Scott Sherman - Third You Die

Well, that and the sex stuff. I’m good at that, too.

Andrew looked up. “So, what do you want to do?” he asked my mother. “Try and get the Merrs on the show? Or someone else to talk about the case?”

I took it this was the kind of “hard-hitting” journalism my mother said she was looking for. Although, my guess was everyone was going to be all over this story in the coming weeks, and I wasn’t sure my mother’s credentials as a professional yenta would open any doors CNN couldn’t get through first.

Her answer, again, surprised me.

“Everyone’s going to be trying to interview the Merrs,” she said. “And their friends, families, neighbors. Not to mention every expert on child abuse out there. I don’t think we need to go down that road.”

Wow. She just made sense.

“Plus, you know what?” she continued. “Who cares what those people have to say? Can you imagine if I actually sat down with one of the Merrs, those fakakta pieces of dreck? ” She was hauling out the Yiddish, once again, a sign she was getting upset. “A shandeh un a charpeh like I’ve never seen,” she spat. “Zol men er vern in a henglayhter, by tog zol er hengen, un bay nakht zol er brenen.”

My mother’s Yiddish wasn’t perfect, and mine was worse, but I recognized some catchphrases in there. She was basically calling the Merrs crazy pieces of shit, the likes of which she’d never seen. That last part was a saying that roughly translated to “May they be transformed into a chandelier, to hang by day and burn by night.”

Which wasn’t so far off from what I’d been wishing upon them.

“No,” she continued, “I keep coming back to him. The child. Adam.” Her voice cracked. “As a mother, I can’t help but think of that poor, poor boy. And it makes me so angry.

“Those pigs, the Merrs, they should be put down like dogs. But what about the other people involved?”

“From the article,” Andrew observed, “there was no one else. Even their parents didn’t know they’d adopted. Their friends, their families and co-workers-the Merrs kept that child a secret from everyone.”

“Not from everyone,” my mother said. “Someone gave them that child. Placed that boy into their care.”

She took another folder from her handbag and passed out some more papers. Holy cow.

“This is from the Web site of the agency that handled the adoption, Families by Design. Listen:

“ ‘Adoption can be a difficult, time-consuming, and frustrating process. Finding the right child for your kind of lifestyle may seem impossible. But we’re here to tell you that families like yours never have to settle for less than a perfect match.

“ ‘Let us find you the child you’re looking for, the one that fits in with your special family. Our exclusive network of social workers, lawyers, and doctors will help connect you with the child of your dreams. He or she is out there. We’ll bring him or her home to you.

“ ‘Our assistance isn’t for everyone-only for the privileged few who demand-and deserve-the very best.

“ ‘This unique combination of one-on-one attention and access to only the creme de la creme of highly trained professionals isn’t for everyone. Our premium service is for the elite few willing to make a significant investment in that which we know to be more precious than rubies or gold-the happy, healthy child that looks like your family and that you were meant to have.’ ”

My mother put down the paper and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Those words. ‘Exclusive.’ ‘Privileged.’ ‘The elite.’ In my days, they meant ‘No Jews Allowed.’ Today? ‘Only the rich need apply.’ ”

My mother’s flaring nostrils, and her eyebrows, which drew toward each other as if trying to meet in the middle, reducing her eyes to lizard-like slits, indicated her genuine outrage. “This isn’t an agency for the Angelina and Brads of this world. No Rainbow Coalition going on here. This is for perfect little parents who want perfect little children-or, as I like to call them, stuck-up rich bitches who want white kids with a clean bill of health and a good pedigree.

“These people don’t want children.” She was practically frothing at the mouth. “They want show dogs. Babies they can wear as accessories before passing them back to the nanny-of-the-month.”

“Or locking them in a cage for two years,” I muttered.

“Exactly!” my mother exclaimed.

Andrew’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “This story means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” he asked my mother. His tone was sympathetic and, if I read it right, kind of impressed with her, too. As if he was pleased to see her interested in something that wasn’t completely trivial and meaningless.

Or maybe I was just projecting.

“There is no job in life more important than being a good parent,” she intoned dramatically. “My children were everything to me. Nothing came before them. All I did was be there for them.”

The whole time I was growing up, my mother ran her own business. I couldn’t remember her ever going to a school play, attending an assembly, or volunteering in the classroom.

I did have a specific memory of her mockingly referring to the Parent Teacher Association meetings as “that support group for grown-ups who haven’t figured out the value of a good cocktail.”

Maybe she meant “there for” me in spirit. Which is not to say she was abusive or negligent-she was a great mom. She just wasn’t Suzy Homemaker.

Still, I never doubted she loved me. I’m sure my older sister felt loved, too.

It was surprising to me that, in retrospect, my mother felt the need to embellish her maternal involvement. When I was a kid, she was proud to call herself a “career woman,” happy to delegate the day-to-day child rearing to a succession of housekeepers and au pairs. Now, she was suddenly Betty Crocker.

I guess everyone has regrets. As we get older, we become aware of how we wished we’d handled things differently and eventually convince ourselves that’s what we did.

“Where were the people who were supposed to be there for Adam?” my mother asked.

“Behind bars,” I said. “Hopefully, for a very long time.”

“No, I mean those stuck-up bastards at Families by Design? Shouldn’t they be screening the families who adopt from them? Aren’t they supposed to be doing home studies to make sure that the children they place wind up in safe situations? Shouldn’t they also do follow-up visits to see how the baby is doing?”

I wasn’t sure what the exact requirements were, but most of that sounded right.

“But reading between the lines of that Web page,” my mother continued, “I don’t think they’re ‘placing’ children at all.

“I think they’re selling them.”

She let the words sink in.

“Their ‘premium service’ for the ‘elite few’ willing to make a ‘significant investment.’ What does that sound like to you?”

“My brother and his wife adopted,” Andrew said, using a yellow marker to highlight the phrases my mother had quoted. “There are fees involved, and I suppose agencies can charge what they want. But there are certain things you can’t pay for. For example, you can reimburse the birth mother’s health and living expenses during the pregnancy, but you can’t give her an out-and-out fee. That would be…”

“Selling a child.” My mother finished his sentence. “Which would be wrong.”

“We don’t know that’s what they’re doing,” Andrew said. He’d put down the highlighter and picked up a paper clip, which he toyed with absently.

“No,” I offered. “But it does happen.” I’d seen a Lifetime movie starring Melissa Joan Hart or some reasonable facsimile of her as a young girl who’d fallen into a baby-selling ring. Sabrina’s Secret Shame: My Womb for Hire, or something.