I wore jeans, a dress shirt that showed some wear, and a navy blazer. Nice but not too nice. Melissa had asked me to change from my old cowboy boots to loafers, saying she didn’t want them to think me a redneck. When it comes to such matters, I learned long ago to defer. I think that deferring is one of the secrets to a happy marriage.
Angelina was in a white ruffled dress with red polka dots. She looked like a doll—jet-black hair, creamy skin, chubby cheeks, and those startling dark eyes. I loved it that our new baby loved me, and looked at me without a hint of what was going on around her, about her.
“Those bastards,” I said, “putting us through this.” My voice was harsh, and Angelina balled her fists and took a breath, ready to cry.
“No, it’s okay, honey,” I cooed. “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t. Nevertheless, she relaxed. She believed me as I lied to her, which broke my heart. Melissa took her upstairs for her morning nap. I hoped that when she awoke our lives would be normal again, that she’d never have to learn about what almost happened.
OUTSIDE OUR HOME
, a blue late-model Cadillac SUV slowed to a crawl on the street and swung into our driveway. I could see two people inside.
Garrett Moreland, son of the judge and supposed birth father of Angelina, got out first and looked at our house with an expression I can only describe as amused disdain.
GARRETT MORELAND WAS DARK
, tall, chiseled, with raven-dark hair and striking eyes like brown glass marbles balanced on a whalebone shelf. Seeing Angelina’s eyes mounted in this man-boy’s face made my heart clench, and I could taste a spurt of something rotten in my mouth. Garrett had an abnormally long neck and prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down as his jaw muscles worked like taut cords while he surveyed the front of our home. His skin was pale white, his mouth a thin-lipped red cut that looked like a razor slash a second before it oozed blood. He was dressed like an eighteen-year-old forced to go to church—chinos, loafers, an open-collar button-down shirt and a slightly too-big blazer that was probably his father’s. As he stood there he bent slightly forward, rocking on the
balls of his feet, with his hands held at his sides and the crown of his head bent so he was looking at the house from under his eyebrows and I thought,
He looks demonic
.
John Moreland was tall as well, and movie-star handsome. In his mid-to-late forties, he had a pleasant boyish face and longish brown hair combed in a long comma over his forehead. He looked like a hip Presbyterian minister, a man who was used to being noticed, a man supremely comfortable in his own skin; he was the deacon, the Rotary president, the former Peace Corps volunteer still remembered and worshipped back in the third-world village. His tan suit draped nicely, and he wore a cream-colored dress shirt. He was lightly tanned and had a mole on his cheek where a model would pencil a beauty mark. There was confidence in his attitude and walk, and a significant exchange of …
something
… as Moreland and Garrett Moreland glanced at each other before knocking on our door.
I heard Melissa come down the stairs.
“It’s them,” she said. “I saw them from upstairs.”
I nodded.
“They’re good-looking men,” she said. “I can see why she went out with Garrett.”
I looked at her, tried to remember the last time she’d made a comment like that.
“My heart sank when I saw them get out,” she muttered under her breath. “I so wanted to hate them on sight.”
“You don’t?”
She shook her head quickly while she patted down her clothes and put on her game face. “I hate why they’re here,” she said. She took my face in her hands. “Remember what we talked about. Stay cool—control your temper. The last thing we want to do right now is to anger them—especially Garrett. We need him to sign the papers. Don’t give him a
reason to withhold his signature one second longer than necessary.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
John Moreland smiled broadly when we opened the door. He had a disarming, sloppy smile, but he seemed nervous behind it. He carried a bulging white paper sack in one hand that he seemed to have forgotten he had. It hadn’t occurred to me they would be nervous, too. The fact made me feel better.
We stepped aside and asked them to come in. Boy, we were gracious. Melissa asked if they wanted coffee. Moreland said he would like a cup. Garrett shook his head sullenly. I couldn’t read him at first. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and his movements and attitude seemed designed to put distance between him and everyone else in the room.
