Danger signs

Odds were this boy was another unsuitable match. I would hear what they had to say then say no.
This meeting was just closure.

The call had come in. There was a 9-year-old half-Chinese boy that needed a home. Nothing more could be said until I signed a confidentiality agreement.

The next day I struggled with my outfit. I looked in the full-length mirror, which I really should do more often before I leave the house. Black jeans, plum-coloured ankle boots, a white T-shirt – not too tight. The long blue jacket with the butterflies on it. Something that said “fun Mum.”

I left the beaches of runners and ladies who lunch in their active wear and pelotons of middle aged men in lycra, drove past the inner Sydney hipsters drinking piccolos on milk crates, then the tree-lined waterfronts of conservative voters, further away from the sand dunes and sea and into the flat heat. I judged a suburb by the density of McDonalds and Subways. The golden arches were mileposts along the grey artery that ran from East to West. By the time I reached The Agency the McDonalds were interspersed with new McMansions.

The further west I went the more Asian Sydney became. The ‘gateway to the west’ had some of the best schools in Sydney and consequently a high proportion of Asians lived there. I narrowly missed a silver BMW driven by a learner driver in her private school uniform and sunglasses from the latest issue of Teen Vogue. Her wide-eyed father clung to the dashboard yelling Chinese. She remained unfazed.

My head was busy calculating the various probabilities. Given the three previous false starts, odds were this boy was another unsuitable match. Love could not be one way, at least for me. I had accepted that I wouldn’t have a child. I would hear what they had to say then say a final “No”. This meeting was just closure.

I arrived at the dour little complex. A chain link fence surrounded two pieces of rusting play equipment sitting in concrete. There were half a dozen steel benches where mothers would meet their children at a court-ordered frequency. I was led into a featureless room with classroom tables and chairs; a good place for an interrogation.

Cassie, mid-20s, introduced herself. She was a sunbeam with teeth, struggling to contain her exuberance. Even her questions had exclamation marks.

“It’s always great to get to this part of the process! It doesn’t happen that often!” He’s such a great little kid! But we should wait –“

Cassie’s boss Sue, early 30s, entered. They were both slim, average height with straight light brown shoulder-length hair with blonde highlights. They were dressed smart casual. Friendly enough to play with kids but smart enough to manage belligerent parents. Their days were filled with sad mothers, angry fathers, parents who railed against the decisions made that broke their family apart. Like all emergency workers and aid workers, they reveled in the joys where they found them. They changed what they could and accepted what they couldn’t, until they could accept it no longer.

Cassie was the lilting melody and Sue was the bass, the steady thrum of reason. I signed a confidentiality form, before the whole case was laid before me. Sue stared Cassie down like an owner staring down an over-active puppy.

Nathan was seized 4 days before Christmas the year before. His mother handed him over without a fight and he went without a tear. Cassie was sketchy about the details. Neighbours had made reports, she thought. Nathan lived with his Chinese-Australian mother Amelia (Amy) Chu and Anglo-Australian father Stanley (Stan) Smith. The police, on checking their background, found Stan was a convicted felon. His condition of release was that he not have care of a child. Ever.

When police questioned Stan he said Amy had no relation to Nathan. A DNA test proved it was Stan not Amy that had no genetic claim. According to the government this makes a difference. My family is the people who love me for all that I am, despite all that I’m not; we share no genes. My son Phoenix had no biological link to me, though my blood nourished him; that didn’t make me any less his mother. Stan raised Nathan from birth and considered him his own. Could Stan be more than his past actions? Could he really hurt his own child?

Every ANZAC Day Stanley Smith donned his army uniform and his medals. He stood at attention with other veterans at sunrise, as a wreath of red poppies was laid before the remembrance stone. He said, in hushed unison with his brothers, “Lest we forget.” Stanley saluted to the mournful bugle of the Last Post. With Nathan proudly beside him, he marched to the brass band and nodded to the waving crowd. They ended at the Returned Services League Club, Stan sharing glory days over beers with the boys and toasting fallen comrades. He even let Nathan have a few sips of beer. Stan did his country proud. He went from school to school, talking about the history of the ANZACs and his time in the war.

