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David Gerrold
THE MARTIAN CHILD
David Gerrold, CIS: 70307,544
OCR by Quentin J. Tarantino 2005
THE MARTIAN CHILD
by David Gerrold
Toward the end of the meeting, the caseworker remarked, "Oh -- and one
more thing. Dennis thinks he's a Martian."
"I beg your pardon?" I wasn't certain I had heard her correctly. I had
papers scattered all over the meeting room table -- thick piles of stapled
incident reports, manila-foldered psychiatric evaluations, Xeroxed clinical
diagnoses, scribbled caseworker histories, typed abuse reports, bound trial
transcripts, and my own crabbed notes as well: Hyperactivity. Fetal Alcohol
Syndrome. Emotional Abuse. Physical Abuse. Conners Rating Scale. Apgars. I
had no idea there was so much to know about children. For a moment, I was
actually looking for the folder labeled Martian.
"He thinks he's a Martian," Ms. Bright repeated. She was a small woman,
very proper and polite. "He told his group home parents that he's not like
the other children -- he's from Mars -- so he shouldn't be expected to act
like an Earthling all the time."
"Well, that's okay," I said, a little too quickly. "Some of my best
friends are Martians. He'll fit right in. As long as he doesn't eat the
tribbles or tease the feral Chtorran."
By the narrow expressions on their faces, I could tell that the
caseworkers weren't amused. For a moment, my heart sank. Maybe I'd said the
wrong thing. Maybe I was being too facile with my answers.
-- The hardest thing about adoption is that you have to ask someone to
trust you with a child.
That means that you have to be willing to let them scrutinize your
entire life, everything: your financial standing, your medical history, your
home and belongings, your upbringing, your personality, your motivations,
your arrest record, your IQ, and even your sex life. It means that every
self-esteem issue you have ever had will come bubbling right to the surface
like last night's beans in this morning's bath tub.
Whatever you're most insecure about, that's what the whole adoption
process will feel like it's focused on. For me, it was that terrible
familiar feeling of being second best -- of not being good enough to play
with the big kids, or get the job, or win the award, or whatever was at
stake. Even though the point of this interview was simply to see if Dennis
and I would be a good match, I felt as if I was being judged again. What if
I wasn't good enough this time?
I tried again. I began slowly. "Y'know, you all keep telling me all the
bad news -- you don't even know if this kid is capable of forming a deep
attachment -- it feels as if you're trying to talk me out of this match." I
stopped myself before I said too much. I was suddenly angry and I didn't
know why. These people were only doing their job.
And then it hit me. That was it -- these people were only doing their
job.
At that moment, I realized that there wasn't anyone in the room who had
the kind of commitment to Dennis that I did, and I hadn't even met him yet.
To them, he was only another case to handle. To me, he was ... the
possibility of a family. It wasn't fair to unload my frustration on these
tired, overworked, underpaid women. They cared. It just wasn't the same kind
of caring. I swallowed my anger.
"Listen," I said, sitting forward, placing my hands calmly and
deliberately on the table. "After everything this poor little guy has been
through, if he wants to think he's a Martian -- I'm not going to argue with
him. Actually, I think it's charming. It's evidence of his resilience. It's
probably the most rational explanation he can come up with for his
irrational situation. He probably feels alienated, abandoned, different,
alone. At least, this gives him a reason for it. It lets him put a story
around his situation so he can cope with it. Maybe it's the wrong
explanation, but it's the only one he's got. We'd be stupid to try to take
it away from him."
And after I'd said that, I couldn't help but add another thought as
well. "I know a lot of people who hide out in fantasy because reality is too
hard to cope with. Fantasy is my business. The only different is that I
write it down and make the rest of the world pay for the privilege of
sharing the delusion. Fantasy isn't about escape; it's a survival mechanism.
It's a way to deal with things that are so much bigger than you are. So I
think fantasy is special, something to be cherished and protected because
it's a very fragile thing and without it, we're so defenseless, we're
paralyzed.
"I know what this boy is feeling because I've been there. Not the same
circumstances, thank God -- but I know this much, if he's surrounded by
adults who can't understand what he really needs, he'll never have that
chance to connect that everyone keeps talking about." For the first time I
looked directly into their eyes as if they had to live up to my standards.
"Excuse me for being presumptuous -- but he's got to he with someone who'll
tell him that it's all right for him to be a Martian. Let him be a Martian
for as long as he needs."
"Yes. Thank you," the supervisor said abruptly. "I think that's
everything we need to cover. We'll be getting back to you shortly."
My heart sank at her words. She hadn't acknowledged a word of what I'd
said. I was certain she'd dismissed it totally. I gathered up all my papers.
We exchanged pleasantries and handshakes, and I wore my company smile all
the way to the elevator. I didn't say a word, neither did my sister. We both
waited until we were in the car and headed back toward the Hollywood
Freeway. She drove, guiding the big car through traffic as effortlessly as
only a Los Angeles real estate agent can manage.
"I blew it," I said. "Didn't I? I got too ... full of myself again."
"Honey, I think you were fine." She patted my hand.
"They're not going to make the match," I said. "It would be a single
parent adoption. They're not going to do it. First they choose married
couples, Ward and June. Then they choose single women, Murphy Brown. Then,
only if there's no one else who'll take the kid, will they consider a single
man. I'm at the bottom of the list. I'll never get this kid. I'll never get
any kid. My own caseworker told me not to get my hopes up. There are two
other families interested. This was just a formality, this interview. I know
it. Just so they could prove they'd considered more than one match." I felt
the frustration building up inside my chest like a balloon full of hurt.
"But this is the kid for me, Alice, I know it. I don't know how I know it,
but I do."
I'd first seen Dennis's picture three weeks earlier; a little square of
colors that suggested a smile in flight.
I'd gone to the National Conference of the Adoptive Families of America
at the Los Angeles Airport Hilton. There were six panels per hour, six hours
a day, two days, Saturday and Sunday. I picked the panels that I thought
would be most useful to me in finding and raising a child and ordered tapes
-- over two dozen -- of the sessions I couldn't attend in person. I'd had no
idea there were so many different issues to be dealt with in adoptions. I
soaked it up like a sponge, listening eagerly to the advice of adoptive
parents, their grown children, clinical psychologists, advocates, social
workers, and adoption resource professionals.
But my real reason for attending was to find the child.
I'd already been approved. I'd spent more than a year filling out forms
and submitting to interviews. But approval doesn't mean you get a child. It
only means that your name is in the hat. Matching is done to meet the
child's needs first. Fair enough -- but terribly frustrating.
Eventually, I ended up in the conference's equivalent of a dealer's
room. Rows of tables and heart-tugging displays. Books of all kinds for
sale. Organizations. Agencies. Children in Eastern Europe. Children in Latin
America. Asian children. Children with special needs. Photo-listings, like
real-estate albums. Turn the pages, look at the eyes, the smiles, the needs.
"Johnny was abandoned by his mother at age three. He is hyperactive, starts
fires, and has been cruel to small animals. He will need extensive
therapy...." "Janie, age 9, is severely retarded. She was sexually abused by
her stepfather, she will need round-the-clock care...." "Michael suffers
from severe epilepsy...." "Linda needs..." "Danny needs..." "Michael
needs..." So many needs. So much hurt. It was overwhelming.
Why were so many of the children in the books "special needs" children?
Retarded. Hyperactive. Abused. Had they been abandoned because they weren't
perfect. or were these the leftovers after all the good children were
selected? The part that disturbed me the most was that I could understand
the emotions involved. I wanted a child, not a case. And some of the
descriptions in the book did seem pretty intimidating. Were these the only
kind of children available?
Maybe it was selfish, but I found myself turning the pages looking for
a child who represented an easy answer. Did I really want another set of
needs in my life -- a single man who's old enough to be considered
middle-aged and ought to be thinking seriously about retirement plans?
This was the most important question of all. "Why do you want to adopt
a child?" And it was a question I couldn't answer. I couldn't find the
words. It seemed that there was something I couldn't write down.
The motivational questionnaire had been a brick wall that sat on my
desk for a week. It took me thirty pages of single-spaced printout just to
get my thoughts organized. I could tell great stories about what I thought a
family should be, but I couldn't really answer the question why I wanted a
son. Not right away.
The three o'clock in the morning truth of it was a very nasty and
selfish piece of business.
I didn't want to die alone. I didn't want to be left unremembered.
All those books and TV scripts ... they were nothing. They used up
trees. They were exercises in excess. They made other people rich. They were
useless to me. They filled up shelves. They impressed the impressionable.
But they didn't prove me a real person. They didn't validate my life as one
worth living. In fact, they were about as valuable as the vice-presidency of
the United States.
What I really wanted was to make a difference. I wanted someone to know
that there was a real person behind all those words. A dad.
I would lie awake, staring into the darkness, trying to imagine it,
what it would be like, how I would handle the various situations that might
come up, how I would deal with the day-to-day business of daddying. I gamed
out scenarios and tried to figure out how to handle difficult situations.
In my mind, I was always kind and generous, compassionate and wise. My
fantasy child was innocent and joyous, full of love and wide-eyed wonder,
and grateful to be in my home. He was an invisible presence, living inside
my soul, defying reality to catch up. I wondered where he was now, and how
and when I would finally meet him -- and if the reality of parenting would
be as wonderful as the dream.
