The sender’s name on the special delivery envelope read Shankstonville Family Court. I was late coming home from school, and no one had yet checked the mailbox. I opened the envelope and found a cover letter that began RE: Joint Custody of a Minor Child. More papers inside confirmed what Clifford and my folks had already agreed to. I would live with my adoptive parents, and stay with Clifford on prearranged dates throughout the year. Judge Higgins had thrown out my emancipation case, and accepted my joint custody petition. Clifford had filed all the paperwork—pro bono, of course.
My family and I had prepared a separate agreement of our own. Though not legally binding in the eyes of the court, we would adopt a spirit of compromise. The family would be more considerate of my wishes, and I promised to do the same for them. A system was worked out that everyone could live with. Restrictions were imposed on how much TV my parents could watch—ironically, a rule usually reserved for teenagers. How many hours my brother and sister could spend in cyber activities was also limited. Family vacations were worked into the schedule as well. There was a bit of moaning at first, but once the system was tested, no one had any objections.
I opened our front door while examining the documents, but as I passed over the threshold, I thought I had gone into the wrong house. It was dead quiet, as if my family had vacated the premises. There were no sound effects blasting from the living room TV; no alien explosions from my brother’s video games; no loud gabbing on the phone from my sister. I glanced at the address on the door to be sure I hadn’t accidentally wandered into a neighbor’s house.
I crept toward the living room, then came upon a startling sight: my dad sitting quietly, reading a book! He looked perfectly relaxed in his recliner chair, under a reading lamp that hadn’t once been turned on. His doctor was trying to keep Dad’s stress levels in check, and it was decided that reading was the best medicine for him.
Dad’s health had improved significantly since his heart attack. He was even permitted to go on morning runs, so long as he promised to wear a heart rate monitor. I kept Dad honest by accompanying him on his Sunday outings.
“Got the mail, Dad,” I said.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, his eyes locked on his book. “Gotta finish this chapter.”
“What are you reading?”
He held up the cover without lifting his eyes off the page. He was reading To Kill a Mockingbird.
The stillness in the upstairs hallway was creepy. Not a grumble nor a groan came through the doors of my sibling’s bedrooms. Then I heard the sound of a motor out the window to the backyard. I looked outside and almost fainted. My brother was mowing the lawn, and my sister was pruning the rose bushes. Maybe I was in the wrong house after all!
I entered my attic bedroom to find the family photo album laying on my bed. A note was taped to the cover that read Welcome back! Love you, Mom. Thumbing through the album revealed that all my old photos were back where they belonged. My birth certificate was there, too—the unaltered one, showing my real birth mother’s name, Mary.
Something smelled great downstairs.
I went to the kitchen, and was shocked to find pots and pans on the stove. Sauces, fresh vegetables, and a beef stew simmered on its glowing burners. The light in the oven was on. I looked through its window. Oatmeal cookies!
Then my dad walked in and saw me. He jumped as if I had caught him committing a crime or something.
“Just checking on dinner,” he said, like he did this kind of thing all the time.
“And since when do you cook?” I asked.
“Some of the best chefs in the world are men. Did you know that? The days of chaining your wife to the stove went out with the ‘60s. Besides, I like cooking.”
Then mom entered, humming as she sauntered over to the stove. She sampled the savory stew with a wooden spoon. “Mmm,” she said, smacking her lips.
Then Mom turned to me. “Go wash up for dinner, dear,” she said.
“Wash up?” I said with a smirk. “What is this, the Cleaver household?”
Mom smirked back at me and pointed the way to the bathroom.
I had created a monster! My rants about the joys of living like a mid-century family had exploded in my face. All I was asking for was a little normalcy. What I got was Opie!
The kitchen was empty when I returned.
“In here, honey,” I heard my mom say. I walked into the dining room, an area that had never been used for which it was designed. There was my whole family, sitting up straight with napkins in their laps, around a beautiful table with the price tag still hanging from it. Long candles flickered above a flowery centerpiece.
They all smiled at me as I came through the door. It was like I had entered the Twilight Zone—trapped in a ‘60s family TV show.
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” I said. “Where’s Beaver? Washing up?”
“Beaver’s out on his paper route,” said my dad. “That leaves an empty chair. Care to join us?”
It was the perfect ending to an amazing adventure. I had altered history, traveled to legal hell and back, and discovered my true heritage—all to serve one wish: to get as far away from my family as I could. Now, there they were, as lovable as a Norman Rockwell painting, and I couldn’t think of anywhere else I would rather be.
I sat down between my brother and sister, with Mom and Dad beaming at me across a scrumptious, home-cooked meal. I didn’t know how long this Wally-and-Beaver world would last. Sooner or later, the 21st century would catch up with us, and the group dinners and paper routes would all come to an end. But for now, I was an orphan in wonderland. And as I dug my fork into my mash potatoes, I realized who I was truly dining with that evening:
The family I always wanted.
“Pass the gravy, please.”