“Please sit down,” I said, gesturing toward the couch with the coffee table in front of it. I had moved two of our big chairs to the other side for Melissa and me. The chairs were slightly taller than the couch, and I wanted a scenario where Moreland and Garrett would need to sit closely together and look up at us. I’d learned this from business meetings. It gave us a psychological advantage.
Unfortunately, Moreland didn’t bite on my seating arrangement, and acted as if he hadn’t seen me point to the couch. He sat in one of the chairs. Garrett shambled over to the couch and sat down heavily with undisguised contempt for his father. Or me. Or something.
Melissa saw the situation the minute she came back from the kitchen. She could either sit in the chair in the dominant position or settle in next to Garrett. Her hesitation was obvious, and I filled it by taking the couch. She had cups
on a tray I’d never seen before, which slightly annoyed me. Moreland took his coffee.
“I brought this for you, a little gift,” he said, handing the bag to me. I looked inside and saw sticky pastries of some kind. I handed the bag to Melissa, and she looked inside, said “Thank you” to Moreland, and went back into the kitchen to put them on a plate, which she brought back out.
I broke the awkward silence by turning to Garrett, saying, “It’s nice to meet you. You’re a senior this year, right?” Showing I knew a little about him.
Garrett said, “Yeah, a senior,” with a slight curl of his lip.
In social situations, Melissa always led the way. I turned to her and saw that despite the smile, her face had drained of blood. She was terrified to speak, to get to the matter at hand. I did my best to carry on, to maintain the slight edge I thought I’d gained by addressing Garrett.
There was some small talk about the weather (cooling), the traffic on the way to our subdivision (light since it was the weekend). Moreland had a deep sonorous voice with a homey Southern accent. I tried to place it and guessed either Tennessee or North Carolina. He had a way of looking directly at us when he talked that had the effect of putting me at ease. Garrett said nothing. Melissa either.
“The roads should be fine until the game to night,” I said. “Then it’ll be bumper-to-bumper on I-25 for a while.”
Moreland smiled knowingly and nodded. “We’ve got season tickets. I haven’t missed the Broncos playing the Raiders in fifteen years. As far as I’m concerned, the Broncos can’t beat them by enough.” He looked at me empathetically, “Tell me you’re not a Raiders fan and I’ve just insulted you.”
“I’m not a Raiders fan,” I said, wishing for a moment I was.
“Well,” Moreland said, smiling, “we’ve certainly got that
in common. I’ve learned since I came out here to go to school at CU in Boulder how special the Broncos are to those of us who live here. The Broncos are our touchstone, our way of establishing a common bond and interest. Even people who don’t like football follow the Broncos, since a win means everyone will be in a fine mood to start the week and a loss means snarling drivers and grumpy ser vice in the stores.”
With that, control of the situation ebbed away from me and flowed to John Moreland.
I tried to take my cues from Melissa, but she wasn’t helping me. Instead, she observed both Moreland and Garrett closely. Mostly Garrett. No doubt she was seeing similarities in his features to Angelina, or perhaps she was trying to imagine him as father material. I noticed Garrett stealing looks at her as well when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Long, predatory looks that took her in from her feet in sandals, up her bare legs, quickly over her hands in her lap to her breasts under the sleeveless white top and sweater. I tried hard not to let it bother me.
“I think we should get to it,” I said, probably too abruptly.
Enough with the small talk
.
Enough with the staring at my wife.
“Yes,” Moreland said, almost sadly.
Even though no one really moved, it felt as if everyone’s gears shifted, and the room suddenly became sterile. Melissa sat up straighter, as did Moreland. Only Garrett, who continued to lounge on the couch with his arm thrown over the backrest, continued observing something on the ceiling when he wasn’t examining Melissa.
“We understand,” I said, “you’ve contacted the adoption agency in regard to our daughter Angelina.”
Moreland nodded.
“According to Mrs. Perala at the agency, Garrett doesn’t want to sign the papers giving us full custody of Angelina.
