The Call

The Call

“Sam, I want a divorce. Just give me my son and my car and let me go on with my life.”

We had agreed to a ‘do-it-yourself’ divorce with no attorneys.

The divorce was so genial that we carpooled to the hearing.

As we drove up to the courthouse, I looked Sam in the eye. “Now, you’re sure we agree on everything?”

“Yep.” He got out of the car and rushed ahead of me.

The judge called our case forward. “Does the court understand everything in this divorce decree is in agreement by both parties?”

“Yes, your Honor,” I answered.

A deep voice resonated next to me, “No, Your Honor.”

My heart stopped. I glared at Sam’s malicious face as he fixed his eyes on the judge.

“Please tell the court what is not in agreement.”

“I want custody of my son, Sammy Junior.”

The blood drained from my face. During the nine-month separation, there was never a word mentioned about custody.

“If the two parties do not agree, I cannot grant the divorce and you will both need to retain attorneys,” said the judge.

I wanted to die rather than get in the same car with Sam. Rage tried to surface. I silently screamed. The vileness churned within me until I got home.

I had moments of rage before we split up. I knew I had the potential to go too far. I couldn’t give him grounds for custody. My baby was only three.

I hadn’t wanted to name him Sammy but I had agreed on, Samuel Leon Sandoval Junior.

During the separation, I worked at Denny’s to put food on the table and pay the rent. Sammy wasn’t getting nurtured--at best, he was neglected.

Perhaps his dad could give him a better life.
Sam and I spent three months in counseling to help us make the decision. There was no question, he was able to provide financially, had a supportive family and owned a home. He would be the better parent to raise Sammy.

All I had was a car and a job in a restaurant. As far as family support, my mother told me never to ask her for help. “I raised four kids on my own without any help. What kind of a mother could give up her kid?” Her words stung.

I wanted to answer, “What kind of mother could beat her kids and leave them alone day and night?” But, I kept quiet. She’d never understand my giving Sammy up was to protect him from the childhood she gave me. Being raised in a violent home, I didn’t have the confidence that if pushed to the edge, I wouldn’t take it out on Sammy.

With the decision made, papers signed, and divorce granted, Sammy went to live with his dad. I got him on alternating weekends. Every third week, I had him for a five-day stretch.

I made a mistake when we drew up the visitation papers. Four powerful words changed everything. “At the father’s convenience.” In other words, if Sam felt it wasn’t convenient to let me have Sammy for the weekend, he could say, “No.” The battles never ended. The police couldn’t help. Sam deceived me again.

“Get out of here and never come back!” He shoved me off the step and threw the gift I had brought for Sammy out into the yard.

Sammy ran toward me screaming. I bent down to comfort him and his arms gripped my neck. He buried his face in my chest to hide from his angry father. Between gasps for air, he said, “Daddy, don’t hurt Mommy.”

Sam glared, then commanded, “Come here, Son.”
Sammy’s arms clutched tighter.

“You have to go to Daddy,” I whispered. My heart shattered.

Sam repeated with more force. “I said, come here, Son.”

I peeled my frightened child away from my body and handed him to his father. I swore this was the last time he’d witness a fight between his parents.

Feeling abandoned and hopeless, I left Denver and moved to Redding, California. By leaving, Sammy wouldn’t be the rope in the tug-of-war anymore. I hated seeing him pushed and pulled in two directions.

Not a weekend passed that we didn’t talk. Every six months, I went to Denver for two to four days. A heart-wrenching time for both of us. Our good-byes were unbearable.

When he was nine, his dad agreed to let him fly to California for a month every summer. This turned out to be a time of revelation about which parent I thought was better.

“My dad has a beer-can pyramid in his bedroom window.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” I didn’t really think it was nice, but I didn’t want to squelch his honesty.

“Yea, but he always took it down when you came to see me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He just did.” Sammy shrugged as if it were no big deal.

“My dad has a new girlfriend who lives with us. He told me to tell you she’s the live-in babysitter, in case you asked.”

“Do you like her?” I asked, ignoring the second half of his statement.

Our conversations were as innocent as they were diverse. He had no idea he was waving red flags.

“Dad used to tell me to call him if we went somewhere strange, cuz you might be kidnapping me.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yea, I thought it was dumb too.”

The month passed quickly. Sammy clung to my leg, red faced, tears flowing and voice wailing as we trudged down the ramp for him to board the plane. He begged me not to send him back to his dad. People stared. “What kind of mother could give up her kid?” I heard my mother say--from fourteen hundred miles away.

We looked forward to our yearly thirty-day visits. Each time, he revealed more about life with Dad.

Sam’s life had spiraled into a black hole. He lost his job and his home, forcing them to move in with his parents. Sammy’s grandparents enrolled him in a Catholic school. Although Sam got a new job, his drinking didn’t stop—they told him to move out. He did, taking Sammy with him.