The screams of a hundred teenage girls nearly knocked us over, as Hubert, Clifford, and I entered Theme Farm. An outdoor stage was set up just inside the main gate. Performing onstage was a Fritter version of a pop music boy band: 3PiG. They were playing their latest hit, and the newest song written by Clifford:
“Bring Us Home, Sweet Mary”
So get on board and we’re on our way
Time gets nearer the more we delay
Sweet Mary please, bring us home
It’s a long way to Dorian
Such a long way to go, so
Sweet Mary please, bring us home
An alarm sounded from Hubert’s tablet, alerting him that a Theme Farm show was about to begin.
“Fireworks in ten minutes,” he said. “Anyone coming with me?”
“You go ahead,” I said. “How about we meet up at the Illegal Alien for lunch afterward?”
“Sí, sí, Señorita Amy.”
Then off he went.
Clifford and I casually explored the park on our own with no set agenda.
I unfolded a Theme Farm guide map. “Here’s a ride an attorney would like,” I said. I read Clifford the description. “Puppets Court: Frog puppet prosecutes corrupt U.S. congressman accused of accepting kickbacks.”
“I’ve seen it,” said Clifford. “The congressman walks free, and gets reelected for a fourth term. That’s puppet justice for you.”
Then we passed an attraction we both knew all too well: Used-to-Be TV. A banner hung above the newly refurbished entrance that read: Channel ‘89 Now Open!
I pretended not to notice it, staring down at my guide map. I was in no hurry to relive that experience, given the emotional toll it took on me the last time.
But Clifford had other plans.
“Let’s go in,” he said.
“Do I have to?” I asked. “I feel kinda creepy about that place.”
“For old times’ sake.”
“Oh . . . alright.”
The ‘60s, ranch-style house had been transformed into a household of the 1980s. The interior now matched the year that guests would be looking in on: 1989. Each room of the house offered a glimpse at ‘80s pop culture. Cabbage Patch Kids lay on the beds in the children’s room, with an unsolved Rubik’s Cube on the dresser. Vinyl record albums by The Bangles, Blondie, and George Michael leaned up against a huge ghetto blaster in the teen’s room. The family room featured the ultimate in ‘80s entertainment: a full-sized Pac-Man arcade console.
As before, the automatic garage door opened onto the neighborhood street with the perpetual sunset. We strolled down the block, checking out the updated cottages.
“There’s an empty one,” said Clifford, pointing to the very cottage he and I used when he was a ‘60s teenager.
We went inside and sat down on a green, velveteen couch. The TV came on—now in “living color.” On the screen was the inside of a huge TV studio in 1989. Muslin backdrops leaned against the walls. Various props were stacked on shelves. The only person in the room was a cleaning woman mopping the floor at the back of the studio.
“Call that girl over,” said Clifford.
“You think I should?” I said.
“Sure. Why not?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?” I called out toward the screen.
“You called me?” said the woman, her distant voice echoing through the open space.
“Come here, would you please?”
The woman jammed her mop into a bucket, and walked toward us. She was younger than I thought—about my age, actually, and pretty as a peach.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Smith,” she said to Clifford. “Back again?”
“Mr. Smith?” I said to Clifford with suspicion in my voice. “What are you up to?”
Clifford held up his hand to hush me up, then said to the girl on the screen: “I have someone here who wants to meet you.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked Clifford. “I didn’t ask to meet—”
“Sure you did,” he said, winking at me. Then he pointed to the screen and grinned. “I’d like you to meet . . . Mary.”
I had heard that name spoken in court. Clifford had named his daughter Mary—who turned out to be my . . .
“Mary?” I said staring at Clifford with my mouth hanging open.
“Yes,” he replied, his smile broader now.
“Mary?” I said again.
Clifford grabbed my head and rotated it to face the TV screen.
Her hair. Her eyes. All of her facial features were just like my own.
Ohmigod!
She was my mother!
“Say something to Mary,” said Clifford.
Mary tilted her head and scratched her nose, patiently waiting for me to speak.
But what could I say? There was my real mother in 1989, the same age as me. For sure, she didn’t know me from Adam. Knowing that my birth would mean the end of her life was profoundly disturbing. I couldn’t decide if meeting her was a gift or a curse.
“It’s okay,” said Clifford. “Trust me.”
My heart raced as I started to speak. “N-nice to meet you, Mary,” I said. “I’m (bleep).”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mary. “I didn’t catch that.”
I tugged at Clifford’s sleeve with tears in my eyes. “Why are you doing this?” I said. “Can’t you see this is killing me?”
Then Clifford pulled a small object from his pocket. In his hand was the magic clicker, all scratched and dented.
“Hubert fished it out of the lake the day after you threw it in there,” he said. “He took the thing apart and was somehow able to fix it. Genius, that kid.”
Then Clifford stood up and handed me the device.
“I think I’ll leave you two alone,” he said. “But remember: one wrong word and you might suddenly disappear.”
I held the clicker up over my head, like I had found the Holy Grail, just as the door closed behind me.
“What were you two saying?” asked Mary.
“Nothing important,” I said.
I took a long look at Mary, as my smile chased away the last tear.
“Hello Mary,” I said, then aimed the clicker at the screen.
Click!
“My name’s Amy.”