The police revealed there was no record of Stan serving anywhere at any time. It was a persona bought from an ex-military depot, complete with honours and regalia.

It was a persona bought from an ex-military depot, complete with honors and regalia.

Nathan slept in Stan’s bed whilst Amy slept in Nathan’s bed. I remember my parents constantly telling me to put some clothes on. We were a naked household. At what age does sleeping with your parent become dangerous?

I heard shark music. Da da. Da da. Da da. Dadadadadadadadadada!

A secret was being kept, a werewolf in the shadows. No one knew what if anything had happened and the police would not divulge details. It was just too much of a Risk of Serious Harm for Nathan to stay with Stan. No one was sure if Stan was the man or the wolf. But there was that mysterious blood trail…

Amy comes to court ordered visits at The Agency. She is polite, friendly and on time. She brings pizza and plays Lego with her son in earshot of Cassie. There is no sign of sadness or regret, no long embraces; if anything she seems happy. Perhaps she feels protected and at peace surrounded by the fence.

Stan is not allowed to see Nathan for now. He is allowed to write letters vetted by social services. One didn’t comply and he ceased writing; Nathan doesn’t take criticism well. Amy doesn’t see Stan as a danger and will not leave him. And so she loses her son. The son she made sure went to school every day, who learned Kung Fu, with whom she played chess. Amy was a chess champion at school. These were Amy’s only connections to a family, culture and past she left behind nearly twenty years ago.

When Natahan was seized he didn’t realise that he would not open his presents under the family Christmas tree. He would be with a strange new family on holiday in the Blue Mountains. His temporary family would tell him that Father Christmas didn’t get his change of address and so he left the promised bike under his parent’s tree. He would not speak to his mother or father. He would not cry. He would be quiet and polite and survive.

Nathan was taken to the police station to an interrogation room filled with bright plush toys. A smiling child psychologist asked him questions. A doctor asked him to take off his clothes and turned him slowly to check for bruises. A radiologist scoured black films for hairline fractures.

This was the first of many police interviews. Nathan had known Cassie for almost nine months. He would laugh his unfettered laugh, and squeeze her so tight she felt uncomfortable. When he came back from interviews he pushed Cassie away “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I wish you would die!”

“That’s not him though! He’s a sweet boy! A really quirky little man!”

Cassie’s laugh erupted like strawberry soap bubbles that popped instantly. I was delighted with her delight.

“He loves to sing but he won’t have the car radio on!”

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Bubbles burst on the rough concrete. What happened in the car that a young boy doesn’t want the radio blaring?

“But he loves to sing. He thinks he’s Amazing! I haven’t had the heart to tell him he’s not!”

The bubbles floated again, infusing happiness into the room.

“He hasn’t done much besides play video games. Except he’s a black belt in Kung Fu; trains twice a week plus tournaments. And um now they’re working with knives and spears and he says it’s too violent and he’s not going to do it any more.”

I remember at school I was chronically uncoordinated. I was always picked last for a team. If the ball came towards me I panicked or got hit in the face. The sport for all the un-co kids was self-defense. The instructor, a muscular woman with spiky hair, taught us to hold our keys like a weapon. She told us to gouge a man’s eyes out. I wrote to the principal stating that I was a conscientious objector to violence and sport in general. Being an academic school the argument carried. After that I spent sport in the library.

Cassie had missed my reverie and skipped on.

“So everything is new! He’s keen to explore! His favourite thing to do is colour, not just colour, he wants to have colouring competitions with me. He likes to play Lego. But he won’t do the kits. He wants to make his own world. He’s creative!”

Cassie paused to remember the last thing they’d done.

“At the moment he’s into the Bermuda triangle. He said “Cassie at 1.30 this morning something happened in the Bermuda triangle.” Next week he will be into something else. Nathan loves to learn. He’s never missed a day of school-”

Sue cut in. “Which might be an indication of something. Kids get sick but he’s never missed a class. When he had to miss a class because of a court ordered visit he was distressed.”

