Instant Mom (15 page)

• 17 •

Adoption Day

Now, though it’s a
while before that first lost tooth, I have another reason I’m a blubbering fool. The day is finally here. It’s been over six months and as of today, Ilaria’s adoption is going to be legal. It won’t change anything in our family dynamic. But it means a lot.

I go into Ilaria’s room. She’s still sleeping and as I watch her from the door, I think about how loved she is, completely embraced by a family who has really let her know how welcome she is.

The day my dad met her, he was tossing a beach ball to her and when she ran on her sturdy little legs to get it from behind the couch, my dad immediately crossed himself to thank God for her health. I would say that pretty much encompasses how my dad feels about the events in his children’s lives. I saw him cross himself before he walked my older sister, Nancy, down the aisle, and when my younger sister, Marianne, got her doctorate. I saw him cross himself at my brother Nick’s daughter’s baptism. And I saw him cross himself as the end credits ran at the premiere of
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
. He was not praying for it to be a success; he was thanking God for giving me the experience. My dad grew up in a poor village in Greece and really did come to North America with eight dollars in his pocket. His success as a businessman and family man probably exceeds his dreams. He and my mom took it completely in stride when they were with me on
Oprah
. I chose this profession, yet I thrust my parents into the spotlight and they handled it with ease. Also, my dad has a great sense of humor in that he knew everyone would think he was the “Gus” in the movie. Maybe because his name is Gus. He was baptized as Constantine but, like a lot of Greeks, acquired the nickname Gus. But the real Gus is not anti-education or anti-women’s rights, nor does he have Greek statues on the front lawn. But, yes, he used Windex as a cure-all for everything. I know for years he and my mom worried about me going through life without a child. He’d suggested I try to adopt from Greece and was comforted when I was on the waiting list. When he heard we wanted to adopt from foster care, he was worried. As I’ve explained, I don’t blame him—those negative stories seem to be the only ones we all know. But when he met Ilaria, everything he worried about melted away. He kisses her and thanks God for her every day.

My older sister, Nancy, met Ilaria when she came to New York while I was there making a movie. She later told me that one evening she and my mom were bathing Ilaria and were so in awe of this perfect girl with the caramel skin that they cried into the tub. I love the image of two weeping Greeks salting that bathwater as if they’re making a good brine for feta cheese. My sister is the mother of three teenagers so is the definition of irony and patience. I saw how tender and sweet she was with Ilaria in those first days when she held her. I know she was remembering her own children being that age. Nancy kept stroking Ilaria’s soft cheeks and long fingers, looking at me and smiling. I saw her thoughts in her eyes. My sister is so happy I now have this person to love, the way she loves her three children.

My younger sister, Marianne, a university professor, timed a visit with her two young kids while I made a film. Because we all have the gift of our mom’s multitasking, Marianne spent the time writing her syllabus while cooking and watching over the kids as they played “tigers in a tree house.” Every night, when I’d get back she’d stop marking her students’ papers so she could gleefully report all the earnestly sincere, innocent things the kids said and did: “The three of them are getting married, living on a wild island, and protecting tigers. Oh, by the way, your daughter might be telling you tomorrow about walking into her grandparents’ bathroom and seeing ‘Pappou in his panties.’ ”

My brother, Nick, had emailed a video for my birthday. Ilaria’s hands gripped the computer screen with delight and she replayed the video over and over—because her uncle Nick burped the song “Happy Birthday.” So, when she met Nick, she already knew he was like her dad, a taller kid with a hairy chest. As Nick held her in his arms, he burped Ilaria’s name, which swiftly made him favorite uncle. Before Ilaria came into our lives, Nick and I had had two serious discussions where he urged me to investigate every adoption angle and not let nagging fears get at me. Those conversations felt like a vague sepia-toned memory belonging to someone else when I saw my daughter in Nick’s arms. My daughter.