-- But it was all fantasyland. The books were proof of that. These
children had histories, brutal, tragic, and heart-rending.
I wandered on to the next table. One of the social workers from the Los
Angeles County Department of Children's Services had a photo book with her.
I introduced myself, told her I'd been approved -- but not matched. Could I
look through the book? Yes, of course, she said. I turned the pages slowly,
studying the innocent faces, looking for one who could be my son. All the
pictures were of black children, and the county wasn't doing transracial
adoptions anymore. Too controversial. The black social workers had taken a
stand against it -- I could see their point -- but how many of these
children would not find homes now?
Tucked away like an afterthought on the very last page was a photo of
the only white child in the book. My glance slid across the picture quickly,
I was already starting to close the album -- and then as the impact of what
I'd seen hit me, I froze in mid-action, almost slamming the book flat again.
The boy was riding a bicycle on a sunny tree-lined sidewalk; he was
caught in the act of shouting or laughing at whoever was holding the camera.
His blond hair was wild in the wind of his passage, his eyes shone like
stars behind his glasses, his expression was raucous and exuberant.
I couldn't take my eyes off the picture. A cold wave of certainty came
rolling up my spine like a blast of fire and ice. It was a feeling of
recognition. This was him -- the child who'd taken up permanent residence in
my imagination! I could almost hear him yelling, "Hi, Daddy!"
"Tell me about this child," I said, a little too quickly. The social
worker was already looking at me oddly. I could understand it. My voice
sounded odd to me too. I tried to explain. "Tell me. Do you ever get people
looking at a picture and telling you that this is the one?"
"All the time," she replied. Her face softened into an understanding
smile.
His name was Dennis. He'd just turned eight. She'd just put his picture
in the book this morning. And yes, she'd have the boy's caseworker get in
touch with my caseworker. But ... she cautioned ... remember that there
might be other families interested too. And remember, the department matches
from the child's side.
I didn't hear any of that. I heard the words, but not the cautions.
I pushed hard and they set up a meeting to see if the match would work.
But they cautioned me ahead of time -- "this might not be the child you're
looking for. He's classified as `hard-to-place.' He's hyperactive and he's
been emotionally abused and he may have fetal alcohol effects and he's been
in eight foster homes, he's never had a family of his own...."
I didn't hear a word of it. I simply refused to listen. The boy in the
picture had grabbed my heart so completely that I'd suddenly expanded all my
definitions of what I was willing to accept.
I posted messages on CompuServe asking for information and advice on
adoption, on attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, on emotional abuse
recovery, on everything I could think of -- what were this child's chances
of becoming an independent adult? I called the Adoption Warm Line and was
referred to parents who'd been through it. I hit the bookstores and the
libraries. I called my cousin, the doctor, and he faxed me twenty pages of
reports. And I came into the meeting so well-papered and full of theories
and good intentions that I must have looked the perfect jerk.
And now ... it was over.
I leaned my head against the passenger side window of my sister's car
and moaned. "Dammit. I'm so tired of being pregnant. Thirteen months is long
enough for any man! I've got the baby blues so bad, I can't even go to the
supermarket anymore. I find myself watching other people with their children
and the tears start welling up in my eyes. I keep thinking `Where's mine?"'
My sister understood. She had four children of her own, none of whom
had ended up in jail; so she had to have done something right. "Listen to
me, David. Maybe this little boy isn't right for you -- "
"Of course he's right for me. He's a Martian."
She ignored the interruption. "And if he isn't right, there'll be
another child who is. I promise you. And you said it yourself that you
didn't know if you could handle all the problems he'd be bringing with him."
"I know -- it's just that. . .I feel like -- I don't know what I feel
like. This is worse than anything I've ever been through. All this wanting
and not having. Sometimes I'm afraid it's not going to happen at all."
Alice pulled the car over to the curb and turned off the engine. "Okay,
it's my turn," she said. "Stop beating yourself up. You are the smartest one
in the whole family -- but sometimes you can be awfully stupid. You are
going to be a terrific father to some very lucky little boy. Your caseworker
knows that. All of those social workers in that meeting saw your commitment
and dedication. All that research you did -- when you asked about the Apgar
numbers and the Conners scale, when you handed them that report on
hyperactivity, which even they didn't know about -- you impressed them."
I shook my head. "Research is easy. You post a note on CompuServe, wait
two days, and then download your e-mail."
"It's not the research," Alice said. "It's the fact that you did it.
That demonstrates your willingness to find out what the child needs so you
can provide it."
"I wish I could believe you," I said.
She looked deeply at me. "What's the matter?"
"What if I'm really not good enough?" I said. "That's what I'm worried
about -- I can't shake that feeling."
"Oh, that -- " she said, lightly. "That's normal. That's the proof that
you're going to do okay. It's only those parents who don't worry who need
to."
"Oh," I said. And then we both started laughing.
She hugged me then. "You'll do fine. Now let's go home and call Mom
before she busts a kidney from the suspense."
Two centuries later, although the calendar insisted otherwise, Ms.
Bright called me. "We've made a decision. If you're still interested in
Dennis, we'd like to arrange a meeting -- " I don't remember a lot of what
she said after that; most of it was details about how we would proceed; but
I remember what she said at the end. "I want to tell you the two things that
helped us make the decision. First, all that research you did shows that
you're committed to Dennis's needs. That's very important in any adoption,
but especially in this one. The other thing was what you said at the end of
the meeting -- about understanding his need to be a Martian. We were really
touched by your empathy for his situation. We think that's a quality that
Dennis is going to need very much in any family he's placed in. That's why
we decided to try you first."
I thanked her profusely; at least, I think I did; I was suddenly having
trouble seeing. and the box of tissues had gone empty.
I met Dennis three days later, at the Johnson Group Home in Culver
City. He was one of six children living-at the facility; four boys, two
girls. Because the caseworkers didn't want him to know that he was being
auditioned, I would be introduced as a friend of the group home parents.
The child who came home from school was a sullen little zombie, going
through the motions of life. He walked in the door, walked past me with no
sign of recognition, and headed straight to his room. I said, "Hi." He
grunted something that could have been "H'lo" and kept on going. For a
moment, I felt somehow cheated. I recognized him, why hadn't he recognized
me? And then I had to remind myself with a grin that I was the grownup, not
him. But, after a bit, he came out from his retreat and asked me to play
electric hockey.
For the first few minutes, he was totally intent on the game. I didn't
exist to him. Then I remembered an exercise from one of my communications
courses -- about simply being with another person. I stopped trying so hard
to do it right, and instead just focused my attention on Dennis, letting it
be all right with me for him to be exactly the way he was.
And yet, I couldn't turn off the analytical part of my mind. After
reading all those reports, and hearing all the opinions of the caseworkers,
I couldn't help but watch for evidence. I couldn't see it. None of it. All I
could see was a child. And then that thing happened that always happens to
an adult who is willing to play with a child. I rediscovered my own
childhood again. I got involved in the game, and very shortly I was smiling
and laughing when he did, returning the same delight and approval at every
audacious play. And that's when it happened. He began to realize that there
was a real human being on the opposite side of the game board. Something
sparked. He started reacting to me instead of to the puck. I could feel the
sense of connection almost as a physical presence.
Then, abruptly, it was time for him to do his chores. We loaded up the
wagon with the cans from the recycling bin and walked them over to the
nearby park. We talked about stuff. He talked, I listened. Sometimes I asked
questions, sometimes he did. On the way back, he insisted that I pull the
wagon so he could ride in it. By now, he was glowing. He was the boy in the
photograph.
When we got back to the group home, however, the other children had
arrived home from school and were already playing together in the back yard.
As soon as he saw them, Dennis broke away from me and ran to the back of the
yard. He flung himself into the comer of a large old couch and curled up in
a ball. He was as apart from the other children -- indeed the whole world --
as it was possible to get.
What had suddenly triggered his unhappiness? Was it the thought that
now that there were other children to play with, I would reject him? Did he
have to reject me first? Or was there something else going on? From inside
the house, I watched him as he sat alone. He was a very unhappy little boy.
And he had stopped glowing. At that moment, I knew I couldn't leave him
here. Whatever other problems he might have, my commitment was bigger. Or so
I believed.
The group home parents invited me to stay to dinner with the children.
I hadn't planned on it, but all the children insisted that I stay, so I did,
specifically making a point of sitting next to Dennis. He didn't talk at
all, he was subdued, as if he was afraid of losing something that he wanted
very much -- or maybe that was only my perception. He ate quietly and
timidly. But then Tony, one of the more excitable children, suddenly piped
up, "Do you know what Dennis said?"
Tony was sitting directly across from me. He had that look of malicious
mischief common to children who are about to betray a confidence. "What?" I
asked, with a queasy foreboding.
"Dennis said he wishes you were his dad." Even without looking, I could
see that beside me, Dennis was cringing, readying himself for the inevitable
politely worded rejection.
Instead, I turned to Dennis, focusing all my attention on him, and
said, "Wow, what a great wish. Thank you!" There was more I wanted to add,
but I couldn't. Not yet. The "game plan" required me to be Dennis's "special
friend" for at least six weeks before I made any kind of commitment to him.