Most of the time, I feel like any of the other Australians I know. All my Australian friends bar one are white and I rarely feel different. Other times the cultural divide isn’t a gap it’s a chasm.

“Well, he’s Asian. I can say that because I’m Asian. My parents were “where’s the other five percent?” ”

I didn’t tell them I did 2 hours of maths homework each night because I loved it. Or that at school I read Shakespeare for fun. Or that my parents came in at night and ordered me to stop studying.

The necessity to excel was not whipped into me, it was the amniotic fluid I grew in. Revealing these things would make me seem aberrant to people keenly searching for danger signs.

Asian parents were danger signs. “Study hard! Top one percent! Go to university! Get good job! Doctor, lawyer, accountant, engineer! Get good husband! Be good daughter! Look after your parents!” Depending on your brand of Asian, this would be emphasised with pointing hands or wobbling heads. Can I have a side serve of samosas with my plate of high expectations? Asian parents demanded duty, devotion and dumplings and offered the same in return.

In Australia, the top marks in the country and most of the places in medical school are earned by ABCs – Australian Born Chinese – with a good smattering of South Asians. This isn’t because they come from wealthy families with the best tutors and most expensive schools. Education is a privilege and a duty, something valuable not to be squandered. When other Mums were playing Mozart to their embryo, ours were reciting the times table.

My Greek friend Angie’s son is top of his school. His Asian friends said, “it’s such a waste. You parents are white and have low expectations.” When Angie said this at dinner, the Asian people in the room erupted. We understood. These two well-meaning women would not. I had to dial down the Asian or they’d think I was a sociopath.

“Well we don’t want to place such high expectations on him,” said Sue. “The other good thing is that you aren’t just Anglo white, you’re Asian. Not the same Asian but Asian so you get it.”

I wasn’t sure if I’d under-estimated her or over-estimated her. I squeezed my tongue between my teeth to restrain the need to comment.

I had to dial down the Asian or they’d think I was a sociopath.

Cassie, oblivious of my struggle, continued. “One of the reasons we selected you is your commitment to education. We think if he is given encouragement, support, he might do well, might have a different life.”

It was spooky that people could read me, literally. I was a file on their desk, a name on a whiteboard. Somebody must have perused the file at last. It had been formed by three sets of caseworkers over two years.

My father was an academic and my mother didn’t finish high school. I remembered my father looking at my mother, whose family stole food to eat. Her head-turning beauty and spunk had saved her from homelessness. His voice quaked as he said, “education is the way out of poverty.”

Cassie’s voice had lost her bubbles. It was small and melancholy.

“He’s an older child. I know that’s not what you wanted. He wasn’t meant to have this life. He’s – ”

Sue cut her off.

“I know you’ll need some time to think about it. It’s Thursday so how about we call you on Monday and see how you’re feeling about it?”

Cassie scanned my face, catching her breath. I left a pause, a space for the room to fill back up with air.

I looked from Sue to Cassie and back to Sue. She was writing something down, perhaps a reminder or a judgment. Cassie, like a chastised child looked at her notes on the table, glanced at me then back at the table and back at me.

“Cassie will call you on Monday. We don’t expect you to decide next week. Take some time to think.”

Sue tidied her papers. Business was concluded. I sat still and silent like a teacher waiting for her students to pay attention. She looked up.

“Yes,” I said. “I came in today thinking that I would just hear what you have to say and I’d need to take some time to think about it. But I don’t. It’s a yes.”

It was the Bermuda triangle that clinched it. Singing off-key with abandon, creating worlds, a love of learning were bonuses. These were the things that made me fall in love, made me believe that for this boy no-one else could be his mother. Not one of the other loving expectant families on the whiteboard next to Sue’s desk.

He was mine and I was his. It was done.

Next: Part 12 An unusual situation

Wishing you love and all things x