My sib-in-laws—Dimos, Anas, and Lexy—upon meeting Ilaria, squished her with the kisses she now allows. Ian’s parents and family, our aunts, uncles, and cousins, showered her with presents and affection.

I am particularly touched by the sweetness my nieces and nephews displayed at meeting their new cousin. Adoption is a new thing in our family, but kids are naturally kind. The teenaged cousins swooped her into their arms, holding her high and hugging her hard. The younger ones were at once curious and tender with her. Since Ilaria has a cousin with the exact same birthday and they’re a lot alike, they call each other Twin Cousin. We all fit in together so well. One day when the family was visiting, Ilaria ran by us all energetically yelling to her cousins to “Waiiiiiiiiiit up!” and I marveled to my family, “She’s the daughter I always wanted.” My sister Marianne wryly said, “With the highlights you always wanted.”

Ilaria has come a
long way in six months. We all have. I can’t believe the finalization day is finally here. Still, I am apprehensive, I won’t deny it. Even though I’m not a nail-biter by nature, my fretting concern of a birth family member contesting the adoption remains unabated. I just want today to go smoothly. I am looking forward to this process being over.

Has it been only six months? I can’t remember what my day was like before I was a mom. I can’t remember the years of the powerlessness of trying to be a parent. My girl has plugged the black hole in my psyche with blobby and chewed pink bubble gum.

Ilaria wakes up and I gently remind her: today is a very big day for us. We’re going to court to finalize her adoption. We’ve made it very clear that even though we will sign official papers today, she was our daughter the minute we met her. I explain this is just so the judge can see her and how well she’s doing. She’s excited.

Later, I hear Manny downstairs running around showing off for Core life-member Brian, video-ing this day for us. I can hear Brian, Ian, and Ilaria laughing. I’m in my closet.

I change my clothes three times. I want to look respectable. I don’t want the judge to deem Ian and me foolish actors (I mean, we are but . . .) who will be negligent when levied with parental obligations. Also, I want to wear flats in case I have to run away with Ilaria.

Downstairs, I try to be buoyant for Brian’s camera, but inside I’m delivering a monologue to myself:
Stay calm, nothing is going to happen, she is legally emancipated, the parental rights were terminated, nothing can go wrong, she is my daughter, she is my daughter
 . . .

As we walk outside, I’m so preoccupied I barely notice the weather or time. Ilaria happily sits in the backseat and Ian drives, with Brian following in his own car. I smooth my gray dress, take in that Ian is wearing a respectable suit, and try to stay positive. I look back at my daughter in her white dress and sparkly, glittery red shoes (yes, the colors of the Canadian flag)—she still seems excited about the day.

The courthouse for juvenile cases can be an ominous place. This is where foster kids see their birth parents show their clean drug test results to a judge. This is where events reach a point where birth parents’ rights are terminated and foster parents get to adopt the child. And this is where we get to finalize Ilaria’s adoption. As we walk into the courthouse we’re met by the social workers and our adoption attorney. I watch their faces as they see Ilaria, so bright and animated— they’re so pleased. Not with themselves. For us. Once again, it is remarkable to witness such selflessness. It puts me at ease to be in the company of true kindness. Everyone is jubilant and that joy rubs off on me.

Ian and I take Ilaria’s hands, and we enter the courthouse. She happily presses all the buttons in the elevator. But when we enter the courtroom, she gets nervous. Maybe she remembers courtrooms as sad places. I can see she thinks something bad will happen.

All of a sudden the hearing begins, and the judge is speaking: he proclaims we’re on the record and is asking the attorney to announce the case.

Our adoption attorney is responding and saying he represents us. He states our names and the case.

Now the clerk asks Ian and me to raise our right hands and we’re sworn in. The judge asks a question . . . and Ilaria starts crying.

