An autobiographical novel and an unforgettable record of a difficult and troubled adoption, "The Martian Child" is a relentlessly honest, funny, and at times heartbreaking portrait of a special bond between a father and his son--a son who thinks he's a Martian.--from a Hugo and Nebula Award winner

The Martian Child

Once upon a time, I’d had this fantasy, I wouldn’t tell my mother anything at all about the impending adoption—then one day, I’d show up at her house with a little boy. She would look at him ask, “Who’s this?” And I would reply, “Your new grandson.” Just for the look on her face and the resulting shriek of surprise.

Of course, it couldn’t work that way. The caseworkers needed to know that the extended family would be supportive of the adoption, so everybody had to be on board, even before they met the child.

On the other hand, telling a Jewish mother she has a new grandson, but can’t meet him yet is almost as exquisite. On the scale of unbearable anticipation, it outranks the first trip to Disneyland. It’s right up there with chocolate, redheads, and honeymoons.

Mom and Harvey lived fifteen minutes away. Three miles east, three miles south on the 405, 2 miles east on the 101—

Summer evenings in California are surly, with the hot breath of the wind breathing down the back of your neck like a giant Labrador Retriever. In an open convertible, the air roars past, all dry and leathery. It always makes me think of Raymond Chandler’s literary housewives fingering the edges of kitchen knives and studying their husband’s necks.

As we slid through the glimmering night, Dennis asked, “What’s she making for dinner?”

Without missing a beat, I deadpanned, “Pickled mongoose.”

I might just as well have switched on an air-raid siren: “I don’t want pickled mongoose. I don’t like pickled mongoose. I’m not eating pickled mongoose—”

“Have you ever had pickled mongoose? How do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never had it?”

“I don’t want pickled mongoose. I don’t like pickled mongoose. I’m not eating pickled mongoose—”

“You’ll take one taste. You’ll try it. Maybe you’ll like. Grandma Jo makes the best pickled mongoose in the whole world. She does this thing with cobra sauce—”

“I don’t want pickled mongoose. I don’t like pickled mongoose. I’m not eating pickled mongoose—”

Uh-oh. He was taking me serious.

This was a double whammy. I wasn’t used to people taking me serious. And worse, it meant that Dennis didn’t understand jokes. Not good.

The ability to joke is the difference between sane people and crazy people. Crazy people don’t do jokes. I wondered just how big a problem this was going to be—

“I don’t want pickled mongoose. I don’t like pickled mongoose. I’m not eating pickled mongoose—”

By now, we were in serious risk of Dennis shattering large chunks of air out of the sky. I had no idea what the limits of his lung power might be. This could go on for days—

I remembered an old piece of engineering wisdom: “If you don’t know where the off-switch is, don’t press the on-button.” It applied to children too.

We got off the freeway at Van Nuys Blvd. Turn right, turn left, turn left and we’re there. Dennis was still going strong. Sooner or later, he would have to take a breath—

I let him out of the car and pointed him toward the rear of the complex. “See those stairs? Grandma Jo and Grandpa Harvey live at the top.” He rushed up the stairs ahead of me, then stopped and waited.

I knocked on the screen door and hollered, “Hello! Burglar—where do you hide the gold and jewelry?”

“Come on in. The gold is in the safe, the jewelry is under the bed.”

Dennis followed me in. Grandma Jo was in the kitchen; she turned to us, wiping her hands on a towel. Dennis went straight to her, skipping all introductions. “What are you making for dinner?” he demanded.

“Chicken. And salad. And smashed potatoes.”

“You’re not making pickled mongoose—?”

She didn’t even blink. To her credit, she had always been fast on the uptake; it had only taken thirty years for her to figure out that her first-born son was meshuge. (This may have been why there was no second-born son.)

“Pickled mongoose? Oh, no.” Dennis shot me a look of angry accusation. And then she added, “The store was all out of mongoose. I’ll make it next time.”

Dennis’s expression turned back into a suspicious frown. He looked back and forth between us with narrowed eyes. Maybe he was starting to figure it out. I hoped so.

Harvey handed me a tumbler of scotch. I took a sip. The Chivas 100 Blend. Not available in the States. I’d picked up two bottles at the duty free store on my way back from England a year ago and given one to Harve for Father’s Day. “Mm, the good stuff. What’s the special occasion?”

