Fugitive Mom. Lynn Erickson

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      Inside, the television was on—afternoon cartoons. Grace didn’t like Charley watching too much TV, but Ellen had probably been happy to let him. She was a sweet kid, lived down the street, and Charley loved her.

      “Hi, Mrs. Bennett,” Ellen said, popping up from the couch. Mrs. Bennett. No matter how many times Grace had told Ellen there was no Mr. Bennett, the girl called her Mrs. She’d given up correcting her.

      “Hi, Mommy,” she heard, and Charley appeared over the back of the couch, jumping up and down. “Hi, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! We’re watching cartoons!”

      Mommy. Charley knew no other mother. He didn’t remember his first three months with Kerry’s post-partum depression, her inability to nurse him or hold him or provide him with more than perfunctory care. The word tore her heart out. Mommy. The court had negated four years of motherhood and declared an utter stranger his mother.

      She paid Ellen and watched her walk out, then down the street to her house. She was trying hard not to show her inner turmoil, but she doubted her own acting ability. She was a straightforward person, a plain, ordinary, law-abiding woman. Her talents were few but enough for her own fulfillment. She was a good mother. No. Better. She was a terrific mother. And she was a darn good teacher. Her classes at the University of Colorado always had a waiting list: Psychology 101, Abnormal Psychology and a graduate course in Behavior and Therapy.

      “Come here, Charley,” she said, sitting on the couch and holding her arms out.

      He ran to her. His eyes were blue like Kerry’s, but he had darker hair. A dirty, healthy four-year-old. He was going to have a substantial nose when he matured. His father must have…

      “Mommy.” His grubby fingers played with the collar of the suit she’d worn to court. A plain navy-blue suit. Several years old and not very stylish. The skirt was too long and sagged around her hips. But she’d wanted to look respectable. God, she might as well have worn jeans like Kerry.

      “Yes, sweetie?” He was warm and solid on her lap, and smelled like dust and little-boy sweat.

      “Can we go out for ice cream after dinner?”

      It was his favorite outing—walking along the Pearl Street Mall in downtown Boulder and licking an ice cream cone.

      “Not tonight, Charley.”

      “Why not, Mommy?”

      She took a deep breath. Because I can’t, because I’m done in, because I don’t want to see anybody. “Not tonight, okay?”

      He sulked. But she knew he’d get over it. Charley had a sunny disposition and didn’t hold grudges long. He was independent, though. Stubborn and willful and wonderfully bright. She held him until he wiggled, burying her face in his hair.

      Four days. She was only his mother for four more days. How was she going to explain that to him? The enormity of the mistake, the injustice, overwhelmed her once more. Charley was her son.

      “Mommy,” he whined, wriggling off her lap. “I’m hungry.”

      Grace could only go through the motions, fixing him a snack. Despite the routine, her mind raced, searching for a way out. An appeal might work. Natalie had said she’d write one up. But not in time, not in four days. Should she call the judge at home? What was his name? Fallon, yes, Judge Henry Fallon. Call him and explain, beg, throw herself on his mercy?

      Ridiculous.

      What, then? Hand Charley over as if he were a stray dog from the pound? Here you go, Spot, a nice new owner for you. Oh, don’t worry, you’ll get used to her after a while.

      As a psychology teacher, she knew full well what this kind of disruption could do to a child. It could leave Charley with a profound distrust of adults, a possibly severe incapacity to trust, to form relationships, to love. It was worse than a mother’s death—at some point even a small child could accept a parent’s death, but to a child abandonment appeared to be a deliberate act. Punishment. Oh, God.

      She sat at the kitchen table, watching Charley crawl on the floor, pushing a Tonka toy car.

      “Broom, broomm,” he was saying. “And now he passes the blue car, faster and faster. Around the corner. Screech, he turns over!” He flipped the car and spun it around. His fingers left sticky peanut butter prints on his toy.

      Charley.

      Her life had been perfect. Her son, her teaching, her research, her friends in the wonderfully liberated atmosphere of Boulder, Colorado. Everything under control, no need for messy relationships or men. She’d been perfectly happy.

      “And he spins and, crash, into the wall!” Charley said.

      She’d just finished the paperwork for Charley’s legal adoption. She had needed the release from Kerry Pope, that was all, a simple, easy signature. Kerry hadn’t signed. Instead, she’d petitioned the Juvenile Court for permanent custody of Charley. After four years.

      At first Grace had figured she herself was a shoo-in. Nobody would remove a child from a loving parent who’d taken care of him since birth and return him to a convicted felon who’d abandoned him years before.

      Natalie had warned her, but she hadn’t listened. Not that it would have done any good.

      Charley was lying on his stomach, twirling the wheels of his race car with a finger. He turned his face up to her and smiled. “We won the race, Mommy. Did you see?”

      “Yes, I saw. Congratulations.”

      Then he was up and running around the kitchen table, his sturdy legs pumping furiously, his elbows tight to his sides. “Broom, broo-o-m! Faster and faster! Watch me, Mommy.”

      And then, at that very moment, Grace knew that she could never give Charley up.

      What to do? What were her options?

      Charley was in the living room now. She could hear him talking to Hazel and Whiskers, their two cats. The animals had ventured downstairs for their suppers, running the gamut of Charley’s overexuberant play. “Nice kitty,” she heard him croon. “Here, play with my car. Broom, broo-o-m!”

      She needed help.

      Help.

      Susan Moore, the look in her concerned brown eyes as she stuck the scrap of paper into Grace’s hand. Help. A phone number.

      Where was that piece of paper? She must have put it in her pocket. Yes, the pocket of her suit jacket. She hurried into the living room and grabbed her navy-blue jacket from the chair where she’d tossed it when she’d gotten home, felt in the pockets. Nothing in the left pocket. The right one, yes, a crumpled scrap that she’d jammed in there when Natalie had spoken to her.

      She flattened out the paper with shaking fingers. There was a phone number scrawled on it, a Denver number. If she called it who would answer? What kind of help would be offered? But at least it was an option, a possibility.

      She lifted the cordless phone from its base and punched in the numbers, quickly, before she lost her nerve. The line rang, once, twice, three times. Oh, God, she’d probably get an answering machine, and then what would СКАЧАТЬ