I actually dare to interrupt the judge. In this moment, I don’t care if he thinks I’m an obnoxious actor, and I don’t even look to see if birth family members have improbably shown up. I care only about my daughter’s welfare. I stop the proceedings and Ian and I carry her away from everyone. We sit in the back of the courtroom and just talk to her and soothe her fears, telling her nothing bad will happen. We explain today is a good day. She tries to understand. She nods bravely. I am impressed and touched, once again, by how she never wimps out. She rises to the occasion like a child much older than her years.

When she’s feeling better, we all return to the front of the room to try again. But I see it’s not a tense atmosphere. They’re all patiently waiting for us. They all want Ilaria to feel comfortable. This is infinitely consoling for us all.

The courtroom clerk gives Ilaria a choice of teddy bears. She chooses a bright pink one, whom she quickly names Addie the Adoption Bear.

The clerk gives the attorney the Adoption Agreement form and then, as a formality, the judge asks the attorney to explain the Adoption Agreement to us. Ian and I are taking turns holding Ilaria, trying to concentrate on the legalese.

But this, we understand: the attorney now asks us to swear to the oath questions. He asks questions such as, “Do you understand that by signing the Adoption Agreement, you agree to treat Ilaria as your own lawful child and provide for her health, welfare, and educational needs?”

Ian and I answer “yes.”

“Do you understand that by adopting Ilaria, you agree that she shall enjoy all the rights of a natural child of your own issue including the right of inheritance?”

Ian and I answer “yes.”

“Understanding these responsibilities, do you wish to adopt Ilaria?”

Ian and I have waited a long time for this question. We quietly answer “yes.”

We solemnly swear that Ilaria is our daughter. She watches Ian and me now sign the documents that will make it legal. As if we need any of this. We became a family when we saw each other, but soon nothing can change this. Soon. I waited through so many “soons,” and now I am holding my breath waiting for this next step.

Our attorney then turns to the judge and says, “Your Honor, I am submitting the Adoption Agreement to the court.”

The attorney hands everything to the clerk, who gives it all to the judge to look over.

We wait. Ian and I hold Ilaria’s warm little body and whisper in her ear. We reassure her and we all wait as the judge reads over our file to make sure everything is in order.

Then . . . the judge signs the Adoption Order and announces our daughter’s full name is Ilaria Isadora Vardalos Gomez.

Everyone claps, and I feel like I’m levitating.

Ian and I hug and kiss Ilaria. This is it. It’s legal now.

The attorney gives us the certified copies of the Adoption Order and the Certificate of Family Membership. We all thank the judge, take pictures, and leave the courtroom.

Then we go completely nuts in the hallway. We run outside the courthouse and dance and jump around with Ilaria, singing “Adoption Day, Adoption Day!” We put Ilaria on the ground to join in the dance, and she jumps up and down. I laugh and laugh. We’re done.

We go home and celebrate with Core and an Elmo cake.

At the end of the night as I tuck her in, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Because it all went smoothly. The system worked. We’d been matched, we had six great visits with the social workers, the cot is far down the hall, and Ilaria is sleeping about nine hours a night in her own bed.

Most important, of course no one showed up to contest the adoption. All my neuroses were for nothing. Even a few months beforehand when Ilaria choked on the hard candy—that turned out okay. I tell myself to relax. I tell myself I am Ilaria’s mom. She is my daughter. Nothing bad will happen.

However, a short time later, something does happen.

Luckily, it doesn’t happen to Ilaria. But it happens to me.

• 18 •

That Stupid Class

I’m driving home in
the evening. Ian’s filming is going late. In the days since the adoption was finalized, I feel light and carefree and this is the first night I left Ilaria through bedtime with Anna.

I’d turned in a script before the deadline to the studio, and to celebrate I’d gone to the mall with Tracy and Rose, had dinner, and did some shopping. I feel decadent. It has been quite a while since I’ve had time with the girls, and it was a big step for me to not be home for bedtime.

Now, it’s dark as I pull into my driveway. I get out of the car and check the street like I always do; I have always been careful to the point of paranoia. This might be because my grandmother Evelyn warned me during my puberty that most men are perverts. So I’ve always been very cautious, especially at night.

