27

AUDREY

We were going on two years as a family and still needed help. At first it looked like we were following the cycle of a natural disaster: first responders rushing to the scene, followed by rescue teams, then the aid workers and the construction crews. Only our disaster never stopped. We just kept erupting, spewing lava, chucking and heaving with no sign of slowing. Technically we were no longer a family in crisis because a crisis, by definition, resolves. If a crisis never resolves, you have to call it something else.

There is a popular saying in the adoption subculture: “When a child is adopted, a mother is born.” I would like to add: “When five, high-risk children are adopted, an institution is born.” It was hard to accept that we still needed help but harder still to find the help that we needed. We’d exhausted our friends and relatives, the friends of our relatives, and the relatives of our friends. We were alone and outnumbered. I was terrified. When Dan was traveling, I timed my showers during the REM phase of the children’s sleep. I was taking no chances. Any disruption or break in our rhythm could spawn an algae bloom of bad behavior. Charlie lay awake with me at night, ears up in solidarity.

When searching for hired help, I labored over a job description that was honest but not off-putting, a tall order as there are only so many ways one can say “five kids.” We joined online childcare websites, advertised on Craigslist and social media, and put flyers up at the YMCA and colleges. Working with our family was a great calling, but a shitty job. We got one response from a junior at Penn State. Her name was Audrey. “I am very interested in your ad. I have a lot experience working with children and feel I have something to bring to your situation having spent time in foster care myself as a child.”

Interesting. Dan and I agreed the foster care factor had potential for good, but an even greater potential for bad. Audrey came to the house for an interview. We talked for three hours out on the porch, while our kids rode back and forth on their bikes. She was like no one I had ever met before. When she left, I looked at Dan, “Who was that?” He nodded. I waited five minutes before texting her, “When can you start?” Audrey texted back, “I’ve already written up a schedule.”

* * *

The kids loved her. She was fun, easy-going, and a total hard ass when need be. Jason tried to argue with her about his research project on architecture in Dubai. I heard Audrey say softly, “You know, Buddy, life is going to be a lot easier for you if you can stay relaxed instead of getting so angry.” Jason raised his voice, “Oh yeah? Well, I had a hard childhood!” She whispered, “So did I. Go to your room.” He went. She had street cred. She could empathize. If a new behavior problem caught me off guard, she’d take me aside, “I did that, too. Try this . . .”

Three days after she moved in, I woke Dan in the middle of the night, manically worried. “What the hell? She has no parents! She has no safety net, no health insurance, and no place to put her crap, Life doesn’t get easier when you graduate college,” Dan rolled over, “New York is one of nine states which allows for the adoption of an adult.” I bolted up, incredulous. “How long have you been thinking about this? She’s only been here three days.” Dan went on, “She could get on our health insurance until she’s twenty-six.”

I laughed, “Awesome! Let’s do it!” Dan slowed me down, “She may not want to. She’s self-made. We have to be careful about how we approach this.” I asked him what he meant exactly. “First, she has to get used to us. It could take a month.” How does he know all this? “Then she needs to tell us her story. That’s the most important thing. For now, we wait.”

I waited. And watched. Audrey was a scanner, reading the room, running contingencies. As a tutor she was amazing, always one step ahead of me. Dan was traveling a lot that summer. After the kids were in bed, Audrey and I would play Scrabble at the kitchen table. One night I broke out a bar of dark chocolate to share. Audrey said, “I don’t like dark chocolate.” I smiled, towing the line, “They say dark chocolate over 72 percent has medicinal properties.” Audrey nodded, “I think you prefer milk chocolate, too. You just tell yourself you like dark chocolate because it’s good for you.” Did I mention she was perceptive? “You’re right,” I said.

This was our third summer as a family, and the kids were doing well, memorizing poems, practicing piano, working on their secondary instruments, singing and writing songs. We held a poetry slam in our living room with Susie as master of ceremonies. She stood in front of the neighborhood crowd and said, “We’d like to welcome you to our first poetry slam of the summer.” My eyebrows shot up. The first? I looked over at Audrey and she smiled back. Indeed, it was the first of many.

