My Name Is River Blue Read online

  My Name Is

  River Blue

  Noah James Adams

  My Name Is River Blue

  Noah James Adams

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  Derek Chiodo, eCover Makers

  My Name Is River Blue. Copyright © 2013 Noah James Adams. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, and taping or by any information storage retrieval system without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  My Name Is River Blue is a work of fiction. All of the characters, events, organizations, and actions of same portrayed in the novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or to real incidents, events, and organizations is purely coincidental.

  For the real Papa

  PROLOGUE

  On the third Saturday in June of 2007, Howie Spearman visited me in the Bergeron County Jail where I awaited my trial on a charge of first-degree murder. During the three months since my arrest, Howie's routine had been to visit me every Wednesday afternoon, so he surprised me when he made the two-hour drive for the second time that week. At first, I thought his Saturday visit was just a convenient stop on his way to cover a sporting event in the upstate, but the sole purpose for his extra trip was to convince me to write this book with him.

  Officer Kirby Wallace led me by the arm to the crowded visitation room, which buzzed and droned with the hushed conversations of prisoners and their guests. Most of the visitors stopped talking and stared at me as Kirby and I worked our way to the far side of the room where Howie sat alone at a small table. Kirby turned his back to us, folded his arms, and stood guard. He never allowed anyone to get close to me.

  I laughed at the slim, forty-year old sports columnist who chewed his nails and fidgeted in his seat like an anxious little kid. Although he is twenty years older than I am, Howie has always lacked my expertise at presenting a cool exterior even when my stomach is threatening to hurl acid stew.

  When I settled into my seat across from him, Howie immediately asked that I reconsider his offer to help me write the story of my life. He reminded me of the promise I had made to him five years ago in my hospital room when I was a freshman in high school. I did say that he had dibs on helping me if I ever chose to write a book, but I had never taken his idea seriously.

  "Sorry, Howie. My personal life has been on display enough, and I know what you're thinking, but I don't give a damn about public opinion, or how liars and bigots define me."

  "I see. What do you plan to do with your time after the trial?"

  I sniggered. He was so diplomatic. "It's okay to talk about it. I'm a big boy now."

  Howie glanced upwards as if asking for divine help. His words were clipped, precise, and sharp with sarcasm. "Okay, River. How will you spend your time in prison?"

  "When I'm not working some crappy inmate job like cleaning floors or making mailboxes, I plan to read and sleep. Write letters. Stay celibate and alive. That sort of thing."

  Howie ignored my answer. "Why not make the time count? Have something positive to show for the experience."

  My mood sobered. I was only eleven years old when Gabby told me to make my time in Stockwell count for something. I am still thankful for the difference he made in my life. "Howie, I see what you're saying, but why write about things that I want to forget?"

  "If you put your honest words to paper, you'll be startled by the bare truth that stares back at you. You'll see who and what influenced your life and made you the River you are today, and you might just discover the course you want your life to take in the future."

  "You really think it's worth doing?"

  "Yeah, I really do."

  "I don't know, Howie. The only privacy I have left is what I keep in my head."

  "We can help disadvantaged kids with any profits. State kids like you were. Maybe create a college scholarship in Mr. Long's name. It would be a great way to honor him."

  "For Papa, I'll give it a try. I think he would like the scholarship idea."

  Howie smiled. He had played his ace and won.

  I met his smile and raised him a finger.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was three days old when my mother abandoned me on December 22, 1986, and I was almost fifteen years old when Nurse Marcia Medlock told me the story of the night she found me. I listened intently to every word she said, hoping that she could offer clues to help me find my parents.

  From Marcia's point of view, I wrote the following brief account of that night.

  ***

  Marcia's feet screamed. She shoved Christmas garland out of the way, and propped with both hands against the nurses' station counter. She first lifted her left foot and then her right foot, to relieve the pressure that had worsened by the hour since the end of her scheduled shift. Again, one of the young nurses had called in sick, and Marcia was the only one who would pull a double. Since she had no family, she had already agreed to work an extra shift on Christmas, but with two days to go, she wondered if she would have to work from a wheelchair.

  Every year, during Christmas week, a few young nurses found it too stressful to handle all their Christmas shopping, family obligations, and work. Naturally, they prioritized and faked illnesses to avoid working shifts that conflicted with their holiday plans. Marcia hated the girls' laziness, and she despised working a double that included third shift. She should have been soaking her feet and drinking cheap wine in the tiny one bedroom apartment she rented after she was forced to sell her house.

  More than anything else, she hated the fact that she needed the extra shift money to pay debts Robert created. She was forty-five years old and had been single for almost eight months, ever since her drunken husband drove home from his favorite country bar and lost control of his Mazda on Angels' Curve. It was the most dangerous section of Highway 8, a two-lane road that twisted and snaked across rural Bergeron County.

