Page 118 of Cut Off
Final ruling. The judge reads it straight:
“I have reviewed the evidence, including the testimony of Ms. Lane and the minor child, Eli Anders. The court finds that Mr. Holt has provided a safe, stable, and loving environment, and that Eli has expressed a clear and sustained desire to reside with his father. Therefore, I am awarding permanent legal and physical custody of Eli Anders to Jonah Holt, effective immediately.”
Sound goes out of the world.
Gardner claps me on the arm—firm, congratulatory. Mom is crying so hard she fumbles her purse onto the floor. Dad just sits, dazed.
Across the aisle, Fitch is stone. Gwen—she’s not even looking at the bench. Her eyes lock on the tabletop, not moving, not breathing. Lifeless.
Whatever.
Because in the next instant, the bailiff calls “court is dismissed,” and Eli is up, out of his seat, sprinting down the aisle on nine-year-old legs, and he’s into my arms before I even have time to stand.
He hits me like a battering ram. Full tackle. His arms go around my neck; his face buries in my shirt. He’s shaking—tiny tremors, nothing dramatic—but I can feel them, every one. My gut’s shredded.
I put both arms around him and hold on—tight enough to bridge a decade of loss, if that’s what it takes.
“I knew you’d win. I knew it.”
I can’t answer. My throat is full. I just stand there, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other locked around his shoulders, and I let the world see it. Every second of fight, every minute of wanting—paid off.
Best fucking moment of my life.
33
Zoe Knows
ZOE
Dickens, Idaho, population eleven thousand, one hundred, twenty-two, smells like wet pine and somebody’s woodstove and—I’m almost certain—the lingering ghost of my mother’s banana bread, which she’s been baking since I crossed the city limits sign yesterday afternoon.
I’m back. Temporarily.
I’m sitting on the porch swing at my parents’ house in a hoodie that doesn’t belong to me, a cup of drip coffee in my hand that is, no offense to Seattle, ten times better than anything I have paid eight dollars for in the last six weeks, and I’m scrolling. The hearing was yesterday. I sat three rows back, in the very last seat on the aisle, and I cried so quietly I’m genuinely impressed with myself, and when the judge said the words full custody and permanent and Mr. Holt, I watched Jonah’s shoulders drop a full inch, like somebody had finally cut the wire he’d been hanging from.
I left before things could get complicated. I’m not proud.
My phone’s been doing a thing since seven a.m.
Jonah:
7:14: Thank you for testifying. You probably won this for us.
7:14: That means everything. Also I was surprised and happy to see you.
7:32: I’d love to talk to you.
8:01: I’d love to see you.
8:01: Or just talk. or whatever you can do.
8:47: Zoe.
8:47: Please.
I have read them twelve times, and I’ve not answered them. I’ve watched a hummingbird fight a bumblebee for a piece of fence and lost track of which one I was rooting for.
These texts are short, blunt, painfully sincere, and reading them is like eating Valentine’s candy hearts that taste like nothing and feel like everything.
