Bertha’s head was lowered. “I hope she never remembers,” she said quietly. “We try not to dwell on it. We love our little Emily and the thought—” She stopped, and her face tightened. She returned her gaze to a fixed spot on the carpet.
“May not have happened when she was five,” Adams added, covering the silence. “With Korsakov’s syndrome, sometimes the erosion of memory goes both ways. It moves not only forward but backward from the time of the trauma.”
The room fell silent. Ben wished to God he had a cactus or calendar or something in the office to which he could divert his attention. After a moment, he realized he had become so engrossed in the discussion of Emily’s disorder that he had totally failed to explore the legal matter at hand.
He cleared his throat. “Forgive me for changing the subject, Mr. and Mrs. Adams, but I was told that you were seeking advice on an adoption matter. Do you want to adopt Emily?”
“Yes,” Bertha said, not looking up.
“You know, Ben,” Jonathan said, “this is probably going to sound ridiculous, but I’m just a feeble old coot so I’m entitled to a little ridiculousness every now and then. I don’t think it’s any secret how we feel about our little Emily. Took to her from the first moment I saw her in that vacant lot.”
“Well, if you’re sure, then—”
“We know what you’re thinking, Mr. Kincaid,” Bertha interrupted. “Don’t you think it’s crossed our minds? Why adopt such a bundle of trouble? Especially at our age. It’s not as if she’s ever going to be attached to us.” She released a short, unhappy laugh. “She can barely remember who we are.”
Jonathan Adams gently laid his hand upon his wife’s and squeezed.
“But we love her, Mr. Kincaid, we truly do.” For the first time, the strong woman’s voice cracked. “We never had any children of our own. Couldn’t.” She took a deep breath and tried to regain control. “And then, long after I’d given up any hope of children, Jonathan comes home with little Emily. I’ve spent the last year watching her drift from one moment to the next. And I’ve been happy, mostly.” She sunk back into the folds of her coat. “She’s mine how. And I want to keep her.”
Ben looked at the woman, men looked away. At last, the impenetrable fortress had been breached. She began to cry.
4
BEN CALLED MAGGIE AND asked her to bring in soft drinks. After some minor grumbling and a five-minute delay, she appeared with three cans of Coke Classic. As the sodas were served, small talk replaced the previous serious conversation. Ben could feel the tension in the room diminishing.
“She doesn’t always seem so … unfocused, you know,” Jonathan said. “You should see her when she listens to music. We’ll play a record, and her entire personality changes. She seems completely absorbed.”
“Same thing in church,” Bertha added. “When the organ is playing, and they’re taking communion.”
“She becomes absorbed in the ritual,” Jonathan continued. “She likes helping me garden, too. Seems to like repeating the same act over and over. Makes her feel comfortable.” He sipped from his Coke. “It’s a wonderful thing to see, Mr. Kincaid. All of a sudden, she’s not the restless, lost child you saw a moment ago.”
“I can’t believe you’ve had Emily for almost a year without getting caught up in bureaucratic red tape,” Ben said.
Jonathan and Bertha eyed one another. “Well, when we first found Emily, we reported it to the police, of course,” Jonathan said. He took another swallow of his Coke. “They claimed they made an investigation and to no one’s surprise told us they hadn’t the foggiest idea who she was. They told us to take her to the Department of Human Services. We … uh … forgot.” Jonathan winked in his wife’s direction.
“But even if you were already attached to Emily,” Ben said, “you should have turned her over to the child welfare authorities and then applied to adopt her.”
Bertha shook her head. “What would be the point? Let me tell you something, Mr. Kincaid. I’m fifty-nine years old. Jonathan is sixty-one. We’ve never had children before. They wouldn’t let us adopt a puppy, much less a sweet thing like Emily.”
“And as time went on,” Jonathan added, “we realized just how permanent, how … devastating, Emily’s condition really was. They probably wouldn’t put her up for adoption at all. They’d put her in one of those homes for special children. I’ve heard about what goes on in those homes, Mr. Kincaid. We couldn’t let that happen to our Emily. We just couldn’t.”
Ben frowned. He was hearing damaging information that he knew wouldn’t help their case at an adoption hearing.
“So we kept Emily at home,” Jonathan continued. “Told the few neighbors we know she was the daughter of a mythical niece of Bertha’s in Kansas City. It worked for a while. But you know how neighbors are.” His voice took on a shrill tone. “ ‘Why isn’t little Emily in school? When is that niece from Kansas City coming back for her? Maybe the Adamses are one of those old couples that snatch kids in shopping malls.’ ” He paused. “Eventually, someone called the police.”
Bertha smiled wryly. “We got rid of the nosy Parker with a lot of tea and sincere-sounding balderdash. Or so we thought. I guess our luck couldn’t hold out forever.” Bertha reached down beside her chair and withdrew a long sheet of paper from her purse. “Some rude young man wearing dark sunglasses served this on us last week.”
Ben took the sheet of paper from her. It was a court order commanding Bertha and Jonathan to show cause why Emily shouldn’t be taken from them and placed in the custody of the Department of Human Services. The hearing was set for the following Friday.
While Ben reviewed the order, Greg suddenly burst through his office door.
“Hey, Ben, we’re taking a poll on Marianne’s name—” He saw the Adamses and froze. “Whoops! I didn’t know you had visitors.” He looked mortified.
“Greg,” Ben said, “this is Jonathan and Bertha Adams. Jonathan is a senior vice president at Sanguine Enterprises.”
“Really.” Greg looked awkwardly at Jonathan, then shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He turned away hurriedly. “Well, Marianne doesn’t have to commit until lunchtime. I’ll come by later when you’re not busy.” He slunk backward out the door. Ben heard him mutter to. Maggie in the hallway, “Geez, he’s only been here two hours and he’s already talking to clients!”
“Is that young man a lawyer here?” Jonathan asked.
“Strange but true,” Ben said. He returned his attention to the court order. “Everything seems to be in order. The DHS is apparently taking this very seriously.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do, Mr. Kincaid?” Bertha asked.
At last, Ben realized, it was time to try to sound like a lawyer. “Of course we’ll appear at the hearing on your behalf and try to convince the court it would be in the child’s best interests to remain with you. We’ll make a formal request for adoption. Other than that, there’s not much we can do. I’m afraid the procedures for adoptions are rather rigid. And it won’t look good when they tell the court that you kept Emily for a year without reporting to the DHS.” He paused. “The best approach would be to go to court with a consensual adoption. But for that, we’d have to know who her mother or father is and obtain their consent.”
Jonathan inhaled sharply. “Are you sure that’s the only way?”
Ben shrugged. “It’s the only approach that is likely to be successful. Absent consent, we can only make our case and hope for the best. Do you have any idea who Emily’s parents might have been?”
Adams’s face hardened. He seemed to retreat into deep, silent thought. “No,” he said, finally. “No, I don’t.” He took a long time before adding, “But maybe I can work on it.”