Heaven Sent Rain (24 page)

“I was going to say, ‘He listens to what people need,’ but hey, who am I to argue?”

Dinah felt her ears flash warm and hid behind her coffee mug. “I’ll call Trudy next.”

“One last thing.” April was picking up the napkins. “Don’t go looking a gift horse in the mouth. I’m speaking of Garret, all right? No matter what you two think of each other, he truly wants to help Jonah. And right now, you need all the help you can get with that boy. From believers or not.” She stood up and scooped up Braumeister’s empty platter. “You’ll need to go get your car, won’t you?”

“No, it’s in the basement lot. I drove this morning. You said hurry, remember? We’re going to go to a store after work and pick out some jigsaw puzzles. And I want to buy a card table somewhere. Oh, and if you would, call Randy, please. Tell him I need Jonah by one-thirty at the very latest. We have to be at the courthouse by one forty-five.”
Your employees have far too much to do to be taking care of your personal crisis—make that plural. One thing after another.

“I will.”

“Thank you, I have no idea how I will ever repay any of you for your help and caring.”

“Dinah, keep in mind we are more than boss and staff; we are family. And families help each other out.”

Mine didn’t.
No wonder this was all so new and overwhelming. She had no model to work from.

Dinah was no longer counting the things she had to do; now she was counting all the things that had already fallen through the cracks. She had not yet found a grief counselor for Jonah. She must not forget again.

She rested her heavy head against the seat back, turning her chair so she could watch treetops out the window. She thumbed the contact list on her phone, found Gramma Trudy—in the Gs, not the Ts.

Why did she feel like she was swimming for the surface for all she was worth and something was trying to drag her under?

D
inah glanced at Jonah, belted into the seat beside her. “You’re being mighty quiet.”

He nodded.

“Scared?”

He nodded again and studied the loops on his backpack.

If anyone should be scared it would be she. And she was. From out in the ether or wherever dead people go, Corinne was asking her to sign her life away. Begging her. Going from career woman to single parent with a career was not just a big step but a giant step. She must remain that career woman because so many good people depended on her for their jobs, their own careers. When she allowed herself to think about that, she staggered under the load.

She pulled into the visitor section of the parking garage. They’d be on time to meet Mr. Jensen. For some odd reason, she felt uncomfortable using his first name. An authority thing? Probably.

“You okay?”

Jonah nodded again and unlatched his seat belt. Together they walked across the street and into the City Hall building.

The jovial Mr. Jensen smiled and greeted them and Jonah smiled in return, for the first time in a while. Mr. Jensen ushered them into the building lobby and over to the coffee kiosk under the grand staircase. The building was a part of a courthouse campus where non-courtroom functions were carried out. It smacked of elegance and the nineteenth century.

Mr. Jensen waved toward a little iron sidewalk bistro table near the coffee counter. “Dinah, Judge Henny’s assistant says he is running twenty minutes late. What can I get for you?”

“My favorite drink here is their double tall mocha.”

“And Jonah? Would you like a drink of any kind? Ice cream?”

“Ice cream?” He brightened.

Mr. Jensen smiled. “Ah. Limited selection; is chocolate all right?”

“Yes, please.” Another smile.

He walked over to the counter, so Dinah sat down. Then she got up, scooted Jonah in because these little iron chairs did not scoot well on the marble tile, and sat again.

Mr. Jensen brought the goodies, distributed them, and laid napkins in the middle. He sat. “So you’ve been here before.”

“This is where I have to go for all permits, test clearances, that sort of thing. I find it a pleasant place.” She sipped her mocha.

“It is! Now. Jonah. Do you have any questions for me today?”

Dinah watched Jonah’s expressive face as questions chased each other through his mind. She prompted, “You can ask anything you want to, Jonah, it’s all right.”

“Will I have to live with Dinah always?” Why did he have to phrase it that way?

“Until you are eighteen. She will be your legal guardian.”

“She’ll be my new mother?”

“No. You have only one mother, the one we all remember fondly. Dinah will take care of you the way a mother would.”
Oh, no, she won’t, because she can’t!
Dinah’s head screamed.
She has no idea how to take care of a child.

“So I am not getting adopted?”

“No. You remain Jonah Morgan, the son of Andre and Corinne Morgan. However! Dinah will have just as much legal authority over you as would a parent. You cannot say, ‘I don’t have to listen to you; you aren’t my mother.’ You
do
have to obey her as you would your mother.”

How would she balance this new life? She’d thought she had the former life under control, but control had not been even a possibility since this cataclysm. She sipped rich, chocolaty mocha and tried not to think about controlling the future. Future? She could not control the present.

“Dinah? What about you?”

