“Procreational Neglect”: (Part 1/2

Amanda Ramsay
Guest Contributor

y sister arrives at the courthouse and is

met with screaming from the hallway
and the continuous sound of clicking. In the
courtroom she is met with stares, whispers
and pointed fingers. The media supports
her; all of the newspapers have offered her
interviews and photo shoots to advance
her cause, national media have taken the
contentious case and placed it on their front
pages. The average citizen is not so kind;
they already blame her for the life destroying
precedent she is about to set.

She was a young girl who wore sundresses
and insisted on wearing her hair down so
that the sun could bleach it from the brown
of Mexico sands to the color of the early
morning sun on a spider’s web. Now her
hair pales in comparison to the bark of a
paper birch; what little there is left of it.
Her translucent skin turns blue in front of
the courthouse’s red wood panelled walls
that reminds me of a maple tree in late

fall. She wears a skirt suit that is some
feminine version of a Charlie Chapman
costume and she’d failed at trying to liven
it up with a multicoloured scarf. She had
covered her head for walking into the
courthouse but lowers the scarf; for effect,
I’m sure of it, upon entry to the courtroom.

Seated on the right of the courthouse and
turning, she grins at me with conceit. |
glare at her seriously. If she knew what
she was putting us through, the suffering,
then she would slap that smile off of her
own face, but perhaps I am projecting.

“Court is in session, this date of 2088. Mr.
Finnegan, et. al vs. Mrs. Finnegan. All
stand for the Right Honourable Judge
Mathis,” calls the uniform up front

and like worshippers, we all rise.

I watch my dad from behind the bar, staring
at his back. His shoulders are drawn in and

his chin touches his chest. I reach over the
bar and grab one of his shoulders in support,
I squeeze gently. His hand, a falling leaf

ona cold day, lights on mine and then his
shoulder moves gently to let my hand fall
away from him. This spurn does little to
disperse my own fear, I hope that my touch
saves him some grief, or gives him minor
comfort. Counsel had prepared us, we knew
that the only thing we could ask for was to
have him live, should he be deemed guilty.
They assured us that the judge is competent
in his law but prodigious in his application
to personal court cases and family law.

We'd heard of no one who thought him
insensitive, even if they had lost their case.

“Please sit,” says the judge. His large

robes are a black that speaks of nothing,
hemmed and collared with red; the kind
that seeps from an arterial wound, pumping
and spurting with each heartbeat, all the
while the heart is slowing and dying. An
unblemished white collar disturbs me. White
has a promise of purity yet this trial spoke
of defilement and human error, more suited
to the image of mud on a beige carpet.

“T cannot,” the judge speaks in a resonant
bass, “decide the outcome of this case
based on emotions.” He clears his throat, a
guttural sound. “Because, Mrs. Finnegan,”
he holds a hand upright in her direction,
“The precedent set by this case will not
only have an effect on your life and your
father’s but would also affect a huge populace
politically. So before I begin, I am open

to your questions at this time.” He cocks
his head in her direction for a response.

She stands, surprised. “I have none at
this time, your honour.” She sits back
down hesitantly. Her council give her a
look full of meaning I can’t discern.

“First, should I rule that your father created
your life, naturally- and by naturally I

mean without the assistance of third party
surrogacy or fertility intervention. If he

did so with knowledge of his family history
of cancer and if that makes him criminally
responsible for your sickness; several things
will occur.” He undoes the top button of his
collar and then takes a sip of water from a
glass invisible behind his seated podium.
“Your father will not only be financially
responsible for your sickness, but he will also
be criminally negligent of creating your life,
with his wife; who also would be negligent in
carrying you to term with the possibility of
carrying on those cancerous genes.” He leans
into the podium to look at my sister gravely.

My sister shakes noticeably at the
mention of our long-dead mother.
Her eyes widen and her mouth opens
enough to show two front teeth.

Our mother was the one who united our
family even in times of controversy. Her
memory alone brings me joy but the
details of her barrel-shaped body, her
earthy fragrance and her unyielding
hugs make me sad for the loss.

“Next would
be the legal
ramifications
to your family
members and
yourself. If
we pursue
this legal
course; then,
my dear,” he
speaks to her,
maintaining
eye contact.
“Your father
will be put

to death for
the biological
torture you

are suggesting
he has

Student Voice 13

placed on you by virtue of his genes and
his knowledge of his family history.”

In front of me my dad is looking down

and his shoulders are hunched. He picks

at his fingers, thick and calloused. To
everyone else, perhaps he looks as though
he isn’t paying attention but it’s his comfort
measure and it has often helped him to
hear or focus on everything that is going

on around him. He is a carpenter by trade
and works in silence, he hears anything that
is not silence. If he couldn’t be working
with wood, he’d be picking his hands. It is
the same fidgeting he’d resorted to when
my mother would tell him about her day.
“Stop picking your callouses dear,” Mom
would say coming out of the kitchen and
interrupting her own oration. “You know
you'll have to scrub with pumice if you
want them to go away.” She’d smile at

him, a smile I never used to understand.

To be continued...