I spent the next 30 days between the library and that
friendly lawyer's office back home. I read everything I could get my hands on
about preparing for a custody trial and successfully getting through a psych
evaluation. We'd both been ordered to visit a court appointed psychologist who,
after several one-on-one visits with both of us and one visit with each of us
along with the child, would enter a written report detailing her findings and
recommendations to the court. It's not the only thing the judge would rely on
in making her decision, but she would depend on the psych's words heavily.
I was not at all confident.
"The man is a sociopath, she's trained to see right
through people like him, don't worry about it," my supporters said.
But I hadn't seen
right through him.
"She knows the signs, she knows what to look for. Once
she meets him, this whole thing will be over in a couple of weeks. I knew there
was something off about him the first time I met him," the peanut gallery
rallied behind me.
Yeah, but I didn't. As I said, he's pretty convincing. I
couldn't depend on the psychologist properly gauging his character. I needed to
work on my own presentation.
I pored over clinical questionnaires, books as thick as my
forearm outlining what to do, what to say, how to do it, how to say it. Be
friendly, not too friendly, smile, not too much ... instructions like that were
for mothers and fathers. But these
books devoted entire chapters to the desired appearance of a mother who wants
her children back.
Everything I’d read suggested demure dress, short nails (one
book actually said "you can't bake cookies with long nails and you need to
look like you've been baking cookies." This was NOT a circa 1950 book, by
the way), no bright colors, no heels (no heels?) Yes, this was in bold print ...
basically, I needed to look like a schoolmarm and
act the part as well. Don’t bad mouth the other parent, answer questions as
succinctly as possible, don't elaborate or offer unnecessary information unless
asked, be honest, speak about the other parent's good points, don't sound like
a bitter, scorned woman, demonstrate that you are able to separate the other
parent's performance as a partner from his performance as a father ...
There was sooo much. I went shopping (in the women's
department :)) and came out with bags like I was replacing my entire wardrobe.
Knee length skirts, waist cut pants (not the kind that hug and scoop your rear,
which is all they sell nowadays) button down blouses in larger sizes, not the
stretchy, accentuating kind (equally hard to find), flat shoes and absolutely
no cleavage of any kind, which is a bit of a feat for me. I've been blessed. :)
It's also hot outside at this time, so finding clothes that adequately cover
isn't even seasonal right now.
Meanwhile, after returning to New Jersey, we'd been staying
in a hotel for a week while looking for an apartment everyday on the internet
and up and down the streets checking out for-rent signs. Not in the same city
or even the same county as with BD,
though. I'd put about 45 minutes between us.
But during this time we were also sharing our son equally,
as we would until a final court decision was made. We'd meet at Burger King or
some other public place to make the exchange. That's when he began acting
strange. After the telephone threats and the angry intimidating long stares,
now, all of a sudden, BD was nice. Sweet, even. To the point that it made me
uncomfortable. Once he handed me the baby and as I took him in my arms, he
leaned in next to me, smiled and snapped a pic of the three of us with his
digital camera. A family picture? Another time he brought flowers and kissed me
on the forehead. Gross, at this point.
He even suggested that we go to church together. Church? Together? I don't think I covered
this, but BD was sooo anti anything Christian. He dumped out a little bottle of
holy oil for the baby that an elder at my church back home had blessed for him.
Not once but twice, he threw away the baby's first book, this cute little black
and white "Jesus Loves Me" baby book that I'd bought.
I quickly learned not to get drawn into theological debates
with him when he called me a "handkerchief-wearing negro" for
believing the "white man's lies" and "worshiping the white man's
God." He told me he never wanted his child to step foot in a church.
The day before my scheduled C-Section, (yes, while the child
was still in my belly) he had a fit when I peeked my head into the back room
where he was playing Madden and announced I'd be back in a couple of hours, I
was going to church. His need for control was obsessive.
I could not believe he was actually changing. Not really. BD
wasn't the type to have second thoughts. He was always right the first time.
Maybe this was one last ditch effort before the final psych eval and our trial
date to gauge how hard I was really willing to go. (He had no idea). Perhaps he
was as nervous about the impending psych eval as I was.
I got into "costume" and went over my
"lines," rehearsing from those clinical questionnaires and the
notebook of notes I'd taken, with my family. (This happened to be going on
during the summer, my mother's a teacher and my sister
was a student at the time, so they were both able to stay with me a while).
But when the day of my first appointment with the woman who
held the fate of myself and my child in the power of her pen finally came, I
could not have been less prepared.
Originally posted on
March 26, 2008
No comments:
Post a Comment