“You are.”

“Well, we do have some news. Dennis, do you want to tell them?”

“David’s gonna ‘dopt me. He’s gonna be my dad—and you’re gonna be my Grandma and Grandpa!” He practically shouted the news.

“Oh, good,” Mom said, “That means I get to hug you—” She swept him into her arms and he grabbed her around the waist and held on tight. It was a perfect fit. Grandpa too. I couldn’t tell who was happier. I promised myself this kid was going to spend a lot of time with his grandparents; it was all part of my secret plan to give him as many happy memories as possible.

And for a moment, I thought of my own Grandma. I hadn’t realized until now how much a part of my life she’d been and how much I missed her…and how much she would have loved Dennis.

And then, of course, the inevitable Grandma moment. “Well, you must be very hungry. Sit down and I’ll serve—”

Dennis eyed his dinner suspiciously.

“Relax, it’s chicken,” I said. “Nobody can torture a chicken like your Grandma Jo. That was chicken, wasn’t it, Mom?”

“That’s what it said on the wrapper.”

“I dunno…it tastes like rattlesnake to me. Doesn’t it taste like rattlesnake to you, Dennis?”

“No!” he insisted. “It tastes like chicken!”

“Or maybe iguana?”

“Chicken!”

“I can make iguana for you sometime, then we’ll see—”

“No!”

I decided not to pursue it. Probably a wise decision.

As soon as he finished eating, Dennis asked quietly, “Can I wash the dishes?”

My mother looked at me, eyebrows raised. This is the monster child you were so worried about? To Dennis, she said, “Of course, you can, sweetheart.”

We watched as he very carefully cleared the table, taking all the dishes to the sink. He made three deliberate trips. Then he turned on the water and began sudsing and scrubbing.

“Do you rent him out?”

Very softly, I said, “He’s trying to show us how much he wants to fit in. He’s terrified it won’t work.”

“Of course, it’s going to work,” she said, not bothering to whisper. “He’s a good kid.”

Harvey added, “All you have to do is love him.”

“Well, that’s the game plan—”

“You’re going to have to find a school for him,” said Harvey.

“And he’s going to need new clothes,” said Mom. “Shoes, shirts, pants. What size is he? I’ll take him to the mall—”

“Just a minute here,” I interrupted. “If you want to spoil a kid, spoil your own. This one is mine to spoil—”

Dennis walked out of the kitchen, a dish and a towel in his hand. His expression was serious. Very soft and very polite, he said, “She could spoil me if she wants to.” His timing and delivery were perfect. He returned to the kitchen without further comment.

Mom and Harvey looked at him, then to me. Mom said, “I think you’ve met your match.”

Harvey added, “He’s going to fit into this family, just fine.”

“I think so.”

“Does he ever smile?” Harvey asked softly.

“Give him time. He hasn’t had a lot to smile about yet. That’s first on my list of things to do.”

♦

On the day he moved in—officially moved in—Kathy told me she’d never seen him so happy. I asked her to remind him of that conversation he’d had with the counselor. “Remember when he said, ‘I don’t think God listens to my prayers.’ Tell him that sometimes it takes God a little while to make a miracle happen.”

Dennis moved in with a small battered suitcase, half full of worn-out hand-me-downs; and a large cardboard box, less than half full of pieces of broken toys. His entire life could be carried in one trip.

Unpacking his few belongings was painful. Everything was tattered. Everything was precious. A too-small T-shirt autographed by Luc Robitaille and Wayne Gretsky. A sad and faded, dirty-with-age, stuffed gingerbread man named Eric. A few photographs of a long-ago trip to the Los Angeles County Fair. The only evidence of a past. Not much evidence of a life though.

He had only a few pairs of underpants. Three of them had pockets sewn onto the front. “What’s this?” I asked.

“That’s for the buzzer. If I wet the bed, it buzzes and wakes me up.”

“We’re not going to do that here,” I said, tossing the underwear aside. “You won’t be wearing those again.” We put the T-shirts in one drawer, the shorts in another, and we were through unpacking.

“We can throw this out,” I said, holding up his small battered suitcase. It was pretty much falling apart.

“No,” he said firmly. “I’ll need it when I move out.”

“No, you won’t. You’re not moving out. This is it.”