He couldn't know that I had the same wish he did. I felt cheated at not
being able to add, "So do I." But I understood the rationale, and I would
follow it.
"Better watch out," Tony said. "He might make it a Martian wish, and
then you'll have to."
At the time, I didn't understand what Tony had meant. So I forgot about
it.
The next time I heard about Martians happened thirteen months later.
I was in Arizona, at a party at Jeff Duntemann's sprawling house. Jeff
is a two-time Hugo nominee who gave up science fiction to write books about
computer programming. Apparently, it was far more profitable than science
fiction; now he was publishing his own magazine, PC-Techniques. I write a
regular column for the magazine, an off-the-wall mix of code and mutated
zen. It was the standing joke that my contribution to the magazine was the
"Martian perspective."
I was sitting on the patio, watching Dennis splash enthusiastically
across the pool. He was doing cannonballs into the deep end. A year ago, I
couldn't pry him loose from the steps in the shallow end; he wouldn't even
let me teach him how to dog-paddle -- now he was an apprentice fish. He
spent more time swimming across the bottom of the water than the top.
A year ago, he'd been a waif -- capable of joy, the picture proved that
-- but more often sad, uncertain, alienated, and angry. A year ago, he'd
told his caseworker, "I don't think God listens to my prayers. I prayed for
a dad and nothing happened." On the day he moved in, I asked his caseworker
to remind him of that conversation and then tell him that sometimes it takes
God a little while to make a miracle happen.
A miracle -- according to my friend Randy MacNamara -- is something
that wouldn't have happened anyway. Now, after the fact, after the first
giddy days of panic and joy, after the days of bottomless fears, after the
tantrums and the testing, after a thousand and one peanut butter and
jellyfish sandwiches, I understood what he meant. And more. A miracle takes
real commitment. It never happens by accident. I'd had other miracles happen
in my life -- one which I'd written about, one which I may never write about
-- but this one was the best. I had the proof of it framed on my wall.
One afternoon I'd opened Dennis's lunch kit to see how much he'd eaten
and found the note I'd packed that morning. It said, "Please eat your whole
lunch today! I love you! Daddy." On the other side, written in a childish
scrawl was Dennis's reply: "I love you to. you are very specil to me. I
realy think your the best. I love you very much dady I never loved eneyone
more than you. I never new anyone nicer than you." At the bottom, he'd drawn
three hearts and put the word "dady" in the biggest of them.
So the miracle was complete. Dennis could form a deep attachment. And
he could express it. And all I had to do was sit and glow and realize that
despite all my doubts and all my mistakes, I was getting the important part
of the job done right. I had passed from wannabe to gonnabe to
finding-how-to-be to simply be-ing. I was glowing as brightly as the warm
Arizona evening. Pink clouds were striped across the darkening twilight sky.
I didn't know anyone else at the party besides Jeff and Carol -- and
the world-famous Mr. Byte who was in the kitchen begging scraps he wasn't
supposed to have. But that was all right. I was content just to sit and
watch my son enjoying himself. And then I heard the word "Martian" in back
of me, and without moving, my attention swiveled 180 degrees.
Four of the wives were sitting together -- it was that kind of party;
the programmers were talking code, the wives were talking children. I didn't
know enough about either subject, I still felt like a dabbler in both
fields, so I made the best kind of listener. One of the women was saying.
"No, it's true. Since she was old enough to talk she's insisted that she's a
Martian. Her mother has never been able to convince her otherwise. She asked
her, `How do you explain that I remember going to the hospital and giving
birth to you?' and she said, `I was implanted in your tummy.' She's twelve
now and she still believes it. She has a whole story, an explanation for
everything. She says UFOs are implanting Martian babies all the time."
The other women laughed gently. I found myself smiling to myself and
watching Dennis. Remembering for the first time in a long while what he'd
once told his caseworker -- that he was a Martian too. Interesting
coincidence.
Then, one of the others said, "We had a boy in my daughter's school who
wore a T-shirt to school almost every day that said, `I am a Martian.' He
took a lot of teasing about it. The principal tried to make him stop wearing
it, but he refused. All the kids thought he was crazy."
"That was probably the only way he could get the attention he needed."
"Well," said the fourth voice, "it's a common childhood fantasy -- that
the child is really a changeling or an orphan and that you're not her real
mother. Adding Mars to it is just a way to take advantage of the information
in the real world to make it more believable."
I didn't hear any more of that conversation; we were interrupted by
Carol announcing that dessert was served; but a seed of inquiry had been
planted. If nothing else, I thought it might make an interesting story. If
only I could figure out an ending for it. Let's see, a man adopts a little
boy and then discovers that the child is a Martian.
Hm. But what's the hook?
Horror story? Too easy. Too obvious -- the Martian children are going
to murder us in our beds. Besides, Richard Matheson could do it better, if
he hadn't already. John Wyndham already had. A hidden invasion ? The
Martians will take us over without our ever knowing? Fred Brown had beaten
me to it by four decades. His story had even ended up as an episode on
Hitchcock. Maybe something tender and gentle instead? Parenting a starlost
orphan? That would be the hardest to write -- and Zenna Henderson had
already written it several times over. Sturgeon was another one who could
handle that angle. I wished I could pick up the phone and call him. He would
have had the most interesting insight for the ending, but the connect
charges would have been horrendous. I could call Harlan, of course, but he'd
probably bitch at me for interrupting him during Jeopardy. Besides, I didn't
think he would take this question seriously. "Harlan, listen -- I think my
son's a Martian, and I'm trying to write it up as a story...." Yeah, right,
David. Have you had your medication checked recently?
I made a mental note to think about it later. Maybe my subconscious
would think about it during the drive home. Maybe I'd stumble across an
ending by accident. I really couldn't do anything at all without an ending
in mind. It's easy to start a story, but if you don't know the ending, you
don't know what you're writing toward and after a while the story goes
adrift, the energy fails, and you've got one more thing to be frustrated
about. I had a file cabinet full of unfinished stories to prove that this
was not the best way to generate pay copy.
The next day ... we were slicing across the desolate red desert,
seemingly suspended between the blazing sky and the shimmering road, not
talking about anything, just listening to a tape of Van Dyke Parks and
sipping sodas from the cooler. The tape came to an end and the white noise
of the wind rushed in to envelop us. Convertibles are fun, but they aren't
quiet.
Abruptly, I remembered last night's conversation.
"Hey," I asked. "Are you a Martian?"
"What?"
"Are you a Martian?" I repeated.
"Why do you ask that?"
"Ah, obviously you're a Jewish Martian. You answer a question with a
question."
"Who told you I was a Martian?"
"Kathy did. Before I met you, we had a meeting. She told me all about
you. She said that you told her you were a Martian. Do you remember telling
her that?"
"Yes."
"Are you still a Martian?"
"Yes," he said.
"Oh," I said. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"Okay," he said. "I was made on Mars. I was a tadpole. Then I was
brought to Earth in a UFO and implanted in my Mommy's tummy. She didn't
know. Then I was borned."
"Ahh," I said. "That's how I thought it happened. Is that all?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why did the Martians send you here?"
"So I could be a Earth-boy."
"Oh."
"Can we go to Round Table Pizza for dinner?" he asked, abruptly
changing the subject as if it was the most natural thing to do.
"Do Martians like pizza?"
"Yes!" he said excitedly. Then he pointed his fingers at me like a
funny kind of ray gun. Most children would have pointed the top two fingers
to make a pretend gun, but Dennis pointed his index and little fingers, his
thumb stood straight up for the trigger. "If you don't take me out for pizza
tonight, I'll have to disneygrade you."
"Ouch, that sounds painful. I definitely do not want to be
disneygraded. Then I'd have to stand in the dark and sing that awful song
forever while boatloads of Japanese tourists take pictures of me. But we're
not going tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if you have a good day at school."
"No, tonight! " He pointed his fingers menacingly -- both hands now --
and for a moment I wondered what would happen if he pressed his thumbs
forward. Would I be turned into a giant three-fingered mouse?
"If you disneygrade me," I said, "for sure you won't get any pizza."
"Okay," he said. Then he closed up both weapons, first one hand, then
the other. First the little finger of his left hand, then the index finger;
then the little finger of his right hand, then the index finger. Each time
he made a soft clicking sound with his mouth. Finally he folded his thumbs
down -- and abruptly he had hands again.
Later, I tried to do the same thing myself. A human can do it, but it's
like the Vulcan salute. It takes practice.
I have a pinched nerve in my back. If I do my twisting exercises a
couple of times a week, and if I take frequent breaks from the keyboard, and
if I remember to put myself into the spa every couple days and let the
bubbles boil up around me, then I can keep myself functioning pretty much
like a normal person. It's a fair trade. Usually I wait until after dinner
to sit in the spa. After the sun sets is a perfect time for a little
skinny-dipping.
Several days after the Phoenix trip, Dennis and I were alone in the
pool. The pool has a blue filter over the light, the spa has a red one; when
the bubbles are on, it looks a little like a hot lava bath. Sometimes we
talk about nothing important, sometimes we just sit silently letting the
bubbles massage our skins, sometimes we stare up into the sky and watch for
meteors; once we'd seen a bright red starpoint streak across the sky like a
bullet.