“I need to find a counselor, pediatrician, dentist, barber…that sort of thing.”

“I can get some recommendations and email them to you.”

Was now the time to say something? “Jonah, if you’re done with your ice cream, do you want to go look at those paintings down the hall? I think they have some of animals.”

Jonah glanced at Dinah, then stood. “Okay,” he said. Dinah waited until he was out of hearing range. “Frankly, I have grave reservations.”

“Talk to me.”

“My parents were, uh, severe. No snuggling, no affection to speak of. Certainly they loved us and provided well for us, but it was a…a severe love. Problem? Pray God’s will. Illness? Pray God’s will. When I insisted on going to college, my mother was deeply disappointed. She told me, ‘We are preparing you for heaven, not Harvard.’ I had a younger brother, but he died when I was eight. In short, I know nothing about nurturing children. And Jonah desperately needs a nurturer.”

The expression on Mr. Jensen’s face: Shock? Caring? Amazement? She couldn’t tell. He appeared to be deep in thought for a moment. “When I was doing a background check on you—that is standard procedure, incidentally, in any case like this one—I found an exemplary education CV. Even your senior project in high school was science of publishable quality.”

“You dug up that thing? You really were thorough.”

“With Jonah’s future at stake, yes. As thorough as possible.” He propped his elbows on the little table and formed his hands into a tent. “And, as you say, I saw no signs that you were educated about children or prepared to care for a small child; never babysat, for example, or took developmental psychology classes in college.”

“So if I refuse to take Jonah on, you’ll understand.”

He smiled and continued as if not hearing her. “The qualities you do possess, however, are very positive. You’re a control freak, for example.” He raised a hand. “It’s obvious in the way, for instance, you hire new employees. You personally interview and vet every one. And you choose exceedingly well. Your employees are all happy, competent, productive, and fiercely loyal to you. You give them the freedom to be creative and they give you a hundred percent. That is very rare in a company, I daresay almost unheard of in this day and age.”

“But they’re not children.”

“No. Now look at this picture objectively. You read people well. No, you are not a snuggler and nurturer, but you are a very sharp judge of qualities in a person. And listen to your objections just now. They are not selfish. This will alter your lifestyle egregiously; we all recognize that. So do you, I’m sure. But in voicing your misgivings you talked about Jonah’s needs, not yours. You put him first.”

“But…”

“And you are a splendid scientist. Scientists by nature look at things objectively.”

She smirked. “Not always.”

“Yes, there is always the human element, the human bias. But they try. You try. You will look at Jonah as objectively as possible to see what would profit him best and act on that. You will instinctively give him what he needs. Snuggling is a learned skill, greatly overrated.” Mr. Jensen’s phone chimed. He glanced at the text message. “He is ready for us.” He stood up, called to Jonah, and motioned toward the elevators.

Dinah made herself smile down at Jonah when he slid his hand into hers. It felt like they were both on their way to the firing squad, not a bright, bluebird-filled forever.

Compared to Judge Henny’s chambers, the judge’s room in the police station had been cramped, gloomy, and depressingly austere. Everything in this large room smacked of opulence. Its decoration, late nineteenth century, fit its pine paneling well. Tall, narrow windows that reached nearly to the twelve-foot ceiling were softened by monkscloth draperies. Various paintings and diplomas hung from a genuine old-fashioned picture molding near the pressed-tin ceiling. This judge’s desk was even larger than Judge Kittle’s, but it had no glass surface for viewing a computer monitor. None sat on the desk, either. Perhaps this judge did not believe in computers.

The judge, an older fellow, stood when they entered, but he did not offer to shake hands. He didn’t smile, either. And that was strange, for he looked so cheerful and rosy, like a whiskerless Santa Claus, minus the red suit and reindeer. Three chairs were lined up in front of his desk. That firing squad analogy was getting too close for comfort.

Mr. Jensen held a chair for Dinah. She sat. Jonah sat next to her; his feet did not quite reach the floor. Mr. Jensen sat down beyond him. Three crows on a fence.

The judge opened a thick, leather-bound book and began reading a lot of introductory material in legalese, information that Mr. Jensen had already pretty well covered in plain English. He closed the book and sat back.

He looked at her. “Dr Taylor. I’ve read your company’s website and of course your mission statement. Please tell me in your own words what the website does
not
say. About you.”

She had not expected such a question. Why would he ask something like that? Could a judge simply pop non sequiturs out of the blue? Apparently; at least Mr. Jensen was not objecting. She stuttered a moment.
Gather your thoughts, Dinah.
She sat back, took a deep breath, loosened her shoulders. “Even when I was in high school, I realized that food is nothing but chemicals. We consume chemicals. Other chemicals in our digestive system process that food and expel what cannot be used. I also saw that chemicals can work with each other or against each other.”

