At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [101]
Mandy pressed her fingertips to her temples, shaking her head slowly. “How dare you?” she said quietly. Then she looked straight at Lindsay. “How dare you set yourself up as judge of what’s best for my child? How dare you judge me?” A breath, a final shake of her head. “No. He’s my boy and you can’t keep him from me.”
“No one is trying to keep him from you,” Carrie assured her. “All we’re trying to do is—”
“He’s my child,” Mandy insisted. “I know my rights.” Two high spots of color stained her cheeks and her dark eyes took on a feverish hue. She rose abruptly, clutching her purse. “I’ve come for my son. You have his bags packed and ready to go today. I’ll be back for him at three o’clock.” She turned to Carrie. “Do I have to bring the sheriff with me?” she demanded.
Carrie said coolly, “That won’t be necessary.”
“Three o’clock,” she repeated. “I’ll be back.”
And with that, she left the office, closing the door hard behind her.
Cici said, “This isn’t happening.” She stared at Carrie. “You really can’t be sending a fifteen-year-old boy away from the only stable home he’s ever known to care for a terminally ill woman he’s never even met.”
“She is his mother,” Carrie said, trying to hide her own distress behind the authority in her tone. “The law is very clear—”
“Then the law is wrong. It’s just wrong.”
“This will change him forever,” Lindsay said. Her eyes had a bleak, unfocused look. “It will change the possibility of who he might have been.”
“Maybe,” Carrie agreed gently. “We have no right to judge, here, and we can’t play God. Every child has a right to know his mother.”
Cici said, “This is not how the system is supposed to work. What about what’s best for Noah?”
And Bridget added, “Okay, you’re right, maybe he does have a right to know his mother is alive, and maybe he does deserve to get to know her . . . but to send him away to live with her—under these circumstances—surely he’d be better off in foster care, even if it’s not with us.”
“That will have to be decided by the Department of Family and Children’s Services in Richmond. I’ll file a report with them, of course, and they will follow up . . .”
“And that could take months,” Cici said.
“Months,” repeated Lindsay. She stood. Her friends followed suit.
“Ladies,” Carrie said, coming around the desk. Her face was soft with genuine regret. “I know this doesn’t seem fair, and I am so sorry it happened. But there’s really nothing more we can do. I’ll talk to Mandy again, and maybe we can come up with some kind of support plan . . . but in the meantime, the kindest thing you can do for Noah is to prepare him for the news. We’ll be by to pick him up this afternoon.”
They were barely out the door before Lindsay snatched her phone out of her purse and flipped it open.
“What are you doing?” Cici said.
“Lawyers,” she responded crisply. She scrolled down her address book as she walked. “The whole damn world is run by lawyers. Well, I know a few lawyers and I’m not afraid to put them to work.” She pushed a button and clamped the phone to her ear.
Bridget said uncertainly, “Do you mean . . . take this to court?” She had to quicken her steps to keep up with Lindsay’s angry stride. “Can we do that?”
“Lawyers can do whatever they want.” She took the phone away from her ear, scowling, and redialed.
Cici said carefully, “That would be one way to go, I guess. Once a jury heard all the sordid details of his mother’s background—and there have got to be plenty, no matter what she’s done with her life now—they would never grant her custody of Noah. Of course, Noah would have to hear all the details, too.”
And Bridget added hesitantly, “These things take an awfully long time. She might not survive the trial.”
“Either way,” Cici added, “with no other living relatives, and without any real wrongdoing, I don’t think the court would intervene while the case is pending. Noah would still be living with her.”
Lindsay suddenly threw the telephone, hard, down on the sidewalk.