But tonight, as he splashed in the bubbles, I found myself studying the
way the light shaped his features. I'm not an expert on the development of
children's skulls, but abruptly I was struck by the odd proportions of his
forehead and eyes.
Before I'd adopted him, I'd been given copies of various doctor's
reports. One doctor, who was supposed to be looking for fetal alcohol
effects, had described the five-year-old Dennis as "an unusual-looking"
child. I couldn't see what he was talking about. To me, Dennis had always
been an unusually good-looking boy.
There are only two shapes of faces -- pie and horse. Dennis was a
pie-face, I'm a horse. In that, he was lucky because his smile was so wide
he needed a round face to hold it all. He was blessed with dark blond hair
which was growing steadily toward shoulder-length. His eyes were puppy-brown
and hidden behind lashes long enough to trouble the sleep of mascara
manufacturers. His complexion was as luminous and gold as an Arizona sunset.
His body was well-proportioned too; he had long legs and a swimmer's
torso. He was thin, but not skinny. He looked like a Disney child. I
expected him to be a heartbreaker when he grew up. The girls were going to
chase him with lassos. Already I wondered what kind of a teenager he would
become -- and if I would be able to handle it.
Now ... seeing him in the reflected red light of the spa -- is this the
same color light they have on Mars? -- he did look a little alien to me. His
forehead had a roundish bulge toward the crown. His cheekbones seemed
strangely angled. His eyes seemed narrow and reptilian. Probably it was the
effect of the light coming from underneath instead of above, combined with
the red filter, but it was momentarily unnerving. For a moment, I wondered
what kind of a thing I'd brought into my life.
"What?" he asked, staring back.
"Nothing," I said.
"You were looking at me."
"I was admiring you. You're a beautiful kid, do you know that? "
"Uh-huh." And suddenly he was Dennis again.
"How do you know that?"
"Everybody says so. They all like my eyelashes."
I laughed. Of course. Here was a child who'd learned to work the
system. He was a skilled manipulator. He'd learned real fast how to turn on
his special smile and get what he wanted out of people. Of course he knew
how much attention his eyelashes attracted.
But -- for a moment there, he hadn't been Dennis the little boy. He'd
been something else. Something cold and watchful. He'd noticed me studying
him. He'd sensed the suspicion. Or was it just the power of suggestion at
work? Most of the books on parenting advised not to feel guilty for
wondering if your child is going to suddenly catch a fly with his tongue.
It's a very common parental fear.
And then.. .whenever I had doubts about Dennis and my ability to keep
up with him, all I had to do was ask myself one simple question. How would I
feel if Kathy Bright said she had to remove him from my home? Ripped apart
was the simplest answer. The truth was, I didn't care if he was a Martian or
not, I was as bonded to him as he was to me.
But out of curiosity, and possibly just to reassure myself that I was
imagining things, I logged onto CompuServe. The ISSUES forum has a parenting
section. I left a message under the heading, "Is your child a Martian?"
My little boy says he's a Martian. I've heard of two other children who
claim to be Martians as well. Has anyone else heard of children who believe
that they're from Mars?
Over the course of the next few days -- before the message scrolled off
the board and into the bit-bucket -- I received thirty-three replies.
Several of the messages were thoughtful analyses of why a child might
say such a thing; it was pretty much what that mother in Phoenix had
surmised; it's common for children to fantasize that they have glamorous
origins. In the past, children might have believed they were secretly
princes and princesses and one day their real parents would arrive to take
them to their golden castles. But because that mythology has now been
superseded by starships and mutants, it's more appropriate for children to
fantasize about traveling away on the Millennium Falcon or the Enterprise.
But if a child was experienced enough to know that those stories were just
fiction, he would also know that Mars was a real planet; therefore ... Mars
gave credibility to the fantasy. Etcetera. Etcetera. Local mileage may vary,
but if the delusion persists, see a good therapist. It may be evidence of
some deeper problem. Etcetera some more.
I knew what Dennis's deeper problems were. He'd been bounced around the
foster care system for eight years before landing in my arms. He didn't know
where he came from or where he belonged.
Several of the replies I received were from other parents sharing
pieces of weirdness their own children had demonstrated. Interesting, but
not particularly useful to my inquiry.
But ... there were over a dozen private messages.
"My sister's little girl used to insist that she'd been brought to
Earth in a UFO and implanted in her mommy's tummy while her mommy was
asleep. She kept this up until she was about fourteen, then abruptly
stopped. After that, she wouldn't answer questions about it at all."
"My next door neighbors had a boy who said he wasn't from Earth. He
disappeared when he was twelve. Without a trace. The police assumed he was
kidnapped."
"My ex-wife was a child psychologist. She used to joke about her
Martian children. She said she could tell how crazy New York was by the
number of Martians she saw in any given year. At first she used to tell the
parents that same old same old about children needing to fantasize about a
glamorous background, but later on she began to wonder. The stories the kids
told were all very similar. They began life as Martian tadpoles brought to
Earth and implanted in the uteruses of Earth women. She always wanted to do
a study on Martian children, but she could never get a grant."
"I dated a girl once who said she was from Mars . She was very
insistent on it. When I tried to get serious with her, she turned me down
flat. She said she really liked me, but it wouldn't work out between us.
When I asked her why, she said it was because she was from Mars. That's all.
I guess Martians have a rule against marrying outside their species."
"I heard about a Martian when I was in high school. He killed himself.
I didn't know him. I only heard about it afterward."
"I thought I was from Mars once. I even had memories of being on Mars.
It had a pink sky. That's how I knew it was Mars. When the photos came in
from JPL showing that Mars really did have a pink sky, just like in my
memories, I thought that proved something. When I told my parents, they took
me to see a doctor. I was in therapy for a long time, but I'm fine now.
Maybe you should get your son into therapy
It was the last one that really got to me. I knew the person who sent
it meant to be reassuring, but instead, his message had the opposite effect.
Okay, maybe it's me. Maybe it's because I'm a writer. I read subtext
where none is intended. And maybe the cumulative effect of all these
messages, especially the wistful, almost plaintive tone of the last one left
me with a very uncomfortable feeling.
I replied to all of these messages.
I know this sounds silly, but please indulge me. What did your Martian
friend/relative look like? Did he/she have any special physical
characteristics or medical problems? What was his/her personality like? Do
you know what happened to him other? Does he/she still believe that he/she
is from Mars?
It took a week or two to compile the responses. Of the ten Martians
specifically mentioned, two had committed suicide. One was successful in
business. Three refused to talk about Mars. Two were "cured." The
whereabouts of the others were unknown. Three were missing. Two of the
missing had been repeated runaways during their teen years. I wondered where
they thought they were running to.
Of the ten Martians, six were known to have had golden-brown skin,
round faces, brown eyes and very long eyelashes. The hair color was
generally dark blond or brown. That was an interesting statistical anomaly.
Of the ten Martians, five were hyperactive, two were epileptic. The
other three weren't known.
I asked the fellow whose ex-wife had been a child psychologist if she'd
ever noticed any statistical patterns among her Martians. He said he didn't
know and he didn't even know her whereabouts anymore. She had disappeared
two years earlier.
I called my friend, Steve Barnes. He'd written one of the character
references I'd needed to adopt Dennis, and because of that I regarded him as
an unofficial godfather to the boy. We chatted about this and that and the
other thing for awhile. And then, finally, I said, "Steve -- do you know
about the Martian phenomenon?" He didn't. I told him about it. He asked me
if I was smoking dope again.
"I'm serious, Steve."
"So am I."
"I haven't touched that crap since I kicked out
she-who-must-not-be-named," I said it angrily.
"Just checking. You gotta admit that's a pretty bizarre story, though."
"I know that. That's why I'm telling you. You're one of the few people
I know who will actually consider it fairly. Geez -- why is it that science
fiction writers are the most skeptical animals of all?"
"Because we get to deal with more crazies than anyone else," Steve
replied without missing a beat.
"I don't know what to do with this," I said, admitting my frustration.
"I know it sounds like one more crazy UFO mystery. Only this one is
something that can actually be validated. This is the kind of statistical
anomaly that can't be explained away by coincidence. And I bet there's a lot
more to it too. Like, what was the blood type of all those children? What
was the position of the Earth and Mars when they were conceived? What was
the phase of the moon? What are their favorite foods? How well did they do
in school? What if there's something really going on here? -- maybe not
Martians, maybe some kind of social phenomenon or syndrome -- I don't know
what it is, I don't know what else to ask, and I don't know who to tell.
Most of all, I don't want to end up on the front page of the Inquirer. Can't
you just see it? `SCI-FI WRITER HAS MARTIAN CHILD!'"
"It might be good for your career," Steve said thoughtfully. "I wonder
how many new readers you could pick up."
"Oh, yeah, sure. And I wonder how many old readers I'll lose. I'd like
to be taken seriously in my old age, Steve. Remember what happened to
what's-his-name."
"I'll never forget old what's-his-name," Steve said. "Yeah, that was a
real sad story."
"Anyway ... " I said. "You see my point? Where do I go from here?"
"You want my real advice?" Steve asked. He didn't wait for my reply.
