child needs money more than he needs love. Or proper guidance. Or a safe home. Maybe you really are so shallow that it doesn’t trouble you that even a cursory background check would have revealed the father you placed Adam with had two prior arrests for child endangerment.
“Not to mention that had you done even one of the quarterly post-placement home visits your rate list requires, at fifteen hundred dollars a piece, mind you, you might have noticed that the boy was living in a cage. ”
“Those visits”-Ms. Peterson collapsed into her chair-“can be done by phone.”
Thus giving new definition to the term “home visit.”
“Yeah,” my mother said, “bet you still charge the whole fifteen hundred, though, don’t you? Because that would be the most important thing.”
Ms. Peterson’s eyes glazed over like those of a dying woman watching her life flash before her.
“No,” my mother said, “Adam Merr isn’t dead. But parts of him were killed. His childhood. His innocence. Maybe any chance he’ll ever have to love and be loved, to trust another person, to enjoy a normal life.
“And, you know what, Amy? When I bring what you just admitted to me about bribing state officials to the district attorney’s office, and they start looking into your little operation here, I have a feeling that Adam isn’t the only child they’ll find you’ve put into an house of horrors to suffer a life of abuse and neglect. I think there’s a reason people like the Merrs are willing to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to get a child with ‘no questions asked.’
“When the answers come, I pray to God they’re not as bad as I fear they might be.
“Enjoy this pretty office while you can, Amy. Enjoy your pretty home and your pretty clothing and your pretty little bank account, too.
“Because they all came at a price that I’m not sure a woman like you will ever understand. A price paid by innocent babies. A debt you can never repay.”
Ms. Peterson burst into sobs.
My mother turned her back and walked away.
At the door, she turned for one last jab. “If I thought even one of those tears was for the children,” she said, “I might be feeling a little sorry for you right now. As it is, I’m going to enjoy taking you down.”
Ms. Peterson raised her tear-streaked face. “Who are you?” she asked again.
“Who am I?” my mother asked. “I’m your worst nightmare. A loudmouth Jewish mother with her own talk show and a burning hatred for anyone who would hurt a child.
“I’m Sophie, you despicable bitch.
“Stay tuned.”
35
We entered the van to cheers and applause. Except from Roni, the segment producer, who was weeping. She threw her arms around my mother.
“You did it,” she cried. “You got her. That horrible, horrible woman. What she allowed to happen to those children…” She couldn’t get out any more words.
“That was brilliant,” Andrew said. “Getting her to confess to bribery like that. That has to be the final nail in her coffin.”
Steven the makeup genius kissed my mother on the cheek. “I knew we were making a show today,” he said, “but now I see we’ll be making a difference. You done good, boss.”
I stood back, letting the other staffers have their chance.
A fact not unnoticed by the diva herself.
“My own son?” my mother asked. “Nothing to say?”
“What do you think?” I asked. “You did great. You know that. I’m proud of you.”
My mother raised a hand and waved me over. “Come here.”
I stood to give her a hug but she stopped me. She looked at my face, licked her thumb, and started wiping off my makeup while she talked.
I remembered her doing that when I was kid. Cleaning me with her spittle like that, although generally with a handkerchief or tissue. “That’s gross,” I’d cry, trying to squirm away.
“You have a little schmutz there,” she’d say. “Stand still.”
“You’re rubbing your spit into me. That’s disgusting.”
“A mother’s spit isn’t disgusting,” she’d instruct me. “A mother’s spit is love. Everything that comes from me to you is love.”
She never convinced me of that when I was growing up. Now, I wondered if there was more to it than I knew.
“You asked me why I wanted you there today, baby. You want to know the real reason?”
“Sure.”
“Because I was scared. What business do I have being an ‘investigative reporter’? What do I know about interviewing someone ‘the right way,’ to ask the kinds of questions I needed to ask? I was afraid I’d blow it. What the hell qualified me to go in there like that?
“I didn’t have what I needed here.” She tapped her temple. “I had it here.”
She put a hand on her chest. “The instincts of a mother. All I had to do was imagine what I’d do if anyone ever hurt you like they hurt Adam Merr. I knew if I could keep that in mind, the words would come to me. That’s why I needed you there. To remind my heart what it needed to say.”
Wow.
“Whatever you did, it worked. You nailed her, Mom. You probably saved some kids while you were at it. You even made for some Must-Watch TV. I think you might get that Emmy after all.”
I thought I’d seen every expression my mother’s face was capable of displaying. But the one she wore now- love, pride, and accomplishment, without the slightest trace of self-consciousness-was new to me.
My mother was always “on.” I couldn’t remember a time she wasn’t calculating how she looked or came across to others.
But not now. Not in this one particular moment. She was just there. Herself, unguarded, open. In this single instance of selflessness, something shone from her, a light that warmed me even before she pulled me into her arms for an embrace so sincere, so loving, that it felt like I was being hugged for the first time in my life.
“Bubeleh,” she whispered in my ear. “Emmy, schmemmy. Who needs an Emmy?”
It was after nine and Tony still wasn’t home. I missed him.
Between my amateur sleuthing and his legitimate investigating, I felt like we never saw each other.
I missed him.
It’d been a strange couple of days. Brent. Lucas. Adam. Even Rafi.
All these Lost Boys.
Okay, maybe not all of them were lost. There was still some hope for the first two. People can change. They can be saved or they can save themselves.
But what about the little ones? If the grown-ups in their lives couldn’t pull their acts together, what hope did the kids have?
For that matter, Brent and Lucas had been kids at one point, too. Thinking about it, they hadn’t been lost as much as thrown away. Rejected by families that hadn’t deemed them fit.
My mother’s hug earlier today came back to me as a sense memory.
Would anyone hold Adam and Rafi like that?
Would it make a difference?
I love kids. I do. But when I’m with Rafi, there’s a part of me that’s always holding back. Things are too unsure between me and his father for me to allow myself to get too attached. I don’t want him to get hurt,