  Robert's car broke through the guardrail where the highway cut sharply around Henry's Hill, which overlooked the Thomas farm. His car violently tumbled more than 300 feet before coming to rest at the hill's rocky bottom where a cop straightened the car's license plate to help identify the vehicle and its owner. In the past thirty years, Robert was the twelfth driver who had apparently ignored the huge signs with flashing amber lights that warned drivers to reduce their speed to 25 MPH. Of all the drivers and their passengers who took the plunge off Angels' Curve, there were only two survivors, and Robert was not one of them.

  Marcia had planned to give her husband an ultimatum that very night about wasting their money on his excessive drinking and his addiction to sports gambling. She believed that he drank more than usual because he knew that he had to face his angry wife who would not be satisfied with another broken promise to attend meetings and work with his counselor.

  The night that the EMTs brought Robert to the hospital was the last night that Marcia worked in the emergency room, but her request to transfer to pediatrics was not due solely to the fact that her husband died in the ER. When the ambulance arrived with Robert, Marcia was part of a trauma team trying desperately to revive a twenty-year-old man, named Gabriel Flores, who was an accidental gunshot victim. As a former Harper Springs High football star, Gabe had been a popular athlete in Bergeron County, but Marcia knew him and his family on a more personal level.

  When Gabe was a little boy, he broke his arm, and his mother took him to the ER where Marcia was on duty that afternoon. Maria, Gabe's mother, was impressed with Marcia's care of her son, and the two women became friends who often visited each o
ther, shopped together, and shared cooking recipes.

  Marcia had always tried to keep some emotional distance from patients, but it was impossible the night that she accompanied the doctor to the waiting room to tell Maria, her husband, and her oldest son that their precious Gabe was gone. The tragedy ate at both women, and Maria avoided anything that reminded her of her son's death, including the hospital and Marcia. In less than a year, Maria and her husband moved to Mexico, and the two women didn't speak again until years later.

  Marcia suspected that most people wouldn't understand if she told them that Gabe's death affected her more than the passing of her own husband. The fact was that she had already grieved for Robert because the young man she married died years before his demons officially ended his misery on Angels' Curve. By contrast, Gabe was a fine young man living a good life, and he should have had many years to share it with all the people who loved him.

  After taking a thirty-day leave of absence, Marcia returned to work in her new job with the pediatrics department where she teamed with Doctor Rabin to handle the intake of children admitted during her shift. On slow nights, she assisted the other nurses with the care of their young patients on the ward. Although most of her work was routine, there was always plenty to do when caring for children. When she was in the midst of an additional shift, she took as many short breaks as she could without compromising the quality of patient care.

  From where Marcia leaned on the counter, she eyed the empty chair next to Linda, who was answering a phone call. She debated between checking on another patient and sitting down for a few minutes. She decided on the chair, but before she could move, Linda asked her to check the patient waiting room in case the call she had just received was legitimate.

  "What kind of call?" Marcia's tone warned that the call had better be important for her to limp around the corner to the waiting room.

  "It was a young woman using a pay phone. No name. She said that she left her three-day-old baby boy in the waiting room. He's in a carrier, and he's wrapped in a blue knit blanket with a nametag on it. She said that the boy is in perfect health, and she asked us to find a good home for him. I tried to find out more, but she disconnected."

  "You've got to be kidding me." Marcia groaned as Linda shook her head.

  "Will you look, Marcia?"

  "Sure, but the way my feet hurt, the kid may be grown by the time I get there."

  As soon as Marcia stepped around the corner, the waiting room opened up before her. She scanned the room and found a man and woman sitting together on the near side. On the far side, nearest the entrance, she saw the back of the baby carrier sitting sideways but securely on a chair. She walked across the room to see if there really was a baby in the carrier, and exactly as the caller described, she found a handsome, healthy-looking baby boy. He was wrapped in a beautiful, blue knit blanket that appeared to be hand-made. Her experience told her that she was not looking at the average abandoned baby left by an addict who chose her drug habit over motherhood. She suspected that the mother's decision had most likely been a painful one.

  Marcia believed that the boy and his mother had received good care during and after the pregnancy. He was probably, as the mother said, about three days old, but she guessed that he was born on the high end of normal height and weight. He was awake, but quiet, and seemed happily content to sit in the carrier until someone decided differently. On the blanket, there was an adhesive, paper nametag bordered in blue. His mother's handwriting, strong and feminine in blue ink, filled the white space designed for a name.

  Over the years, the hospital pediatrics ward had handled many abandoned babies who were left in various spots all over the county, but Marcia had never heard of one who came with a nametag as if the mother were introducing the baby to the rest of the world. Marcia decided that she would encourage future caregivers to save the nametag and blanket for him. If each person passed on the suggestion, the boy would have a bridge connecting him to his mother and keepsakes that might be of sentimental value to him when he was older.