Then one night, Audrey and I were in the kitchen making sushi, while Dan was sitting at the computer. “Hey Audrey, come check this out.” Audrey came out and sat beside him. He had satellite pictures of his hometown in South Dakota on the screen. He zoomed in on his elementary school, the house he grew up in, “Trinity Lutheran Church . . . Missouri River . . . there’s the bridge the town is named after.” Zoom. “That was my Dad’s airplane hangar.”

He said, “Did you say you grew up in Western Pennsylvania?” I listened from the kitchen. He pulled up her neighborhood from when she was six, rural threads of lonely roads hemming through fields and fields, “Wait, turn here . . . I think that was the house, they had a circular driveway. Wait. That’s not right.” It was happening. I came out from the kitchen and stood behind them. “I remember there was an old school bus in the woods . . .” Dan found a rectangular outline beneath some trees just off the property. “Is that it?” She said, “Wow, I wouldn’t have even seen that.” Silence. “Wait, go back, go back. See that road there? Yeah, down that road.” I stood listening, eyes tearing for the beauty of it, while Audrey told us her story.

At two years old, Audrey was taken from her alcoholic mother and put into foster care. For eight years, she floated through the system, quietly moving from home to home, some of them better than others, some as bad as they get. She was sickly and thin, a blessing in disguise, as the foster dad pitied her over the healthy girl in the basement. Audrey was bright and loved learning, excelled in school though she hated to go—her foster parents made her wear sweatpants two sizes too big, as if her classmates weren’t staring already. She asked for a pair that fit and was denied and told to be grateful. For what and to whom?

When she was ten, her grandmother came forward and claimed her. But four years later, Grandma’s boyfriend kicked her out; Grandma was sorry but there was nothing to do but cry. The state sent Audrey back to her mom, who was following the path of addicts, going from drinking, to painkillers, to meth. She would beat her daughter to break her fall, so Audrey withdrew from her mother’s withdrawal, stayed in her room, and locked the door. She fought her way through it and stayed in school. God bless that girl who wanted more.

* * *

It was a sticky afternoon, the air moist and heavy. A high-pitched insect drone hung in the air. Dan stopped me in the kitchen. “It’s time.” Audrey had been with us for a month. He put a movie on for the kids while I found Audrey. “Do you have a minute? Dan and I want to talk to you.”

She followed us to the porch, looking concerned. Dan began, his voice cracking slightly. “First., we’d like to say how wonderful it is having you here. It’s been great . . .” Audrey cut him off, “Am I being fired?” Dan shook his head, “No, no, it’s nothing like that. Um, well . . .”

Dan looked at me and I jumped in, my voice shaky, almost shy, “Audrey, we’d like to be your parents.” Her eyes went wide. “We know you may not need parents or even want parents, but if you ever do, we would like to be your parents.” She was shocked, “Are you serious?” Dan nodded, “Yes, we’ve thought about it a lot and you don’t have to say yes and you never have to say no, but you will always have a home here.” Audrey started crying and nodding, “Yes!” she said, “Yes! Yes!” Her hands fanned reflexively at the air in front of her eyes that were swelling with tears. “You can think about it,” Dan said, “this can be as much or as little of a family as you want but we are ready to do this.” Audrey, crying and nodding said, “Yes . . . ” her hands were still fanning and wiping at her tears, “This is what I always wanted.”

She cried while we talked her through the legalities, hugged her as she tried to pull it together, “Thank you, thank you.” I said, “No, thank you, Audrey. This way we can say that at least one of our children went to college.” We all laughed.

Audrey went inside to get a sweater, I slipped around the porch, out of sight, and stopped myself from crying. This was her moment, not mine. She was an adult, of course, but we were adopting a whole person, a whole life, including the child that had always wanted this. I wanted to be a screen for her, neutral and still, onto which she could project while she sorted all of this out.

The next day I stayed with the kids while Dan and Audrey went to see the lawyer. Audrey was visibly subdued when they returned, pensive and quiet. I looked at Dan. “How did it go?” which was code for, “How much is this going to cost?” In the land of adoption, legal parenting can run you anything from completely free, as in adoption through the foster-care system, to tens of thousands of dollars for a domestic or foreign adoption. Once a parent has decided on a child, or in this case an adult, there are no deal breakers, but financial planning is often necessary. Dan smiled, “Seven hundred dollars!” I was shocked, “Wow, that’s all? Incredible! I was getting 10,000 together, just in case.” Audrey looked up at me, touched. I winked at her, “Whatever it takes.”