I see the street is empty.

I hear something. It’s the sound of sneakers running on pavement. And after years and years and years of checking this shadow and that creak and that weird noise and it being nothing . . . this time it is something.

A man is crouching behind my fenced hedge. There really is a stranger on the sidewalk in front of my house. I can see the top of his hooded sweatshirt just above the bushes.

My front yard is dark. The street is dark. There is no one out here but him and me.

Years before, Kathy Najimy had convinced me to join her and a few friends in a self-defense class. I hated the class. I found the scenarios terrifying. I was petrified of the instructor in the attack suit. I didn’t want to be at that stupid class. But in these next few minutes, I will use everything I learned.

The instructor had told us in the event of an attack, to not freeze up and to make as much noise as possible.

So I yell, “Hey, what are you doing!”

He quickly stands. He is big. He jumps over the hedge toward me. He is coming right at me. And I punch him in the face. I’m screaming as loud as I can. He pushes me hard and gets me on the ground, and I know the terrifying reality that now no one can see me. The hedge is high and my yard is very dark. No one can see me on the grass.

He is on top of me but isn’t saying anything. He is so heavy and my chest feels crushed. And I fight. I kick and scream and somehow work my right leg up under his chin and I kick him off me. I keep screaming for help.

I can hear my dog going crazy, barking inside my house. I want Manny to help me. I’m screaming for someone to help me. I try to get up and he pushes me down and gets on me again. I am fighting so hard. I kick him off me again. Now he pulls at a tote and the bags of new clothes.

I scream, “Take it!” and he grabs these things and jumps over the hedge toward the street. I stand up and am still screaming.

Now Anna opens the front door and Manny tears out and tries to jump over the hedge and get him. The man runs to a waiting car and takes off. We can’t see the license plate. I’m still screaming as Anna pulls me inside the house.

I’m so angry. I feel dirty and sick and furious. My neighbor calls to tell me she heard me and her husband has called 911.

I run upstairs to check on Ilaria. She’s asleep and safe. I grip the wall and try to not throw up.

The police come within a few minutes. The policeman walks around my front yard while his female partner asks me questions in my front hallway. I give a detailed description and I am staring at the floor when I hear her tell me I did everything right. It’s small consolation, but a lifetime of checking over my shoulder paid off because I was facing him when he jumped.

The police tell me he probably followed me home from the mall. I realize that’s exactly what happened. There isn’t a lot of crime in my neighborhood. But being followed home from a mall is common everywhere. I had heedlessly walked to my car in a mall parking lot while carrying a bunch of purchases and a designer tote. I was followed home and robbed. I can see Anna feels awful as she repeatedly tells me she could not hear me screaming because Manny was barking so loud. She didn’t know what was happening. Manny barks at squirrels, passersby, other dogs. Anna says she only opened the front door because he was throwing himself against it.

Manny. I bury my face in his fur.

I run upstairs again to be with Ilaria. I sit on her bed now and try to calm myself . . . I can’t stop looking at her eyelashes, so soft against her cheeks.

When Ian comes home, I tell him and I feel sorry for him. I know how powerless he feels. I’m sad for him and sick from the adrenaline of being knocked around.

Now it’s four
A.M.
and I’m lying in bed, shaking. A physical attack is horrifying to replay in hindsight. My hands are bruised. My throat aches. My neck hurts, and my muscles are stiff from the sheer force of being attacked by a man. The synapses misfire through my body, seemingly unable to sort out that I have been involved in such a visceral exchange with another human being. I am thinking of the dark-hearted monster who would do this to a woman, and I wonder if he even has given me a second thought.

The next day, I’m weak with fear. The doorbell rings and my shoulders go up. I can’t have anyone standing behind me without feeling nauseated. I’m weeping uncontrollably and of course hiding it from Ilaria. We’ve never kept things from her, but this is far too adult. So I have to tell her I don’t feel well. It’s true. But she knows something is wrong because children see through artifice.