THE MARTIAN CHILD
David Gerrold, CIS: 70307,544
OCR by Quentin J. Tarantino 2005
THE MARTIAN CHILD
by David Gerrold
Toward the end of the meeting, the caseworker remarked, "Oh -- and one
more thing. Dennis thinks he's a Martian."
"I beg your pardon?" I wasn't certain I had heard her correctly. I had
papers scattered all over the meeting room table -- thick piles of stapled
incident reports, manila-foldered psychiatric evaluations, Xeroxed clinical
diagnoses, scribbled caseworker histories, typed abuse reports, bound trial
transcripts, and my own crabbed notes as well: Hyperactivity. Fetal Alcohol
Syndrome. Emotional Abuse. Physical Abuse. Conners Rating Scale. Apgars. I
had no idea there was so much to know about children. For a moment, I was
actually looking for the folder labeled Martian.
"He thinks he's a Martian," Ms. Bright repeated. She was a small woman,
very proper and polite. "He told his group home parents that he's not like
the other children -- he's from Mars -- so he shouldn't be expected to act
like an Earthling all the time."
"Well, that's okay," I said, a little too quickly. "Some of my best
friends are Martians. He'll fit right in. As long as he doesn't eat the
tribbles or tease the feral Chtorran."
By the narrow expressions on their faces, I could tell that the
caseworkers weren't amused. For a moment, my heart sank. Maybe I'd said the
wrong thing. Maybe I was being too facile with my answers.
-- The hardest thing about adoption is that you have to ask someone to
trust you with a child.
That means that you have to be willing to let them scrutinize your
entire life, everything: your financial standing, your medical history, your
home and belongings, your upbringing, your personality, your motivations,
your arrest record, your IQ, and even your sex life. It means that every
self-esteem issue you have ever had will come bubbling right to the surface
like last night's beans in this morning's bath tub.
Whatever you're most insecure about, that's what the whole adoption
process will feel like it's focused on. For me, it was that terrible
familiar feeling of being second best -- of not being good enough to play
with the big kids, or get the job, or win the award, or whatever was at
stake. Even though the point of this interview was simply to see if Dennis
and I would be a good match, I felt as if I was being judged again. What if
I wasn't good enough this time?
I tried again. I began slowly. "Y'know, you all keep telling me all the
bad news -- you don't even know if this kid is capable of forming a deep
attachment -- it feels as if you're trying to talk me out of this match." I
stopped myself before I said too much. I was suddenly angry and I didn't
know why. These people were only doing their job.
And then it hit me. That was it -- these people were only doing their
job.
At that moment, I realized that there wasn't anyone in the room who had
the kind of commitment to Dennis that I did, and I hadn't even met him yet.
To them, he was only another case to handle. To me, he was ... the
possibility of a family. It wasn't fair to unload my frustration on these
tired, overworked, underpaid women. They cared. It just wasn't the same kind
of caring. I swallowed my anger.
"Listen," I said, sitting forward, placing my hands calmly and
deliberately on the table. "After everything this poor little guy has been
through, if he wants to think he's a Martian -- I'm not going to argue with
him. Actually, I think it's charming. It's evidence of his resilience. It's
probably the most rational explanation he can come up with for his
irrational situation. He probably feels alienated, abandoned, different,
alone. At least, this gives him a reason for it. It lets him put a story
around his situation so he can cope with it. Maybe it's the wrong
explanation, but it's the only one he's got. We'd be stupid to try to take
it away from him."
And after I'd said that, I couldn't help but add another thought as
well. "I know a lot of people who hide out in fantasy because reality is too
hard to cope with. Fantasy is my business. The only different is that I
write it down and make the rest of the world pay for the privilege of
sharing the delusion. Fantasy isn't about escape; it's a survival mechanism.
It's a way to deal with things that are so much bigger than you are. So I
think fantasy is special, something to be cherished and protected because
it's a very fragile thing and without it, we're so defenseless, we're
paralyzed.
"I know what this boy is feeling because I've been there. Not the same
circumstances, thank God -- but I know this much, if he's surrounded by
adults who can't understand what he really needs, he'll never have that
chance to connect that everyone keeps talking about." For the first time I
looked directly into their eyes as if they had to live up to my standards.
"Excuse me for being presumptuous -- but he's got to he with someone who'll
tell him that it's all right for him to be a Martian. Let him be a Martian
for as long as he needs."
"Yes. Thank you," the supervisor said abruptly. "I think that's
everything we need to cover. We'll be getting back to you shortly."
My heart sank at her words. She hadn't acknowledged a word of what I'd
said. I was certain she'd dismissed it totally. I gathered up all my papers.
We exchanged pleasantries and handshakes, and I wore my company smile all
the way to the elevator. I didn't say a word, neither did my sister. We both
waited until we were in the car and headed back toward the Hollywood
Freeway. She drove, guiding the big car through traffic as effortlessly as
only a Los Angeles real estate agent can manage.
"I blew it," I said. "Didn't I? I got too ... full of myself again."
"Honey, I think you were fine." She patted my hand.
"They're not going to make the match," I said. "It would be a single
parent adoption. They're not going to do it. First they choose married
couples, Ward and June. Then they choose single women, Murphy Brown. Then,
only if there's no one else who'll take the kid, will they consider a single
man. I'm at the bottom of the list. I'll never get this kid. I'll never get
any kid. My own caseworker told me not to get my hopes up. There are two
other families interested. This was just a formality, this interview. I know
it. Just so they could prove they'd considered more than one match." I felt
the frustration building up inside my chest like a balloon full of hurt.
"But this is the kid for me, Alice, I know it. I don't know how I know it,
but I do."
I'd first seen Dennis's picture three weeks earlier; a little square of
colors that suggested a smile in flight.
I'd gone to the National Conference of the Adoptive Families of America
at the Los Angeles Airport Hilton. There were six panels per hour, six hours
a day, two days, Saturday and Sunday. I picked the panels that I thought
would be most useful to me in finding and raising a child and ordered tapes
-- over two dozen -- of the sessions I couldn't attend in person. I'd had no
idea there were so many different issues to be dealt with in adoptions. I
soaked it up like a sponge, listening eagerly to the advice of adoptive
parents, their grown children, clinical psychologists, advocates, social
workers, and adoption resource professionals.
But my real reason for attending was to find the child.
I'd already been approved. I'd spent more than a year filling out forms
and submitting to interviews. But approval doesn't mean you get a child. It
only means that your name is in the hat. Matching is done to meet the
child's needs first. Fair enough -- but terribly frustrating.
Eventually, I ended up in the conference's equivalent of a dealer's
room. Rows of tables and heart-tugging displays. Books of all kinds for
sale. Organizations. Agencies. Children in Eastern Europe. Children in Latin
America. Asian children. Children with special needs. Photo-listings, like
real-estate albums. Turn the pages, look at the eyes, the smiles, the needs.
"Johnny was abandoned by his mother at age three. He is hyperactive, starts
fires, and has been cruel to small animals. He will need extensive
therapy...." "Janie, age 9, is severely retarded. She was sexually abused by
her stepfather, she will need round-the-clock care...." "Michael suffers
from severe epilepsy...." "Linda needs..." "Danny needs..." "Michael
needs..." So many needs. So much hurt. It was overwhelming.
Why were so many of the children in the books "special needs" children?
Retarded. Hyperactive. Abused. Had they been abandoned because they weren't
perfect. or were these the leftovers after all the good children were
selected? The part that disturbed me the most was that I could understand
the emotions involved. I wanted a child, not a case. And some of the
descriptions in the book did seem pretty intimidating. Were these the only
kind of children available?
Maybe it was selfish, but I found myself turning the pages looking for
a child who represented an easy answer. Did I really want another set of
needs in my life -- a single man who's old enough to be considered
middle-aged and ought to be thinking seriously about retirement plans?
This was the most important question of all. "Why do you want to adopt
a child?" And it was a question I couldn't answer. I couldn't find the
words. It seemed that there was something I couldn't write down.
The motivational questionnaire had been a brick wall that sat on my
desk for a week. It took me thirty pages of single-spaced printout just to
get my thoughts organized. I could tell great stories about what I thought a
family should be, but I couldn't really answer the question why I wanted a
son. Not right away.
The three o'clock in the morning truth of it was a very nasty and
selfish piece of business.
I didn't want to die alone. I didn't want to be left unremembered.
All those books and TV scripts ... they were nothing. They used up
trees. They were exercises in excess. They made other people rich. They were
useless to me. They filled up shelves. They impressed the impressionable.
But they didn't prove me a real person. They didn't validate my life as one
worth living. In fact, they were about as valuable as the vice-presidency of
the United States.
What I really wanted was to make a difference. I wanted someone to know
that there was a real person behind all those words. A dad.
I would lie awake, staring into the darkness, trying to imagine it,
what it would be like, how I would handle the various situations that might
come up, how I would deal with the day-to-day business of daddying. I gamed
out scenarios and tried to figure out how to handle difficult situations.
In my mind, I was always kind and generous, compassionate and wise. My
fantasy child was innocent and joyous, full of love and wide-eyed wonder,
and grateful to be in my home. He was an invisible presence, living inside
my soul, defying reality to catch up. I wondered where he was now, and how
and when I would finally meet him -- and if the reality of parenting would
be as wonderful as the dream.
