Page 9 of Harts & Hurts

He unbuckled Melrose, and the three of us walked toward the building. Melrose was fussy. She wiggled in Griffin’s arms as tears ran down her face.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked me. “We can’t take her in there acting like this.”

I thought about what the problem could be, and something like a lightbulb went off in my head. “I didn’t feed her. She’s probably starving.” I dug around in the diaper bag and grabbed one of the bottles of pre-made travel formula that was in there. I hustled over to the first bench I saw inside the courthouse doors and quickly poured the formula into an empty bottle.

“We have to get more organized.” I chided both of us before handing the bottle to him.

He adjusted our niece so that she was cradled in his arms, then placed the bottle in her mouth. Melrose sucked hungrily. “We will.”

“I feel so bad,” I admitted. “Look at how hard she’s sucking. That poor baby was starving.”

“She’s fine. We’ll get it together. The important thing is that neither of our mothers saw us.”

He was right, of course. I took a deep breath, lightly squeezed the sweet chub on my niece’s leg, and turned to my co-guardian. “You ready?”

Before he could respond, Attorney Clark appeared in the hallway. “Mr. Hart. Miss Hurt. Let’s go.”

Griffin and I followed him toward the courtroom. “Block out everything except the judge’s voice,” he suggested as we stepped over the threshold.

I tried not to look around, but my eyes couldn’t help taking in the scene. Just like at the funeral, lines had been drawn. The relatives of Anna Clara Melrose sat on one side, while the relatives of Cecil Hart sat on the other.

Griffin and I took seats side by side, stiff-backed on the hard benches at the front of the room.

“Well, somebody combed that baby’s hair . . . finally. I’ve never seen it combed. Seemed like my nephew and his wife liked that nappy, natural look,” one of Griffin’s relatives said loud enough for us to hear.

“Look how that baby is sucking on that bottle. Jaws just movin’. Looks like they haven’t fed her since they had her. I don’t know why my niece and that husband of hers would leave a helpless baby to two single people. Neither of them know anything about taking care of a baby,” somebody else commented.

I tried not to let the words penetrate me, but I could admit to myself that they hurt. People were judging both me and my deceased sister. What ever happened to not speaking ill of the dead?

“All rise,” Everett Livingston, the court’s bailiff, called out before I could sink further into my feelings. “Hear ye. Hear ye. Family Court for the Village of Fort Jackson in the state of North Carolina is now in session. The Honorable Judge Stanton is presiding. Give your attention.”

Judge Jacob Stanton walked from his chambers into the courtroom and took his seat. “Thank you. Please be seated. We are here today to decide on the details regarding case number FC-0717. This would be the matter of the guardianship of minor child, Melrose Marie Hart. This hearing will determine if emergency temporary guardianship will be approved for one Griffin Maxwell Hart and one Anistyn Belle Hurt. Counsel, please step up and state your appearances for the record.”

Attorney Clark stood and gave his spiel while rumblings and remarks flew from the gallery in what were supposed to be whispers but were barely softer than normal volume.

“All I know is that Jacob better make the right call. That baby’s mother is . . . was a Melrose. Mother’s baby. Daddy’s maybe.” My great aunt Barbara huffed.

“Well, her first name is y’all name anyway,” one of Griffin’s relatives responded. “But her last name is Hart. That makes her a Hart. Now what?”

“What did that girl Juliet say in Romeo and Juliet? What’s in a name?” Barbara’s sister said, bumping her shoulder.

I couldn’t believe my great aunt was quoting Shakespeare and bringing up Romeo and Juliet while we were literally living in a retelling of the play.

“Say the right thing, Jacob!” Melinda was loud. She was always loud.

“Jacob knows better.”

Judge Stanton cleared his throat. “Uh, when I have on this robe, and I’m sitting on this bench,”—he pointed down at his seat—“you will refer to me as Judge or Judge Stanton. I don’t care if we studied together in history class or if you’re on a first-name basis with my mama. In this courtroom, you will refer to me as Judge. Do I make myself clear?”

I glanced over at Griffin, wondering if he wanted the floor to open and swallow him as much as I wanted it to open up and swallow me. He met my glance with a forlorn look. Our families were so damn embarrassing.

“We hear you, Jacob,” one of the old men in the gallery called. I wasn’t sure if it was a descendant of the Melroses or the Harts, but other people laughed.

“Don’t worry about what we call you. Worry about making the right call,” another man said.

“You worry about getting held in contempt,” the judge muttered, but his mouth was at the microphone, so we all heard him clearly. He quickly cleared his throat. “If we’re ready, I’ll start.” He looked pointedly at the crowd gathered in the seats behind us. “Everybody here is well aware of the . . . situation between your two families. Tell me in your own words how you plan to protect this child, this baby, from the vitriol these adults hurl at each other? How do you plan to keep her safe while offering balance?”

“Judge, as you know . . .” Griffin began, and I was glad he spoke up because a huge lump had formed in my throat. “Our siblings didn’t live in Fort Jackson. Anistyn and I think it’s best if we follow their lead. While we don’t deny that both the Hart and Melrose families love her⁠—”