Eleanor Rootes: Part Deuce

On the eve of a total lunar eclipse that promised change, she graced the cracked linoleum floors of the county court. The smell of some state-issued bio-cleanser hung in the air with stale coffee and the beeping sound of a metal detector working too hard. While fumbling with the id-tag hanging ‘round her neck on a dingy lanyard, she threw back her tresses that were stuck between collar folds and identification that should have read: “Eleanor Rootes, Law Guardian Sans Litem”.


Having the slighted attention of some passing legal commuters, she made what she thought was a clever comment and then turned to find my stare burning holes through her lacking humanity and tanned leather body hide void of intelligent thought. Quickly, she turned away and pretended to be interested in a wall hanging that did not exist.

My name was called among the masses. 9:00 am and I was already being directed to a stagnate eight by five foot cell... er,  briefing room. At a stumbling consult with an attorney, rather, “Associate” who has been nonexistent for the two months between adjournments - he questioned what I would like accomplished. I explained that “because I’m pretty, I can do whatever I want”. He chuckled without thinking it funny.  I had to explain the comprehension with a  reminder that the logic of the statement originated with Eleanor. This was her mighty defense at our last go-'round. His eyes bent the way that plastic does when it's heated but still, with no real processing energy available.

How pointless is she?


Very.

They’re actually attorneys you know. In the state of New York, law guardians must pass the bar before they aspire to apply to the law guardian panel and be assigned counsel for children through some over-burdened family court. To my knowledge, this particular court has ceased the assignment of cases to her because Eleanor's track record holds too many complaints. And there are the accusations of her dancing beneath the full moon without clothes. 


Yes, that happens.


But she’s a law guardian charged with proper interpretation of my son’s wants, wishes, and desires; proper being the action word.


Eleanor has never set a scraggly foot into our house.


Yet she maintains that our house is “cramped and unsuitable for children”. Outside of her, that house has been a foundation and roof over five childrens’ heads and stands as twice the size of the bungalow Eleanor resides in. Still, she banters with her tousled hair-do that well, in blatant disregard for her position as advocate...I must somehow take the heat for her obvious transference issues. I don't know. Maybe I remind her of a mother whom she despises...a sister that reigned in all the attention she never received as a child...or possibly a friend that put a finger on the manipulation and deceitfulness of one such Eleanor; post-BFF.

Grace

Grace being a scarce commodity, I knocked on the door.

The moments in-between fluttering eyelids left a semblance of balance but no real footing.

Not outside the boundaries of faith anyway.

She visited again. Some three or four years have passed since our last face-to-face and she visited again. Not me -but the lone youth of what it means to have vitality for life, to question and seek understanding. She asked him what he felt, thought, wanted and (of all things) how his Mother was doing. Like she really cares. She doesn't. Incapable probably, but one should not assume.

I would have no difficulty expressing how I truly feel if she were brazen enough to ask me, though I doubt she will.

On certain days I sometimes wonder if I have displaced judgment on her. In fairness, I think there is a steaming heap promised her direction but it is not for me to dole. The meantime brings a little boy once again confused by the cluster of idiocy the adults in his life bring. As if they know; as if they understand what they're talking about. My motherly perspective offers a young lad taking the time to line his bottom bunk with all thirty-seven stuffed animals before bedtime - or what he calls "his babies". He says they "want to take care of their Pappa", and with a labor of love lines them along his pillow -  favorites by his shoulders and the bigger, tougher ones at his feet because they're closest to the door.

And there is no problem, right? There is no cause for concern. There must be no issues, no unresolved questions, nothing to warrant an official ad litem doing a job that the quote-unquote ad litem's are supposed to do.  I justify his concerns with a soft spoken promise that I do believe him. I verify that he has done nothing wrong and promise that tomorrow will be better for the sake of promise and because Mommies, like Daddies, are supposed to protect.

Not be the danger.

In solitude I comprehend that he is growing with stability, with his own understanding and with a heart that mirrors my own. I can give him a sense of faith, belief, and promise that are not purchased but rather, fostered. I can explain to the best of my ability that there are few things in this world that will hurt more than that of a broken heart and promise never to be the one to do that to him. I cannot promise the same for others too close for comfort. 

And after he has drifted off to sleep, I can make sure those thirty-seven babies are lined in their fullest, upright position to protect and love the little boy that means to world to his Mom.