-- But it was all fantasyland. The books were proof of that. These
children had histories, brutal, tragic, and heart-rending.
I wandered on to the next table. One of the social workers from the Los
Angeles County Department of Children's Services had a photo book with her.
I introduced myself, told her I'd been approved -- but not matched. Could I
look through the book? Yes, of course, she said. I turned the pages slowly,
studying the innocent faces, looking for one who could be my son. All the
pictures were of black children, and the county wasn't doing transracial
adoptions anymore. Too controversial. The black social workers had taken a
stand against it -- I could see their point -- but how many of these
children would not find homes now?
Tucked away like an afterthought on the very last page was a photo of
the only white child in the book. My glance slid across the picture quickly,
I was already starting to close the album -- and then as the impact of what
I'd seen hit me, I froze in mid-action, almost slamming the book flat again.
The boy was riding a bicycle on a sunny tree-lined sidewalk; he was
caught in the act of shouting or laughing at whoever was holding the camera.
His blond hair was wild in the wind of his passage, his eyes shone like
stars behind his glasses, his expression was raucous and exuberant.
I couldn't take my eyes off the picture. A cold wave of certainty came
rolling up my spine like a blast of fire and ice. It was a feeling of
recognition. This was him -- the child who'd taken up permanent residence in
my imagination! I could almost hear him yelling, "Hi, Daddy!"
"Tell me about this child," I said, a little too quickly. The social
worker was already looking at me oddly. I could understand it. My voice
sounded odd to me too. I tried to explain. "Tell me. Do you ever get people
looking at a picture and telling you that this is the one?"
"All the time," she replied. Her face softened into an understanding
smile.
His name was Dennis. He'd just turned eight. She'd just put his picture
in the book this morning. And yes, she'd have the boy's caseworker get in
touch with my caseworker. But ... she cautioned ... remember that there
might be other families interested too. And remember, the department matches
from the child's side.
I didn't hear any of that. I heard the words, but not the cautions.
I pushed hard and they set up a meeting to see if the match would work.
But they cautioned me ahead of time -- "this might not be the child you're
looking for. He's classified as `hard-to-place.' He's hyperactive and he's
been emotionally abused and he may have fetal alcohol effects and he's been
in eight foster homes, he's never had a family of his own...."
I didn't hear a word of it. I simply refused to listen. The boy in the
picture had grabbed my heart so completely that I'd suddenly expanded all my
definitions of what I was willing to accept.
I posted messages on CompuServe asking for information and advice on
adoption, on attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, on emotional abuse
recovery, on everything I could think of -- what were this child's chances
of becoming an independent adult? I called the Adoption Warm Line and was
referred to parents who'd been through it. I hit the bookstores and the
libraries. I called my cousin, the doctor, and he faxed me twenty pages of
reports. And I came into the meeting so well-papered and full of theories
and good intentions that I must have looked the perfect jerk.
And now ... it was over.
I leaned my head against the passenger side window of my sister's car
and moaned. "Dammit. I'm so tired of being pregnant. Thirteen months is long
enough for any man! I've got the baby blues so bad, I can't even go to the
supermarket anymore. I find myself watching other people with their children
and the tears start welling up in my eyes. I keep thinking `Where's mine?"'
My sister understood. She had four children of her own, none of whom
had ended up in jail; so she had to have done something right. "Listen to
me, David. Maybe this little boy isn't right for you -- "
"Of course he's right for me. He's a Martian."
She ignored the interruption. "And if he isn't right, there'll be
another child who is. I promise you. And you said it yourself that you
didn't know if you could handle all the problems he'd be bringing with him."
"I know -- it's just that. . .I feel like -- I don't know what I feel
like. This is worse than anything I've ever been through. All this wanting
and not having. Sometimes I'm afraid it's not going to happen at all."
Alice pulled the car over to the curb and turned off the engine. "Okay,
it's my turn," she said. "Stop beating yourself up. You are the smartest one
in the whole family -- but sometimes you can be awfully stupid. You are
going to be a terrific father to some very lucky little boy. Your caseworker
knows that. All of those social workers in that meeting saw your commitment
and dedication. All that research you did -- when you asked about the Apgar
numbers and the Conners scale, when you handed them that report on
hyperactivity, which even they didn't know about -- you impressed them."
I shook my head. "Research is easy. You post a note on CompuServe, wait
two days, and then download your e-mail."
"It's not the research," Alice said. "It's the fact that you did it.
That demonstrates your willingness to find out what the child needs so you
can provide it."
"I wish I could believe you," I said.
She looked deeply at me. "What's the matter?"
"What if I'm really not good enough?" I said. "That's what I'm worried
about -- I can't shake that feeling."
"Oh, that -- " she said, lightly. "That's normal. That's the proof that
you're going to do okay. It's only those parents who don't worry who need
to."
"Oh," I said. And then we both started laughing.
She hugged me then. "You'll do fine. Now let's go home and call Mom
before she busts a kidney from the suspense."
Two centuries later, although the calendar insisted otherwise, Ms.
Bright called me. "We've made a decision. If you're still interested in
Dennis, we'd like to arrange a meeting -- " I don't remember a lot of what
she said after that; most of it was details about how we would proceed; but
I remember what she said at the end. "I want to tell you the two things that
helped us make the decision. First, all that research you did shows that
you're committed to Dennis's needs. That's very important in any adoption,
but especially in this one. The other thing was what you said at the end of
the meeting -- about understanding his need to be a Martian. We were really
touched by your empathy for his situation. We think that's a quality that
Dennis is going to need very much in any family he's placed in. That's why
we decided to try you first."
I thanked her profusely; at least, I think I did; I was suddenly having
trouble seeing. and the box of tissues had gone empty.
I met Dennis three days later, at the Johnson Group Home in Culver
City. He was one of six children living-at the facility; four boys, two
girls. Because the caseworkers didn't want him to know that he was being
auditioned, I would be introduced as a friend of the group home parents.
The child who came home from school was a sullen little zombie, going
through the motions of life. He walked in the door, walked past me with no
sign of recognition, and headed straight to his room. I said, "Hi." He
grunted something that could have been "H'lo" and kept on going. For a
moment, I felt somehow cheated. I recognized him, why hadn't he recognized
me? And then I had to remind myself with a grin that I was the grownup, not
him. But, after a bit, he came out from his retreat and asked me to play
electric hockey.
For the first few minutes, he was totally intent on the game. I didn't
exist to him. Then I remembered an exercise from one of my communications
courses -- about simply being with another person. I stopped trying so hard
to do it right, and instead just focused my attention on Dennis, letting it
be all right with me for him to be exactly the way he was.
And yet, I couldn't turn off the analytical part of my mind. After
reading all those reports, and hearing all the opinions of the caseworkers,
I couldn't help but watch for evidence. I couldn't see it. None of it. All I
could see was a child. And then that thing happened that always happens to
an adult who is willing to play with a child. I rediscovered my own
childhood again. I got involved in the game, and very shortly I was smiling
and laughing when he did, returning the same delight and approval at every
audacious play. And that's when it happened. He began to realize that there
was a real human being on the opposite side of the game board. Something
sparked. He started reacting to me instead of to the puck. I could feel the
sense of connection almost as a physical presence.
Then, abruptly, it was time for him to do his chores. We loaded up the
wagon with the cans from the recycling bin and walked them over to the
nearby park. We talked about stuff. He talked, I listened. Sometimes I asked
questions, sometimes he did. On the way back, he insisted that I pull the
wagon so he could ride in it. By now, he was glowing. He was the boy in the
photograph.
When we got back to the group home, however, the other children had
arrived home from school and were already playing together in the back yard.
As soon as he saw them, Dennis broke away from me and ran to the back of the
yard. He flung himself into the comer of a large old couch and curled up in
a ball. He was as apart from the other children -- indeed the whole world --
as it was possible to get.
What had suddenly triggered his unhappiness? Was it the thought that
now that there were other children to play with, I would reject him? Did he
have to reject me first? Or was there something else going on? From inside
the house, I watched him as he sat alone. He was a very unhappy little boy.
And he had stopped glowing. At that moment, I knew I couldn't leave him
here. Whatever other problems he might have, my commitment was bigger. Or so
I believed.
The group home parents invited me to stay to dinner with the children.
I hadn't planned on it, but all the children insisted that I stay, so I did,
specifically making a point of sitting next to Dennis. He didn't talk at
all, he was subdued, as if he was afraid of losing something that he wanted
very much -- or maybe that was only my perception. He ate quietly and
timidly. But then Tony, one of the more excitable children, suddenly piped
up, "Do you know what Dennis said?"
Tony was sitting directly across from me. He had that look of malicious
mischief common to children who are about to betray a confidence. "What?" I
asked, with a queasy foreboding.
"Dennis said he wishes you were his dad." Even without looking, I could
see that beside me, Dennis was cringing, readying himself for the inevitable
politely worded rejection.
Instead, I turned to Dennis, focusing all my attention on him, and
said, "Wow, what a great wish. Thank you!" There was more I wanted to add,
but I couldn't. Not yet. The "game plan" required me to be Dennis's "special
friend" for at least six weeks before I made any kind of commitment to him.