I checked in on Audrey before going to bed. It had been a big day and she was quieter than usual. I knocked on her door and she invited me in. “Hey, I wanted to see how you’re doing.” She started crying.

“Oh, Audrey,” I said, “this has got to be so weird. I’m surprised you’re not more freaked out than you are. Super scary, super weird.” She nodded. “Do you want to talk it through? Is there anything specific? Any questions?” No questions, just tears.

“It’s going to be okay, Audrey, I know this is crazy. If you want to back it off, take some time, there’s no rush. You can change your mind, change it back, we’re always going be here. No pressure.” Audrey shook her head, “It’s not that. I am afraid you guys are going to change your mind.”

I down sat next to her and took her hand. “We would never change our minds. We would never jerk you around, I promise.” Audrey was still crying.

I put my arm around her. “Audrey, you don’t have to trust us. We trust ourselves enough for everybody. We know exactly what we are doing, and we would never suggest anything like this unless we were absolutely sure.” Audrey started to calm down. I stroked her hair with my hand.

Audrey spoke. “When I look ahead, I feel fine. I’m excited. It’s just looking back. That’s when I get scared.” I nodded and stopped talking. Audrey spoke at length. She spoke about looking back and all the things that had happened to her. When she was done, I hugged her. “Thanks for telling me, Audrey. I didn’t know. I understand now. This whole trust thing takes time, but as a family, we have time, we have our whole lives. Just stick with us, give us a chance.” She smiled. “Okay.”

She’s amazing. Yes, she is. But she’s not twenty-three. She’s fourteen and thirty-five at the same time. It’s not always clear which is which.

* * *

When an adult child is adopted, a middle-aged mother is born. In the instant that Audrey agreed to be my daughter, I became forty-five. This was not a bad thing and I only mention it because up until then, my perception of my own age had always been pretty fluid. Music is a non-linear field; talent transcends chronology. Before moving upstate, my two best buds in my band were sixty-five and nineteen; I knew I fell somewhere in the middle, age-wise, but exactly where was neither relevant nor interesting. I called my friend Sue, also teaching performance at the college level. I asked her if as a teacher she sometimes forgot she was old enough to be the mother of her students. “Oh yeah, totally,” she said. I broke the news. “We’re adopting a twenty-three year old. I am going to have a twenty-three year old daughter.” Silence. “Wow,” said Sue, “I see what you mean.”

Audrey and I met Dan at the lawyer’s office to fill out our petition for adoption including a name change, legal affiliation, severing of legal ties with biological parents, etc. Audrey was nervous. Of course she was. This was her choice, but it was a huge choice nevertheless. She would receive a new birth certificate with her new name on it. It would list the original place and time of her birth, but Dan and I would be listed as her biological parents. In the eyes of the law, it would be as if she had always been our child. Dan gave Audrey a hug, “Welcome to the family . . . such as it is.” We all started laughing and then couldn’t stop.

Audrey was adopted the day before Thanksgiving. Uncle John came up from New York City and we all got dressed up in our new clothes. The judge spoke to us briefly and thanked us for providing one of the few happy proceedings he was required to perform as a judge in family court. “Adult adoptions are unusual, but most have a very sweet story behind them. I don’t know your story, but I see that it is sweet.”

The kids were ecstatic; they loved their new big sister, and the new addition made them greedy for even more, “Can we adopt Tommy? Can we adopt Kelsey?” I had to break it to them that our other tutors already had families. “You can’t adopt someone who has parents.”

Dan and I got an email from Audrey, who was back at college that month, thanking us for adopting her. “My stress level has dropped 1,000 percent.” I gave Dan a high five. Finally! We’d been able to give something to someone and have them receive it, happy even!

Over one of the breaks, Audrey told me she wished we could have adopted her when she was younger, “but in a way, I’m glad you didn’t know me then. I would have terrorized you.” I had no doubt. I laughed, “It’s a hard time for our kids, we get it, but they’re all going to grow up and leave, get their own lives going . . .”