  Marcia wished that she could have had a child of her own, but shortly after she married, she discovered that she would never be able to conceive a child. By the time she considered adoption, she had determined that Robert would never be a responsible father, and she didn't desire to be a working mother with no support from her husband. The good thing about her job was that, in her own way, she could mother children every day.

  Marcia jumped when Miguel Lopez, the young security guard, spoke to her. She had been staring at the baby longer than she realized.

  "Everything okay, Marcia?" Miguel asked. "Linda asked me to check on you."

  "Yes, I was just thinking about our new guest here. You should probably get your camera and snap some pictures of the scene before I take him in for his exam. The couple on the other side of the room was there when I found the baby. Find out who they are and what they saw. When I call the police, they'll want names of witnesses and their contact info."

  "Will do, Marcia. Hey, he looks good for a throwaway. Cute little guy."

  "He's adorable. Beautiful skin. I think he is a mix of white and Latino. Or possibly Indian."

  "My guess is half Mexican. I know family when I see it." Miguel laughed.

  Marcia studied the boy more closely. With all the seasonal farm workers in the county, she had to agree with Miguel. "You're probably right. Anyway, he's a beautiful baby."

  Miguel leaned closer. "Is that a nametag he's wearing?"

  Marcia gently moved the boy's arm out of the way. "It sure is. It's like he's attending a conference."

  Miguel read the tag aloud. "It says 'My name is River Blue.' Well, there's an unusual name."

  "And you can bet it's not his real name."

  "Right. The mother doesn't want the cops finding her. But why bother with the nametag, Marcia?"

  "I think the name means something special to his mother, and it might help keep track of him. She might hope to be part of his life one day. Anyway, it's a beautiful name, and if they can't identify him, the state will use it. Okay, let's get to work, Miguel."

  "Yes, ma'am." Miguel straightened his back, saluted, and grinned.

  "Mr. Smart Butt, get your camera and snap a few pictures of him and the immediate area. I need to take Mr. River Blue for his exam, make a few calls, and fill out the paperwork. He's ready to get on with his life, and he's not paying us to gawk at how pretty he is."

  Miguel cackled loudly enough to make the baby's eyes flinch. "Hey, little buddy, watch this crazy woman when she gets you alone in that room. If she goes for your clothes, yell for help." The baby appeared to smile, and the security guard wanted to believe that River Blue got the joke.

  Marcia's thoughts shifted from the amusing to the serious. She assumed that the authorities would not find any relatives to take the boy, and she foresaw a difficult childhood for a mixed-race foundling growing up in Harper Springs, a small South Carolina town with more than its fair share of bigots. Marcia knew that in most cases, the story of a state kid's life could be written on the day he was born, and she wished much more for River than their conservative community was likely to offer him.

  Until the state determined a home for River, Marcia Medlock would love him, and he would be her little boy if only for a few days. She hoped that when he left her, he would find the arms of others who would continue to give him the love and support he needed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Until I was six years old, I lived in Minnows Home for Children, a state-run foster home for infants and pre-school children, located on the east side of Harper Springs. At Minnows, the staff members were female, and my favorite was Sadie, an African-American woman with a big smile and a kind disposition. I have always thought that the other women didn't like me as much as Sadie did, but if I was ever mistreated there, I didn't understand it as such. As well as I can remember, Minnows was a decent group home.

  I have a few good memories of two white playmates, Ricky and Cindy,
and I know I cried when we parted. Ricky left when he was adopted, and a short time later, Cindy and I both turned six, which was the age at which we had to leave Minnows. I never saw Ricky again, but I saw Cindy when we both started first grade at Harper Springs Elementary. At some point during first grade, Cindy was also adopted and transferred to another school. Since I wanted what other kids had, I wanted a nice family to adopt me too. I didn't want to be the only orphan in my first grade class.

  I was terrified the day that Mrs. Glover, my caseworker, drove me the five miles across town to the Bergeron County Junior Boys Home where the boys' ages ranged from six to fourteen. I had heard rumors that the older boys beat up the younger ones, and I was scared to be the youngest kid there. Mrs. Glover attempted to appeal to my ego when she said that big boys like me were supposed to live with other big boys. She even tried to fill my head with scenes of kind, older boys teaching me to play catch, but she fell far short of soothing my nerves. I had already learned that adults would lie to gain my quiet cooperation.

  None of the boys at the junior home ever beat me up, but many of them and the staff verbally abused me and discriminated against me. Within a couple of months, I discovered that there was a reason why most people in the home disliked me, and why families adopted Ricky and Cindy but not me.

  I can easily remember the day that marked the end of my ignorant bliss, the early period of my childhood when I never gave a thought to being better or worse than other kids were. It was a Sunday afternoon, and the BC Junior Boys Home was hosting an open house so that visiting adults could interact with the boys to see if there was mutual interest. I didn't know much about how people were supposed to act during an open house, but it bothered me that the adult visitors didn't smile at me or speak to me as they did some of the other boys.