He couldn't know that I had the same wish he did. I felt cheated at not
being able to add, "So do I." But I understood the rationale, and I would
follow it.
"Better watch out," Tony said. "He might make it a Martian wish, and
then you'll have to."
At the time, I didn't understand what Tony had meant. So I forgot about
it.
The next time I heard about Martians happened thirteen months later.
I was in Arizona, at a party at Jeff Duntemann's sprawling house. Jeff
is a two-time Hugo nominee who gave up science fiction to write books about
computer programming. Apparently, it was far more profitable than science
fiction; now he was publishing his own magazine, PC-Techniques. I write a
regular column for the magazine, an off-the-wall mix of code and mutated
zen. It was the standing joke that my contribution to the magazine was the
"Martian perspective."
I was sitting on the patio, watching Dennis splash enthusiastically
across the pool. He was doing cannonballs into the deep end. A year ago, I
couldn't pry him loose from the steps in the shallow end; he wouldn't even
let me teach him how to dog-paddle -- now he was an apprentice fish. He
spent more time swimming across the bottom of the water than the top.
A year ago, he'd been a waif -- capable of joy, the picture proved that
-- but more often sad, uncertain, alienated, and angry. A year ago, he'd
told his caseworker, "I don't think God listens to my prayers. I prayed for
a dad and nothing happened." On the day he moved in, I asked his caseworker
to remind him of that conversation and then tell him that sometimes it takes
God a little while to make a miracle happen.
A miracle -- according to my friend Randy MacNamara -- is something
that wouldn't have happened anyway. Now, after the fact, after the first
giddy days of panic and joy, after the days of bottomless fears, after the
tantrums and the testing, after a thousand and one peanut butter and
jellyfish sandwiches, I understood what he meant. And more. A miracle takes
real commitment. It never happens by accident. I'd had other miracles happen
in my life -- one which I'd written about, one which I may never write about
-- but this one was the best. I had the proof of it framed on my wall.
One afternoon I'd opened Dennis's lunch kit to see how much he'd eaten
and found the note I'd packed that morning. It said, "Please eat your whole
lunch today! I love you! Daddy." On the other side, written in a childish
scrawl was Dennis's reply: "I love you to. you are very specil to me. I
realy think your the best. I love you very much dady I never loved eneyone
more than you. I never new anyone nicer than you." At the bottom, he'd drawn
three hearts and put the word "dady" in the biggest of them.
So the miracle was complete. Dennis could form a deep attachment. And
he could express it. And all I had to do was sit and glow and realize that
despite all my doubts and all my mistakes, I was getting the important part
of the job done right. I had passed from wannabe to gonnabe to
finding-how-to-be to simply be-ing. I was glowing as brightly as the warm
Arizona evening. Pink clouds were striped across the darkening twilight sky.
I didn't know anyone else at the party besides Jeff and Carol -- and
the world-famous Mr. Byte who was in the kitchen begging scraps he wasn't
supposed to have. But that was all right. I was content just to sit and
watch my son enjoying himself. And then I heard the word "Martian" in back
of me, and without moving, my attention swiveled 180 degrees.
Four of the wives were sitting together -- it was that kind of party;
the programmers were talking code, the wives were talking children. I didn't
know enough about either subject, I still felt like a dabbler in both
fields, so I made the best kind of listener. One of the women was saying.
"No, it's true. Since she was old enough to talk she's insisted that she's a
Martian. Her mother has never been able to convince her otherwise. She asked
her, `How do you explain that I remember going to the hospital and giving
birth to you?' and she said, `I was implanted in your tummy.' She's twelve
now and she still believes it. She has a whole story, an explanation for
everything. She says UFOs are implanting Martian babies all the time."
The other women laughed gently. I found myself smiling to myself and
watching Dennis. Remembering for the first time in a long while what he'd
once told his caseworker -- that he was a Martian too. Interesting
coincidence.
Then, one of the others said, "We had a boy in my daughter's school who
wore a T-shirt to school almost every day that said, `I am a Martian.' He
took a lot of teasing about it. The principal tried to make him stop wearing
it, but he refused. All the kids thought he was crazy."
"That was probably the only way he could get the attention he needed."
"Well," said the fourth voice, "it's a common childhood fantasy -- that
the child is really a changeling or an orphan and that you're not her real
mother. Adding Mars to it is just a way to take advantage of the information
in the real world to make it more believable."
I didn't hear any more of that conversation; we were interrupted by
Carol announcing that dessert was served; but a seed of inquiry had been
planted. If nothing else, I thought it might make an interesting story. If
only I could figure out an ending for it. Let's see, a man adopts a little
boy and then discovers that the child is a Martian.
Hm. But what's the hook?
Horror story? Too easy. Too obvious -- the Martian children are going
to murder us in our beds. Besides, Richard Matheson could do it better, if
he hadn't already. John Wyndham already had. A hidden invasion ? The
Martians will take us over without our ever knowing? Fred Brown had beaten
me to it by four decades. His story had even ended up as an episode on
Hitchcock. Maybe something tender and gentle instead? Parenting a starlost
orphan? That would be the hardest to write -- and Zenna Henderson had
already written it several times over. Sturgeon was another one who could
handle that angle. I wished I could pick up the phone and call him. He would
have had the most interesting insight for the ending, but the connect
charges would have been horrendous. I could call Harlan, of course, but he'd
probably bitch at me for interrupting him during Jeopardy. Besides, I didn't
think he would take this question seriously. "Harlan, listen -- I think my
son's a Martian, and I'm trying to write it up as a story...." Yeah, right,
David. Have you had your medication checked recently?
I made a mental note to think about it later. Maybe my subconscious
would think about it during the drive home. Maybe I'd stumble across an
ending by accident. I really couldn't do anything at all without an ending
in mind. It's easy to start a story, but if you don't know the ending, you
don't know what you're writing toward and after a while the story goes
adrift, the energy fails, and you've got one more thing to be frustrated
about. I had a file cabinet full of unfinished stories to prove that this
was not the best way to generate pay copy.
The next day ... we were slicing across the desolate red desert,
seemingly suspended between the blazing sky and the shimmering road, not
talking about anything, just listening to a tape of Van Dyke Parks and
sipping sodas from the cooler. The tape came to an end and the white noise
of the wind rushed in to envelop us. Convertibles are fun, but they aren't
quiet.
Abruptly, I remembered last night's conversation.
"Hey," I asked. "Are you a Martian?"
"What?"
"Are you a Martian?" I repeated.
"Why do you ask that?"
"Ah, obviously you're a Jewish Martian. You answer a question with a
question."
"Who told you I was a Martian?"
"Kathy did. Before I met you, we had a meeting. She told me all about
you. She said that you told her you were a Martian. Do you remember telling
her that?"
"Yes."
"Are you still a Martian?"
"Yes," he said.
"Oh," I said. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"Okay," he said. "I was made on Mars. I was a tadpole. Then I was
brought to Earth in a UFO and implanted in my Mommy's tummy. She didn't
know. Then I was borned."
"Ahh," I said. "That's how I thought it happened. Is that all?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why did the Martians send you here?"
"So I could be a Earth-boy."
"Oh."
"Can we go to Round Table Pizza for dinner?" he asked, abruptly
changing the subject as if it was the most natural thing to do.
"Do Martians like pizza?"
"Yes!" he said excitedly. Then he pointed his fingers at me like a
funny kind of ray gun. Most children would have pointed the top two fingers
to make a pretend gun, but Dennis pointed his index and little fingers, his
thumb stood straight up for the trigger. "If you don't take me out for pizza
tonight, I'll have to disneygrade you."
"Ouch, that sounds painful. I definitely do not want to be
disneygraded. Then I'd have to stand in the dark and sing that awful song
forever while boatloads of Japanese tourists take pictures of me. But we're
not going tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if you have a good day at school."
"No, tonight! " He pointed his fingers menacingly -- both hands now --
and for a moment I wondered what would happen if he pressed his thumbs
forward. Would I be turned into a giant three-fingered mouse?
"If you disneygrade me," I said, "for sure you won't get any pizza."
"Okay," he said. Then he closed up both weapons, first one hand, then
the other. First the little finger of his left hand, then the index finger;
then the little finger of his right hand, then the index finger. Each time
he made a soft clicking sound with his mouth. Finally he folded his thumbs
down -- and abruptly he had hands again.
Later, I tried to do the same thing myself. A human can do it, but it's
like the Vulcan salute. It takes practice.
I have a pinched nerve in my back. If I do my twisting exercises a
couple of times a week, and if I take frequent breaks from the keyboard, and
if I remember to put myself into the spa every couple days and let the
bubbles boil up around me, then I can keep myself functioning pretty much
like a normal person. It's a fair trade. Usually I wait until after dinner
to sit in the spa. After the sun sets is a perfect time for a little
skinny-dipping.
Several days after the Phoenix trip, Dennis and I were alone in the
pool. The pool has a blue filter over the light, the spa has a red one; when
the bubbles are on, it looks a little like a hot lava bath. Sometimes we
talk about nothing important, sometimes we just sit silently letting the
bubbles massage our skins, sometimes we stare up into the sky and watch for
meteors; once we'd seen a bright red starpoint streak across the sky like a
bullet.