She took another deep breath.
Relax, girl.
“I chose biochemicals as my career because their interactions fascinate me. I built a company that helps the body’s chemicals do good things, you might say. Bolster naturally occurring positive interactions, or suppress naturally occurring negative interactions. I’m sorry if that’s vague, but…”

“Not vague at all. I take it, then, that you’re a fan of Krebs cycles.”

She felt her mouth drop open. Who
was
this man? A judge familiar with biochemistry!

He asked, “Are you a good cook, Dr. Taylor?”

Another bolt from the blue. Totally unhorsed, she stammered, “No. I love creating dietary supplements; the chemical aspects. I don’t spend much time with food, per se, as in ‘What’s for dinner?’” Was that what he wanted to hear, or was he about to kick her out for being a total non-mother? It was another black mark against her nurturing instincts; how many times had she heard that good cooking was a form of nurturing in itself? And suddenly, inanely, she thought of Gramma Grace’s chicken pot pie, with fresh vegetables and homemade noodles, and how warmly nurturing that was; especially when Dinah got to roll out and cut the noodle dough.

He studied Jonah. “I understand you got into trouble at school on Monday. Tell me about that.”

Now, finally, he was getting on topic. Jonah faltered, then got into the narrative and really rolled, complete with the run-on sentences he spewed when he really got excited.

The judge nodded and asked, “Have you any questions, Jonah?”

He shook his head. “Mr. Jensen answered them. I get to be Jonah Morgan and my mommy is still Corinne. You mean those questions?”

“Yes. Lars?” The judge looked at Mr. Jensen. “Questions? Concerns?”

“I am completely at ease with Corinne’s decision. The more I see and hear in this case, the better I think these two will be an excellent match for each other. Jonah will get what he needs to be happy and succeed.”

Again Dinah’s mouth dropped open. How could he say that after she clearly explained why she was
not
a good candidate for motherhood? No! She’d flunked every one of their nurturing tests. She couldn’t even cook. She was not at all what Jonah needed. Mr. Jensen drew a sheaf of papers out of his attaché case as the judge pulled more papers out of his lap drawer.

“No! I can’t do this!” She nearly stood up and shouted. “I’m not a mother!”

The judge looked at her, at Lars.

Mr. Jensen said, “She has voiced misgivings. She feels a lack of the ability to nurture.”

The judge settled his elbows on his desk and leaned forward a bit. “Dr. Taylor. Jonah does not need a mother. He already has a mother. He needs someone who will look to his best interests and guide him into a productive adulthood. Can you do that?”

She found herself sputtering, stumbling, saying, “Uh…er…but…”

“Please understand, Dr. Taylor, that by completing this legal action, we are placing our full and complete confidence in your ability to raise Jonah well. We do
not
do this lightly. We see many, many cases where children are placed not in the best possible circumstances but in the least objectionable circumstances. Not so here. Here is an extraordinarily talented little boy who needs a bright and creative guardian if he is to grow and soar. To realize the promise in him. You are such a person. We both hope you will not deny the child that promise.”

What could she say? The way this man phrased it—she sat back, defeated. Steamrollered was more like it. Were they being truthful, or were they simply trying to get this case over with?

But then she looked at Jonah, saw the worry in his eyes. She forced a smile and he smiled back, relieved.

The judge opened his book again and read off more legalese.

Then he laid out four piles of papers across the front of his desk.

Mr. Jensen laid more papers on the piles. “I have signed and dated these.” He turned. “Dinah?” He offered a pen.

Here goes nothing. In every sense of the word. Dinah stood up, accepted the pen numbly, signed where Mr. Jensen pointed. She
never
signed anything without reading it first, but here she was, scribbling her name. The four piles were four copies of one set.

From nowhere, two young women entered. Obviously, Judge Henny had summoned them. Dinah was sorely tempted to run around behind his desk to see where the buzzer was that he tapped, probably with his foot. The women signed on the
witness
lines. “Congratulations, Dr. Taylor!” the blonde pumped her hand. “Congratulations!” The auburn-haired one did also. They left. Easy for them; sign, walk out. They weren’t faced with a lifetime job for which they were not prepared.

Jonah had his own papers to sign. He did so obediently in his second-grade scrawl.

The judge signed on many lines. It took him a minute.

Mr. Jensen had paper clips ready. He clipped each set together, left one on the judge’s desk, and slipped the other three into his attaché case. While they stood there, the judge read closing sentences from that book.

What had she just done? She didn’t even want to think about it. It was done.