“When I have to go back to Mars,” he said. He took the suitcase from me and put it into the closet.

♦

Dennis needed everything.

We spent the week shopping.

Shoes. Underpants. T-shirts. Shorts. Socks. A jacket. A new teddy bear. Some storybooks for bedtime. Not too much, but enough. Christmas was coming soon, Santa was going to be very very good to this little boy.

It wasn’t just his miracle, it was mine as well. I was terrified that it wasn’t real, that somebody somewhere was going to realize that they’d made a horrible mistake placing him with me, and that suddenly one day, they’d come and pack him up and take him away, and the adventure would be over.

I spent the first three or four weeks with him in a state of absolute wonder that I had this wonderful little person in my life. I read him a story every night, tucked him into bed, hugged him, kissed him, told him how special he was to me, turned off the light and tiptoed out. I’d wait fifteen minutes, get a box of Kleenex, then tiptoe back in and sit and watch him sleep for an hour or two. It was better than television—and it was one of my few chances to see what he actually looked like; the rest of the time, he was mostly a blur with a smile.

I developed a routine for the mornings. First I’d turn to the little voice in my head that was muttering in amazement, “There’s a seven O’clock in the morning too?!” and say, “Thank you for sharing that, now shut up.”

Then I’d wake Dennis up and before his blood sugar could remind him that he was hyperactive, I’d hand him a glass of orange juice and pop him into the tub and start a hot breakfast. Hot cereal. Or pancakes, Dennis loved pancakes. Or scrambled eggs and bacon. Toast and jelly. But no waffles. For Christmas, I’d bought a waffle iron that made waffles shaped like Mickey Mouse—but Dennis wouldn’t eat anything that looked like a giant grinning mongoose.

I gained five pounds. The last time I’d actually eaten breakfast, it had been an unwitting mistake—brought on by crossing the International Date Line on a sixteen hour red-eye.

And then, one morning, right on schedule, it was time to test the rules. He decided he didn’t want to eat breakfast. I told him he had to. He said no, and then abruptly he announced, “The adoption is off, I’m moving out.” He went to the front door, walked out, and closed it behind him. I waited thirty seconds, then followed. He was standing on the front porch, waiting for me.

Very calmly, I said, “You can’t move out until you finish breakfast.”

So he came back in and ate.

As he was finishing, I said, “Why don’t you go to school now, and you can move out after you get home from school, all right?”

He went to school.

When he got home from school, I handed him a peanut butter sandwich, and said, “Listen, why don’t you wait and run away from home on the weekend. You can go farther.”

I kept that up for three days, until he finally said, “I’m not going to run away from home.” That night, I made a note in my journal: “Sighted manipulation, sank same.”

I had a plan. Affirmations—lots of little reminders, like pebbles in the stream, to let him how much he was loved—that he was finally connected. And choices—opportunities to feel in control, to give him back a sense of power over his own life; the system had stolen that from him, yanking him around from place to place like a case-file shuffled from desk to desk. And most of all, a safe place just to be—so he could have an emotional ground of being, and a sense that he wasn’t alone anymore.

That last one would be the hardest to achieve.

The supermarket was always a challenge. He had to push the cart. No one else was allowed to touch it—Gran Prix de Vons. Up one aisle and down the next at mach 8 and a half. And always, strange things kept finding their way into the cart.

It amused me, how my shopping list had suddenly transformed. White bread instead of sourdough. Peanut butter. Jelly. Spaghetti. Tomato sauce. Hamburger. Cookies. Cheerios. Oatmeal. Cream Of Wheat—that was my favorite when I was little. Malt-O-Meal. Ice cream. Hot dogs. Buns. Mustard, ketchup, relish. Chocolate for Daddy. Apples, bananas, grapes. Dog biscuits. “You and Somewhere will have to share these.”

“I don’t like dog biscuits.”

“Then Somewhere will eat your share.”

And in the middle of all this shopping, I had a flash of recognition—I was being Daddy. This was what it looked like. This was what it felt like.

Kewl.

I could get used to this. This was good.

On the drive home, I asked. “What should I make for dinner tonight? How about pickled mongoose?”

I should have known better—

“You’re making fun of me—!”

“Huh? No, I’m not!”

“I don’t like it when people make fun of me! The kids at school used to make fun of me all the time. ‘You live in a group home. You live in a group home.’”