Our weekly chats usually stirred in me an uneasiness that something wasn’t right.

“Dad’s got a girlfriend that lives with us again. Her name’s Nita.”

“Do you like her?”

“Yea, but she doesn’t have any kids for me to do stuff with like his other girlfriends did. They go out all the time and leave me here. Dad doesn’t do anything with me anymore.”

Would I have done better than this?

Several months later, the call came.

“Mom, if I can’t come and live with you, I’m running away.”

My heart slammed against my chest wall. My teen years raced through my mind. Abuse. Juvenile Hall. Foster home. I never wanted this for my son. He was thirteen; the same age I was when I ran away.

“Sammy, why are you going to run away?”

“My dad’s been drinking and knocking me around. I couldn’t tell you because he tapes our phone calls.”

“Why didn’t you call collect when your dad wasn’t home?”

“He takes the phone cords with him. I’m calling you from the principal’s office.”

Hundreds of questions ricocheted through my mind like a silver ball in a pinball machine.

“Sammy, I’ll do whatever it takes. It might take awhile if your dad fights us.”

“I know.” He sounded scared.

“I’ll call you Saturday,” I said.

Ending the call felt like I was abandoning him. Where do I begin?

My fingers trembled as I dialed a Denver attorney. Oh God, don’t let her say I don’t have a chance.

I explained. She listened. Her responses were nonchalant, making me wonder if she realized this was a custody battle, not a baseball card trade. Even so, I trusted her and agreed to set the plan in motion.

“I’ll mail the modification of custody to you. You’ll need to have them notarized and return them to me. I’ll mail them to Sam. If he signs them, drive to Denver and pick up your son.”

I called Sammy at school and told him his dad would get the papers in the next few weeks. He gave me his friend David’s phone number, and I gave him my calling card number.
Several weeks passed.

“Mom, Dad got the papers. He said he’d sign ‘em, no hard feelings.” I studied his voice, trying to detect any fear or hesitance. None.

“What did he say?”

“Go ahead, but you ain’t comin’ back.” Sammy paused. “I don’t care cuz I don’t wanna come back.”

As I waited for the papers, my heart grew weary. The more time that passed, the more I feared Sam decided to fight me all the way.
Finally, the papers came. I was breathless—I allowed my eyes to skip the type and go straight to the dotted line. There it was—Sam’s signature!

Oh my God, I wonder if Sammy knows? And, the heart-stopping thought, Will Sammy change his mind? Tears flowed. I need to get my life in order. I need a bigger place. I had three weeks to prepare life for a teenager. A teenager. I don’t know how to be a full-time mom and I’m going to have a teenager.

I rented a two-bedroom apartment and drove to Denver on June 16th. Sammy would be mine on the 18th. I felt like I was watching someone else go through this.

Although exhausted from the twenty-four-hour drive, I was only able to doze off and on all night.

Finally, sunlight peeked its rays like warm fingers through gaps in the dingy curtains.

I walked up to the apartment and tapped gently as if it would soften the blow of my reason for being there. The door opened with a start. I flinched. Not allowing himself to look at me, Sam mumbled, “Come on in.”

Sammy was standing by his bedroom door, smiling behind his blue eyes. I was so proud of his courage. Even though the tension was as thick as the cigarette smoke and stench of stale beer, Sammy’s disposition appeared joyful.

Sam helped us pack the car. We loaded skateboards, clothes, posters and school keepsakes. As I placed the final treasure in the trunk and slammed it shut, I looked at the two of them facing each other. Sam shook Sammy’s hand and pulled him closer for a half-hearted hug. Sam turned around, trudged across the parking lot, and without so much as a glance back, stepped into his apartment and shut the door.

Sammy looked at me and beamed. I threw my arm around his shoulders, pulled him close and whispered, “It’s you and me, kid!” I opened the car door and he hopped in.

“So, what kinds of things do you like to eat?”

“I like anything, except maybe cow tongue, liver or gross stuff like that!” We laughed like two best friends.

“Hey, Mom, wanna listen to one of my tapes?”

“Sure!”

I was surprised to hear Bob Marley. To show my approval, I turned it up loud. Sammy reached over and turned it down. “I don’t like loud music,” he said smiling, as if he knew that would please me.

As we drove through the salt flats of Utah he asked, “Mom, how much would it cost to change my name?”

I chuckled. “I don’t know. What would you change your name to?”

“Leon.”

“That’s your middle name. It wouldn’t cost anything.”

“When we get to Redding, will you introduce me as Leon?”

“Of course I will.”

“And Mom?”

“Yea?”

“Will you call me Leon, too?”

“You got it!”


Update:
Leon is now 26, a college grad, married to a delightful girl named Crystal and works in a professional photography studio in San Diego.
They are going to have a baby BOY in April 2004!!

To this day, we are very close. Like best friends.
To get the continuing story . . . read

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