Chapter 16: What Ethan Wants
The judge's office smelled like coffee and paper. That was the first thing Ethan noticed, because noticing things was what you did when you were trying not to be scared.
The robe hung on a hook behind the door, which made Judge Finch look smaller and kinder, like a teacher on the last day of school. There was a plant in the corner that somebody was trying very hard to keep alive. On the big desk sat a bowl of wrapped mints. Ethan was allowed to take one. He took one and held it and did not unwrap it, because unwrapping it would make a noise.
His chair could spin. Ethan decided this was not a spinning kind of room.
Ms. Whitfield sat in the chair next to his. She had told him in the hallway: just tell the truth, there are no trick questions, the judge only wants to hear you. Ethan had nodded like he believed her. He mostly believed her.
"Ethan," Judge Finch said, "do you know why you're here?"
"To say what I want." His voice came out smaller than he wanted. He cleared his throat and tried again. "To say what I want."
"That's right." The judge folded his hands. He had kind eyes, Ethan decided. Tired, but kind. "So — what do you want?"
Ethan looked at the mint in his hand. He had thought about this question for three days, ever since Michael told him, sitting on the edge of the bunk, that a judge might ask. He had thought about it while brushing his teeth. He had thought about it on the bus.
"I want my mom to get better," he said.
"The doctors are going to help with that. The surgery in December."
"I know." Ethan turned the mint over. "I want to stay with Michael so she doesn't have to worry about me. Worrying makes her heart work too hard. Dr. Patel said her heart works too hard already." He glanced up. "If I'm okay, she can use all her heart for getting better."
Ms. Whitfield made a small sound next to him, like a breath caught on something.
Judge Finch was quiet for a moment. "And what about you, Ethan? What do you want for you?"
Ethan thought about the bunk beds. He thought about Lily's chore chart with his pencil annotations. He thought about Saturday mornings, when Michael made pancakes that came out in shapes even though he said they weren't supposed to, and Lily graded them like a judge on a cooking show.
"Lily says I'm her brother now," he said. "She told her whole class. She told the bus driver." A pause. "I like my bunk. I like that Michael checks the closet. For monsters. He says it's procedure."
The judge smiled. "Procedure is important."
"Is there anything you're afraid of?" Judge Finch asked gently.
Ethan unwrapped the mint then, because he needed something to do with his hands. The wrapper was loud in the quiet room. He put the mint in his mouth. It was the strong kind.
"That Mom will be alone," he said. "At the hospital. When it's dark."
"She won't be alone," Ms. Whitfield said softly. "I promise you, Ethan. She won't be alone."
The judge asked a few more questions — about school, about third grade, about whether he had enough to eat, which made Ethan want to laugh, because Mrs. Alvarez's soup containers were occupying an entire shelf of Michael's refrigerator. Then it was over, and the judge shook his hand like he was a grown-up, and Ethan decided he liked Judge Finch, even though he had the power to move his whole life around like furniture.
* * *
The next morning the courtroom felt fuller than the day before — or maybe Michael couldn't stop counting the exits.
Judge Finch read his ruling without ceremony.
"This court does not believe childhood is improved by subtraction," he said. "The motion for primary custody is denied. Lily's arrangement will continue as it stands — shared, fifty-fifty, unchanged."
Vanessa went very still beside her attorney.
"As for Ethan Rourke," the judge went on, "the court finds that his placement with his father is in his best interest. This will be a gradual, shared arrangement: the boy will reside with Mr. Rourke, with his mother's written consent, which the court has received. The court orders family counseling, continuity of schooling, and a review in six months." He looked up. "The court further notes that a child who carries his whole world in a paper bag has earned, at minimum, adults who show up on time."
The gavel came down.
In the hallway afterward, Vanessa cried — not the crying of argument, but the crying of a held breath let go. Michael found her by the water fountain, her attorney tactfully ten feet away, studying the ceiling tiles.
"I was so scared, Michael," she said, not looking at him.
"I know."
"Lily's happy. She's so happy it frightens me." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, angrily, the way Lily did. "Take care of them."
"We will."
She nodded, once, and walked away before he could say anything else, her heels loud on the marble, and Michael understood that this was her version of a blessing, and that it had cost her plenty.
* * *