This came as an unbelievable shock to us. The agency said this was the first time this has ever happened to them. Of course, you can imagine this is something we never even thought possible, that someone could wait eighteen months, then step forward.”
Garrett wouldn’t meet my eyes. He alternated between studying the ceiling light fixtures and flicking glances at my wife. Moreland was still, but I could tell by a rapid pulsing in his temple he was becoming agitated.
“Mr. Moreland,” I said, “we love Angelina, and she loves us. We are the only parents she’s ever known. The birth mother selected us from several very deserving couples, and we’ve done everything we can to provide a loving house and family. Look around you. Melissa resigned from her job so she could stay home with the baby and provide full-time care. Melissa is Angelina’s mother.” I didn’t say what should have come next, that I was her father. No reason at this point to alienate Garrett when I had the inkling he was on our side.
“We hope now that you and Garrett have met us and seen our home that you will consider signing the papers,” I said.
I liked the way Moreland seemed to listen to me as I spoke, and noted that his eyes swept around the room when I mentioned our home.
I was encouraged when he said, “You have a very nice home, and I don’t doubt your sincerity.”
Then it came.
“
But
…”
In my peripheral vision, I could see Melissa squirm. Her hands tightened on the arms of her chair.
“… we have a different view.”
Moreland gestured toward Garrett. “My son made a very
terrible mistake. I am ashamed of him. His mother, Kellie, is ashamed of him. He is ashamed of himself. This is a black mark on our family, this behavior. He had some bad friends at the time, and they encouraged this kind of thing. They are no longer his friends. That’s why we sent him away for a while. We wanted him to get his head on straight, grow up into a man. But Garrett, and our family, can’t avoid our responsibilities or the consequences of his stupid actions while he was younger. It is a situation we must deal with ourselves, within our family. We want to raise our child in our family.”
I couldn’t find words to speak.
Our child.
“Mr. and Mrs. McGuane,” Moreland said, leaning forward in the chair and looking from Melissa to me and back to Melissa, “I’m a federal judge, as I think you know. I’m known as a fair judge, and a tough one. I believe in accountability and being responsible for one’s behavior. If there’s one thing I want to pass along to my son, it’s that there are consequences in life. It’s vitally important that we bear responsibility. Garrett is responsible for the conception and birth of this baby.
“Please don’t misunderstand what I’m saying,” Moreland said in a conciliatory tone. “I have nothing against you or your wife. It is obvious you love the baby, and you’ve provided a wonderful home in a wonderful neighborhood. I am sorry this has to happen. I am truly, truly sorry. We didn’t know about our granddaughter until I found the letters from the adoption agency in Garrett’s room. He hadn’t even opened them,” he said, shooting a withering look at his son, who rolled his eyes. Then back to us: “Surely there are other babies?”
He sounded almost reasonable in his words if not his intent.
Come on, Melissa,
I wanted to plead.
Say something here.
Instead, she studied Moreland with cold but curious intensity.
“Mr. Moreland,” I said as softly as I could, “what you’re asking is not possible. Angelina has been our daughter for nine months, and that doesn’t include the seven months prior to that we were with the birth mother awaiting delivery. We’ve bonded as a family. I don’t need to point out that during all of that time we never even knew Garrett, or you. If you had concerns, we would have reached out to you. To come here now is just unreasonable.”
Moreland nodded in sympathy. He said, “I know this is going to be hard for you. I also know the financial outlay you’ve made.”
I felt myself begin to squirm.
“I’ve done some research, Mr. and Mrs. McGuane. I know that it likely cost you over $25,000 to transact the adoption. I know Mrs. McGuane is no longer working outside the home, which is admirable. And Mr. McGuane, I know that a salary of $57,500 is not very much to maintain a house like this and a family. I’m sympathetic to both of you, but we know how deeply you are in debt, and that is not a pleasant place to be. I’m prepared to cover all of your costs, plus what it would take to adopt another child.”