But tonight, as he splashed in the bubbles, I found myself studying the
way the light shaped his features. I'm not an expert on the development of
children's skulls, but abruptly I was struck by the odd proportions of his
forehead and eyes.
Before I'd adopted him, I'd been given copies of various doctor's
reports. One doctor, who was supposed to be looking for fetal alcohol
effects, had described the five-year-old Dennis as "an unusual-looking"
child. I couldn't see what he was talking about. To me, Dennis had always
been an unusually good-looking boy.
There are only two shapes of faces -- pie and horse. Dennis was a
pie-face, I'm a horse. In that, he was lucky because his smile was so wide
he needed a round face to hold it all. He was blessed with dark blond hair
which was growing steadily toward shoulder-length. His eyes were puppy-brown
and hidden behind lashes long enough to trouble the sleep of mascara
manufacturers. His complexion was as luminous and gold as an Arizona sunset.
His body was well-proportioned too; he had long legs and a swimmer's
torso. He was thin, but not skinny. He looked like a Disney child. I
expected him to be a heartbreaker when he grew up. The girls were going to
chase him with lassos. Already I wondered what kind of a teenager he would
become -- and if I would be able to handle it.
Now ... seeing him in the reflected red light of the spa -- is this the
same color light they have on Mars? -- he did look a little alien to me. His
forehead had a roundish bulge toward the crown. His cheekbones seemed
strangely angled. His eyes seemed narrow and reptilian. Probably it was the
effect of the light coming from underneath instead of above, combined with
the red filter, but it was momentarily unnerving. For a moment, I wondered
what kind of a thing I'd brought into my life.
"What?" he asked, staring back.
"Nothing," I said.
"You were looking at me."
"I was admiring you. You're a beautiful kid, do you know that? "
"Uh-huh." And suddenly he was Dennis again.
"How do you know that?"
"Everybody says so. They all like my eyelashes."
I laughed. Of course. Here was a child who'd learned to work the
system. He was a skilled manipulator. He'd learned real fast how to turn on
his special smile and get what he wanted out of people. Of course he knew
how much attention his eyelashes attracted.
But -- for a moment there, he hadn't been Dennis the little boy. He'd
been something else. Something cold and watchful. He'd noticed me studying
him. He'd sensed the suspicion. Or was it just the power of suggestion at
work? Most of the books on parenting advised not to feel guilty for
wondering if your child is going to suddenly catch a fly with his tongue.
It's a very common parental fear.
And then.. .whenever I had doubts about Dennis and my ability to keep
up with him, all I had to do was ask myself one simple question. How would I
feel if Kathy Bright said she had to remove him from my home? Ripped apart
was the simplest answer. The truth was, I didn't care if he was a Martian or
not, I was as bonded to him as he was to me.
But out of curiosity, and possibly just to reassure myself that I was
imagining things, I logged onto CompuServe. The ISSUES forum has a parenting
section. I left a message under the heading, "Is your child a Martian?"
My little boy says he's a Martian. I've heard of two other children who
claim to be Martians as well. Has anyone else heard of children who believe
that they're from Mars?
Over the course of the next few days -- before the message scrolled off
the board and into the bit-bucket -- I received thirty-three replies.
Several of the messages were thoughtful analyses of why a child might
say such a thing; it was pretty much what that mother in Phoenix had
surmised; it's common for children to fantasize that they have glamorous
origins. In the past, children might have believed they were secretly
princes and princesses and one day their real parents would arrive to take
them to their golden castles. But because that mythology has now been
superseded by starships and mutants, it's more appropriate for children to
fantasize about traveling away on the Millennium Falcon or the Enterprise.
But if a child was experienced enough to know that those stories were just
fiction, he would also know that Mars was a real planet; therefore ... Mars
gave credibility to the fantasy. Etcetera. Etcetera. Local mileage may vary,
but if the delusion persists, see a good therapist. It may be evidence of
some deeper problem. Etcetera some more.
I knew what Dennis's deeper problems were. He'd been bounced around the
foster care system for eight years before landing in my arms. He didn't know
where he came from or where he belonged.
Several of the replies I received were from other parents sharing
pieces of weirdness their own children had demonstrated. Interesting, but
not particularly useful to my inquiry.
But ... there were over a dozen private messages.
"My sister's little girl used to insist that she'd been brought to
Earth in a UFO and implanted in her mommy's tummy while her mommy was
asleep. She kept this up until she was about fourteen, then abruptly
stopped. After that, she wouldn't answer questions about it at all."
"My next door neighbors had a boy who said he wasn't from Earth. He
disappeared when he was twelve. Without a trace. The police assumed he was
kidnapped."
"My ex-wife was a child psychologist. She used to joke about her
Martian children. She said she could tell how crazy New York was by the
number of Martians she saw in any given year. At first she used to tell the
parents that same old same old about children needing to fantasize about a
glamorous background, but later on she began to wonder. The stories the kids
told were all very similar. They began life as Martian tadpoles brought to
Earth and implanted in the uteruses of Earth women. She always wanted to do
a study on Martian children, but she could never get a grant."
"I dated a girl once who said she was from Mars . She was very
insistent on it. When I tried to get serious with her, she turned me down
flat. She said she really liked me, but it wouldn't work out between us.
When I asked her why, she said it was because she was from Mars. That's all.
I guess Martians have a rule against marrying outside their species."
"I heard about a Martian when I was in high school. He killed himself.
I didn't know him. I only heard about it afterward."
"I thought I was from Mars once. I even had memories of being on Mars.
It had a pink sky. That's how I knew it was Mars. When the photos came in
from JPL showing that Mars really did have a pink sky, just like in my
memories, I thought that proved something. When I told my parents, they took
me to see a doctor. I was in therapy for a long time, but I'm fine now.
Maybe you should get your son into therapy
It was the last one that really got to me. I knew the person who sent
it meant to be reassuring, but instead, his message had the opposite effect.
Okay, maybe it's me. Maybe it's because I'm a writer. I read subtext
where none is intended. And maybe the cumulative effect of all these
messages, especially the wistful, almost plaintive tone of the last one left
me with a very uncomfortable feeling.
I replied to all of these messages.
I know this sounds silly, but please indulge me. What did your Martian
friend/relative look like? Did he/she have any special physical
characteristics or medical problems? What was his/her personality like? Do
you know what happened to him other? Does he/she still believe that he/she
is from Mars?
It took a week or two to compile the responses. Of the ten Martians
specifically mentioned, two had committed suicide. One was successful in
business. Three refused to talk about Mars. Two were "cured." The
whereabouts of the others were unknown. Three were missing. Two of the
missing had been repeated runaways during their teen years. I wondered where
they thought they were running to.
Of the ten Martians, six were known to have had golden-brown skin,
round faces, brown eyes and very long eyelashes. The hair color was
generally dark blond or brown. That was an interesting statistical anomaly.
Of the ten Martians, five were hyperactive, two were epileptic. The
other three weren't known.
I asked the fellow whose ex-wife had been a child psychologist if she'd
ever noticed any statistical patterns among her Martians. He said he didn't
know and he didn't even know her whereabouts anymore. She had disappeared
two years earlier.
I called my friend, Steve Barnes. He'd written one of the character
references I'd needed to adopt Dennis, and because of that I regarded him as
an unofficial godfather to the boy. We chatted about this and that and the
other thing for awhile. And then, finally, I said, "Steve -- do you know
about the Martian phenomenon?" He didn't. I told him about it. He asked me
if I was smoking dope again.
"I'm serious, Steve."
"So am I."
"I haven't touched that crap since I kicked out
she-who-must-not-be-named," I said it angrily.
"Just checking. You gotta admit that's a pretty bizarre story, though."
"I know that. That's why I'm telling you. You're one of the few people
I know who will actually consider it fairly. Geez -- why is it that science
fiction writers are the most skeptical animals of all?"
"Because we get to deal with more crazies than anyone else," Steve
replied without missing a beat.
"I don't know what to do with this," I said, admitting my frustration.
"I know it sounds like one more crazy UFO mystery. Only this one is
something that can actually be validated. This is the kind of statistical
anomaly that can't be explained away by coincidence. And I bet there's a lot
more to it too. Like, what was the blood type of all those children? What
was the position of the Earth and Mars when they were conceived? What was
the phase of the moon? What are their favorite foods? How well did they do
in school? What if there's something really going on here? -- maybe not
Martians, maybe some kind of social phenomenon or syndrome -- I don't know
what it is, I don't know what else to ask, and I don't know who to tell.
Most of all, I don't want to end up on the front page of the Inquirer. Can't
you just see it? `SCI-FI WRITER HAS MARTIAN CHILD!'"
"It might be good for your career," Steve said thoughtfully. "I wonder
how many new readers you could pick up."
"Oh, yeah, sure. And I wonder how many old readers I'll lose. I'd like
to be taken seriously in my old age, Steve. Remember what happened to
what's-his-name."
"I'll never forget old what's-his-name," Steve said. "Yeah, that was a
real sad story."
"Anyway ... " I said. "You see my point? Where do I go from here?"
"You want my real advice?" Steve asked. He didn't wait for my reply.