Ian calls a friend who does landscape design, and together they completely change our front yard—within a few days the hedge is gone; there is only a see-through iron fence now. There are enough front yard lights to land a helicopter. It’s a safe place.

But I don’t feel safe at all.

In the next few weeks, whenever Ian has night scenes to film, many members of Core just come over. The house is full with Tracy, Rose, Suzy, John, Brian, Renee, and Jackie hanging out night after night with me. I’m afraid to be alone.

They’re all downstairs now, watching TV, eating dinner, waiting for me to join them. I am in Ilaria’s room, lying beside her as she falls asleep. And I am shaking in the dark. I can’t drive at night. I can’t be alone. This is not getting better.

Both Kathy Greenwood and Kathy Najimy tell me I have to talk to a professional, and Rose sends me links for victim-of-a-crime counseling. Suzy, Tracy, everyone urges me to do it. They’re right. I need help, so through my medical doctor I find a psychiatrist.

This is where it just gets ludicrous, which is probably why I get better. Yes, I’ll tell you now, despite this woman’s idiocy, I really do restore my sense of well-being.

For the first session, I walk into a nondescript room that could be anything from a dentist’s lobby to a quilters’ clubhouse. I observe she’s a female therapist in her forties and seems to take herself ultra-seriously. She purses her lips and peers at me over her collegial glasses. I ponder if she’s cognizant she looks like an animated version of a psychiatrist. I mean, does anyone really peer over spectacles unless they’re trying to appear authoritative? So this immediately strikes me as faux and not an honest greeting at all.

She is not smiling or funny. That’s my next clue that this is not a good idea. I tend to gravitate more toward people who have a sense of satire. This woman writes notes on me as I sit down . . . and I wonder if I’m perched normally or what? A few moments go by and I wonder if I’m supposed to speak, or . . . ? Now she asks me what I’m thinking. I want to ask if she’s ever treated Tony Soprano. But I don’t.

The atmosphere is so staid and grim that I only want to make a joke. But I know that won’t help me get better, so I follow her lead.

She asks me to tell her every detail about why I’m here. I talk my way through the story, and when I get to the part about him pushing me to the ground, she interrupts and says, “What did you think?” And I said, “Uh, that I couldn’t move.” And she says “And?” And I reply, “And that scared me.”

She asks what is the thing that scared me the most. I take a minute, then reveal my deepest darkest scariest heart-shattering fear. In that moment, all I’d thought was that if I died, Ilaria would not have a mother.

The therapist nods as if I just said, “I enjoy croutons,” and says, “Let’s explore that.”

I say I don’t want to.

She urges me to really look at this terrible fear.

So even though I don’t like this path we’re on, I decide to trust since I don’t know the arena of therapy. I tell her again my fear was that I would be killed on the front lawn and Ilaria would not have a mother. And the therapist makes me describe this. Uh-huh. Really, she does. She wants me to describe the manner in which I might be murdered. When I say I truly don’t want to, she sighs and sits back with that disapproving pursed mouth.

Hoping it will help . . . I do it. And it is really frightening to talk about. I describe how he would have killed me. If that’s not cringe-worthy enough, oh, there’s more. Now she makes me tell her what my funeral looks like and I do that even though it’s so morose, so elegiacal I can’t stand it. It’s the worst thing I have ever envisioned and described. The therapist is nodding as if I’m reciting my musical theater credits and then asks, “Can you see Ilaria at your funeral? Is she all right?” I say, “No, I see her very sad—”

Abruptly, she concludes the session. Just like that—time’s up, so she says she’ll see me in a few days.

I’m stunned. Slowly, I pick up my purse and leave the room. My skin hurts.