I pulled the car over to the side. “I’m not making fun of you, sweetheart.”

He was adamant. “Yes, you are—”

*sigh*

This part wasn’t in the manual.

For some odd reason, I had a picture in my head of John F. Kennedy discovering that there were nuclear missiles in Cuba, in October of 1962. His reaction? “This is the day we earn our salary.”

“Dennis, let me explain something to you about jokes. People don’t tell jokes to make fun of each other. People tell jokes because they like each other. Jokes are a way of playing together.”

“I don’t like it! It feels like you’re making fun of me! Everybody always makes fun of me!”

“Sweetheart, I’m not making fun of you. I will never make fun of you. You’re my favorite kid in the whole wide world. And you need to learn something very important here. You’re in a family of people who love to tell jokes. It’s our way of saying, ‘I love you, play with me.’ So you’re going to have to learn how to tell jokes too.”

“I don’t know any jokes—”

That stopped me for a moment. A kid who didn’t know any jokes? “Okay, I’ll teach you one.”

He fell silent. I went rummaging frantically through the attics of memory for the easiest and silliest joke I had.

“Okay, ready? Why do elephants have such big trunks?”

“I dunno.”

“Because they don’t have glove compartments.”

“What’s a glove department?”

Right.

We had a lot of work to do.

“See this thing here in front of you? It opens up. That’s a glove compartment. It’s called a glove compartment because you put gloves in it.”

“I don’t have any gloves.”

“Nobody in California does. It’s against the law. But the cars are all made in Detroit or Tokyo, where everybody wears gloves. So that’s why they put glove compartments into cars. So now you know why elephants have such big trunks—”

“Because they don’t have glove departments.”

“Close enough. Very good. Now you tell that joke to everybody you meet.”

“Will they laugh?”

“I’m sure they will. If they don’t, we’ll return the joke to the manufacturer and get a full refund.”

For the next few weeks, he told that joke to everyone he saw—Grandma and Grandpa. Our neighbor, Roz. The waitress at the corner coffee shop. Julieanne, his therapist. Aunt Alice. Susie, my assistant. And it didn’t even matter if he got it right. “Why don’t elephants have glove departments—because they have trunks?” “Why don’t elephants have trunks—because they have glove departments?” Where do elephants put their gloves? In their trunks.” And everybody he told it to laughed. Every time.

It was basic Communication Theory: Jokes are a way of producing a happy response in people. If you want to be liked, tell jokes; it shows you want to play. And that’s all that any of us really want—the chance to play together.

Dennis had been given one of the keys to the universe, and he was unlocking everything he could.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Orange?”

His eyes narrowed. “Orange who?”

“Orange you glad I didn’t say ‘banana?’”

He made me sorry I taught him that one—I had to hear it a dozen times a day for the next two months. Some jokes are funny once. Some jokes are funny every time. It depends on who’s telling them. But if you’re only eight years old, it doesn’t matter. The fun is in the telling, not the punch line. The fun is in the laughing.

And then one morning, while I was getting him ready for school—we were still only a few weeks into this adventure—I put him into the bathtub, a naked little toothpick of a child with puppy-dog eyes and Liz Taylor eyelashes. A little bubble bath and he was happy. He could wash himself, but he liked being taken care of. I wondered if anybody had ever really taken care of him before.

Okay, time to go start some water boiling for hot cereal. I stopped and asked, “What do you want for breakfast? Cream of Wheat? Or Malt-O-Meal?”

He looked up at me, with an expression so innocent, you could have used it as icing on a birthday cake. Very softly, very shyly, he said, “Pickled mongoose….” And waited for my reaction.

I blinked.

“Um—” For half an instant, I was annoyed, because he hadn’t answered the question I’d asked, and then the enormity of what had just happened sank in. I grinned. “Okay. Pickled mongoose, it is.” And then, as an afterthought, “Do you want the Cream of Wheat flavored pickled mongoose or Malt-O-Meal flavor?”

“Cream of Wheat flavor.”

“Okay, Cream of Wheat flavor pickled mongoose, coming right up.” And we both smiled.

Halfway to the kitchen, in the middle of the hall, where not even the dog could see me, I stopped for a quick, silent victory dance, punching the air with both fists in one-two triumph. “Yes!”

That’s what miracles look like. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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