Audrey looked at me seriously, “They’re not going to leave. People are nice here, the food is good. Why would they leave?” I swallowed hard. “Don’t say that.” Audrey said, “It’s true.” Holy shit. I said, “But you’re leaving, right?” Audrey laughed, “You think I’d stay here with these crazy kids? I mean, it’s fine now, but what about when they’re teenagers?”

I didn’t go out of my way to tell people about adopting Audrey; the five kid thing was already so over the top. People either assumed Audrey was my biological daughter, or they had a lot of questions. “So, is she going to call you Mom? How does that work?” No idea. A young friend asked me, “What happens if after a few years, it turns out you don’t like her?” Fact: mothers and daughters don’t have to like each other. An older friend asked, “So you adopted her to help you take care of the younger kids?” I shook my head, “Oh, no. Audrey’s got big plans. I don’t know what her plans are but no, she’s not living with us.” My friend looked confused. “I don’t get it.

* * *

Audrey came home for her first summer after college. Her room was next to ours, and I could tell she was struggling. There was stress in the way she moved, the way she spoke. I could feel it. I told Dan, “Something’s wrong. I want to go knock on her door and ask her what the fuck is going on.” Dan said no, “You can’t do that. She’s a grown-up.” So what? My mom would have done it, barged in on me like that. Yeah, and how’s that working out for you? She drives you crazy. It’s what loving moms do.

But I deferred to Dan. He said, “It’s a rough patch, she’ll get through it. We just have to wait it out and let her come to you. We’ll survive.”

I drove Audrey down to New York City at the end of the summer to help her move into our old apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. I was hoping the one-on-one road trip might break the tension. I reached out, “How are you doing, Audrey?” We weren’t even two miles from the house and she told me everything: every worry, stress, trust issue, and twisted take on what had been happening with her. “Oh, girl, I wish I’d known. I am so sorry you had to go through that alone.” Audrey said, “I wanted to tell you but I just couldn’t. I was afraid.” She hadn’t felt comfortable talking to me. You need to work on that.

“Oh, Audrey,” I said, “I knew something wasn’t right. I kept wanting to barge into your room and say, ‘What the fuck is going on?’” She stared at me. “You did? You wanted to say that? Because that’s I wanted! I was waiting for you.” I looked over at her then and quickly back to the road.

“I’m so sorry, I’ve never done anything like this before. We need to get to know each other. Don’t give up on me, Audrey. Promise me you won’t give up on me.”

We were quiet for a minute before I asked her, “How’d you do it, Audrey? How did you survive all that and turn out so great?” She had an answer, as I knew she would. When she was eleven she asked a friend to go play with her on a pile of broken concrete from a demolished overpass. Her friend said she couldn’t, that her mom wouldn’t let her. Audrey asked why not and the friend said, “Because my mom cares about me.” That’s what mothers do who care about their children. They protect them, set limits. Audrey realized she would have to do that for herself.

* * *

I worry that Audrey is going to wander off. She’s not like the younger ones. There is nothing I can do for her. I can’t chase, snuggle, or ground her to her room. She has to come to me, and I don’t know if she will. She may even want to and not know how. I tell myself, She’s smart, she’ll figure it out. But trust is no more a function of intelligence than happiness is. I leave the Scrabble out on the kitchen table. She needs to attach. “Scrabble. How about a game?” I need time to wear her down. If Audrey could trust me, she could argue with me, sharpen her claws and define herself. A strong middle-aged woman is a great asset to a young woman. It’s a mother who will never leave you, a teacher or mentor who understands you, forgives your youthful hubris and directs your vitriol as part of your learning.

Sometimes Audrey leaves the Scrabble board out on her table in New York. We talk while we play, about nothing at all, about flossing or that English major who had interesting, if not attractive qualities, student loans and payment options. A lot of people think Scrabble is a word game. It’s not. Scrabble is about points. People who are loyal to words, even good and important words, lose at Scrabble. A word like “trust,” for example, is not rewarded in Scrabble. It’s a five letter word, no counters. I would skip it, save the “s” for the big money. But in the game of life, trust is why I’m playing Scrabble. Trust is what I’m hoping to win at this kitchen table, with this benign conversation, this fussing with the tiles and scribbling scores on the backs of envelopes. But it’s not enough. I need longer games and a bigger board.