I drive home cursing in my car. What the hell was that? It didn’t help at all. In fact, I’m shaking again. Now I’m even more scared. In the next few days I tell a few friends who’ve been in therapy about this method, and their outrage fuels my own exasperation. They say this is not healthy. I mean, I knew instinctively at the time it was verging on cuckoo, but it feels validating to hear this from friends who have had good therapy experiences.

I go to the next appointment and do something that’s not the norm for me: I confront the therapist. I gingerly yet firmly tell her I found her method to be perhaps irresponsible and not a formula or path I can see ever working. She pauses and says . . . are you ready, oh gentle reader? She says, “Yes, I had heard about this new method and I was trying it—”

I stammer, “What are you telling me? You didn’t know what you were doing?”

She admits that my assessment is correct.

Then she quickly adds, “There is a new drug you can take that may help you forget the incident. There are many methods. Can you trust me to guide you?”

I say “Nope” and walk out.

Cue the end credits temple-pounding music of a gritty tough-girl-detective show as I strut down that hall.

But I’m not feeling any stronger, so I keep looking for help.

Over the next few months, I try a few more therapists. I tell the story over and over, but this is just not working for me.

One therapist asks, “Why do you think he picked you to attack?,” and I deadpan, “Maybe he was a film critic.”

She tells me I should be angrier, that I should rage that I was “victimized.” Look, maybe I felt that in the moment, but afterward and now I feel I was just “randomized.” I was in the wrong mall parking lot at the wrong time with a lot of stuff that would attract a thief. I think this is what is my problem with these therapy sessions. It’s the same thing with the fertility situation or whatever happens or doesn’t in my career. I’ve just never looked at myself in a poor-me way. Sure, I’m bummed when dismal events occur, but I’d rather just move on than sink into the quicksand of a why-me scenario. I’ve gotten to do so many fun things in my life from finding my daughter to chatting with Barbra Streisand and Bette Midler to singing in a Broadway charity benefit with people like Audra McDonald and Paul McCartney. I have a fun life. It just makes sense some execrable things will happen too. I get it. Maybe I have this balanced outlook because I’m a Libra. I actually don’t believe in astrology at all, so I think it’s my mom’s optimism. Like her, I just don’t dwell on negative events.

But I try to get better, I really do. I stay in therapy for six months and then one day I see things very clearly. The parking lot attendant of this one therapist’s office is pleasantly greeting me as usual. As she gives me my car ticket and I start toward the therapist’s door, she gives me an encouraging upbeat nod, as in “Go get cured, lady.” I can tell she is used to seeing melancholy patients all day long. When I come out of the office today, she raises her eyebrows to me in the universal sign of “Better?” I shake my head, “Nah.” And she shrugs acceptingly . . . and I realize no one is ever better! This parking lot attendant hasn’t seen
anyone
ever get better. What’s better, anyway? I want to be able to stand in my front yard without shaking. I want to be able to be out after dark without being on edge. I want this behind me. I know what will make it pass. I need to stop hiding this from my parents and family. I need to tell my mom so she will hold me and stroke my hair and tell me I’m okay. But I can’t. I won’t burden her with this while it’s still freaking me out because she will never sleep again if she sees me this distraught.

Politically correct disclaimer: I know there are some fine therapists. We have therapists in our family, and many of our friends have great experiences. Family therapists helped us settle Ilaria into our home. But on this victim-of-a-crime issue, I never quite connect with one. If there’s anything I learned from the years of trying to be a parent, it’s this: if something isn’t working, try something else.

I decide to leave therapy. So how do I get better? At their suggestion and urging, I tell my friends the story over and over. It’s like when you’ve been dumped and your friends listen. They tell me to just talk it out. And I do, until I am bored with the sound of my own voice. That works. I actually don’t want to hear myself tell the story again.

After a while, I can stand in my front yard and not shake. I hear a noise on the street and I don’t scream. I now carry pepper spray in my purse, and I give it out like party favors to any women leaving my house. I have decided the best thing I can do with the experience is remind people to look behind them on a dark street.