribbles something on the legal pad. She slides it over for me to read.

“McIntyre isn't stupid.”

My enthusiasm dries up a little.

“Opportunity to redirect, Your Honor,” McIntyre says.

“Go ahead, Mr. McIntyre,” the judge says.

He lifts himself from the chair with great effort and returns to the podium. “Mrs. Mayers, how old is your son Steven?”

Julia has been crying softly. She sniffs, takes a long, shaky breath, and dabs at her eyes with a tissue the judge has handed her. “He's almost five now.”

“The same age you lost Michael at.”

“Yes,” she says, her voice cracking with emotion that I can't decipher is real or faked.

“How is your relationship with him?”

“He's a wonderful little boy, and I do everything I can to be with him as much as possible. I volunteered at his preschool, and when he starts kindergarten this fall, I'll volunteer there, too.”

“Do you work, Mrs. Mayers?”

“No, I'm very fortunate to have a husband who makes
a good enough living that I can stay home and be a fulltime mother.”

“And are you currently taking any medication?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Can you explain to us, Mrs. Mayers, what would have caused you to say such a thing to your former husband about your son Michael?”

Julia begins to sob, her shoulders bouncing up and down. “I had postpartum depression, the worst kind. It lasted for years after Michael was born. I was angry, I was hurt, and I felt so guilty about not being able to be the best mother to him that I lashed out at him and at Richard.” She is crying for real, and as much as I hate her, I feel a little sorry for her because this is the most genuine emotion I've ever seen out of her. “I would get these calls from him, I'd hear his little voice, and it was a terrible reminder of what a failure I was, and I couldn't take that pain.”

“Mrs. Mayers, what is it you want to have happen out of this? What outcome are you looking for by showing up now?” McIntyre's voice is soothing, but I don't trust him.

“I just want to know my son. I just want the chance to be the kind of mother he deserves.”

I nearly yell out “Bullshit!” but I grit my teeth so hard I think they might crack. Ms. Young puts a hand on my knee and squeezes tight.

“Thank you, Mrs. Mayers.”

“You may step down,” the judge says. There is a long silence as the judge writes on her notepad and looks over documents. “Ms. Young, are you prepared for closing
statements?” The judge looks over the top of her glasses at us.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Ms. Young steps up to the podium and proceeds to tell the judge all the reasons why I should be allowed to stay in Atlantic Beach, and especially why I should stay with Maggie. “Removing this young man and placing him into a situation that is foreign, taking him away from his support system when he has just lost his father, and relocating him to a place and with a woman of whom he holds so many terrible memories would be a devastating blow to his development and well-being.” Her voice is passionate and loud, echoing off the courtroom ceiling and punctuated by thunder.