Baby Cribs and Clown Shoes

At breakfast, a tall male aide named Sam surprised me from behind by putting his hand on my shoulder and asking me to finish my cereal quickly and come with him. All the kids were watching. Usually, this meant someone was in trouble. Those kids usually didn’t come back. These mysterious disappearances occurred during my time there. I knew something was about to change.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked, getting up from the table.

"You’re not in trouble," Sam said, tight-lipped.

In the dorm, on my bed lay a suit and shoes that weren’t mine. He told me to put them on quickly and left. Seeing the clothes gave me mixed feelings—maybe I was going home, or maybe something worse. The pants were baggy, the coat too tight. The shoes flopped like clown feet. If I was being adopted, I hoped they had smaller shoes and bigger sandwiches. I remembered my Easter Nehru Beatles suit. It fit better. And Easter meant dressing up for Grandma’s, even if we didn’t go to church.

I felt sick tying my shoes. When Sam returned, he must’ve seen the worry on my face.

“You’re going to see your parents,” he said.

“Together?” That hadn’t happened here before.

“I’m not sure. Brush your hair. Let’s go. We can’t be late.”

Sam escorted me out the double doors, which buzzed loudly, and across a great lawn. It was my first real look at the outside. We’d arrived in the middle of the night, huddled deep in the back seat of a police car. Nothing looked familiar. I had no idea where I’d been living for months. That strangeness unsettled me.

We entered a one-story building. Sam walked me down the hallway as I looked for my parents. He handed me off to a woman I recognized from the group that had taken us from our home. She said my name as she held out her hand for mine and led me into the courtroom.

Inside were my parents, two suited strangers—probably lawyers—the judge, a uniformed officer, and a woman typing on a strange machine. Everyone stared. I tried to smile at Mom and Dad. My mother was crying but trying to smile through the tears. My father smiled faintly with a nod. They didn’t say a word. I was led to a chair beside the judge.

The room felt eerie. The judge smiled at me, then asked everyone except the stenographer to leave. The large doors closed behind them. I stared at the floor.

Was I on trial?

The judge’s voice softened, like a grandfather. Until then, everything had felt cold, formal. This shift in tone alarmed me. Something was coming.

"Do you want me to call you Paul or PaulyRay?" he asked. My grandmother started with PaulyRay, and my mom’s side called me by that nickname. Dad called me Paul. Did how I answer mean something?

I shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“Have either of your parents tried to talk with you this week?”

I shook my head. “No.”

He nodded, like he expected that. “I’ve been talking to a lot of people—your parents, social workers, teachers. I think I have a good idea of what you and your siblings have been going through. I’d like to help your parents do a better job.”

I nodded, not fully understanding.

“There’s been a lot of drinking, hasn’t there?”

I shrugged again. My mouth was dry. I was afraid to say the wrong thing. I’d been answering this question falsely for years. I was sure he already knew.

“And Eddie—there’s been fighting when he’s around?”

When I heard his name, my anger surged, and blood rushed to my head. I nodded hard. I wanted to say more but couldn’t. I looked at the doors. Eddie had everything to do with my mother’s drinking, in my mind. He was her questionable new husband who owned a bar and had an endless supply of liquor. I wanted to speak but didn’t. I turned toward the doors, wanting to run.

“You’ve moved a lot. Changed schools. That must be hard.”

I held my breath, stared at the floor. I wanted to scream that being taken from our home and dumped in the Hall didn’t help. But I didn’t.

“You just turned twelve, right? Happy Birthday.”

Happy Birthday? What a joke. Was he going to wheel out a cake and party favors?

“Because of your age, you’re here—not your siblings. You’re big enough to tell the truth. I hear you’ve been helping your sister on weekends. That’s a lot for someone your age. If you were my son, I’d be very proud of you.”

That did it. I burst into tears. I hadn’t known how badly I needed to hear that. I thought I was supposed to be the tough little man of the house.

I tried to stop the tears. I didn’t want them to cause problems.

But I sensed he was building to something dreadful.

He said he didn’t want to add to my troubles, but he needed my help. He hoped one question might end a lot of pain. Now I was scared.

“I know they both love you,” he said. “But I need to know—who makes you feel safest: your mom or your dad?”

I froze. I held my breath.

I quickly looked at the courtroom doors again. Were they still closed? Could my parents hear me?

There was no way to answer without hurting someone. There was no good answer. Just different kinds of hurt.

He asked again.

The tears came faster. I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.

Eventually, the part of me that always tried to fix things kicked in. I weighed the options like files in a drawer. Dad was sober. Reliable. My baby sister needed a crib. Mom had the crib. Dad didn’t. I was numb.

The past five years had been chaos—losing our big home, good schools, regular meals and safety. Now we lived with lies, alcohol, violence, army cots and the legal system.

This could’ve been the moment that shut off my feelings for good. A turning point toward addiction. I decided it was time to stop letting emotions hurt me.

I thought about Dad. He was the obvious choice: sober, consistent, reliable.

And I wanted out of MacLaren Hall. I would've chosen coyotes at this point.

I looked again at the door. Were they listening?

I’d been protecting Mom for years, creating an illusion. And I was so tired of it—or so I thought. I was the detonator that was going to blow the family apart forever. I knew the judge would decide based on my answer.

From above, he leaned in.

Through sobs and my hands cupped around my eyes like blinders, I stared at the door and muttered, “My mom.”

I remained focused on the door.

I stopped crying.

“As long as Eddie stays away,” I added quickly.

I don’t remember what came next. I just remember the panic. I didn’t feel like a kid anymore. I tried to wipe the lie off my face, but it was inside me now. I had lied like a grown-up.

I knew it would hurt my father. And I knew it was a mistake.

But I wanted out.

It was the hardest decision I ever made.

And I didn’t cry again for nearly twenty years.