Counting the Days

The door opened and we were invited in. Actually, Michael and I were invited in; Ashley stayed in the waiting room.

It was only to a conference room in the back of the building, but it felt like a walk down death row. Well, it was a fitting analogy: our marriage was going to be terminated. We sat down at the table and were reminded that this meeting was only about child support, not anything else. The arbitrator was going to ask us several questions and try to come up with a reasonable amount that Michael would pay. If we both agreed to the amount, fine. If not, one of us could take it to our local Judge for a court decision.

Most of the questions were about our finances: how much did each of us make, what was the highest paying job either of us had ever held, how long did we keep said job, etc. There were also questions about our assets: did either of us have stocks, bonds, large insurance policies, IRA’s, or anything else that we could sell in order to raise some quick money.

Michael had no clue about his own finances. I had been the one in charge of the finances since we were married. He didn’t know he’d been given stock as a gift last year, and he couldn’t answer when asked how much money he made at his highest-paying job, so after asking permission, I answered on his behalf.

The moderator asked us about where we were currently working and how long we’d been there. I told her that I’d just started working on a call-in basis at the manor the day before, but that I wasn’t worried. I was sure they’d need me 4-5 days a week before long. And I was looking for another job. I had put in 8 applications, and had an interview the week before for a teaching position, but I wasn’t terribly optimistic.

Turning to Michael, the arbitrator asked the same question. He stated, proudly, that he had already gotten a job; he was working 12 hours a week at an all-hours gas station. The arbitrator told him that he needed to get a job with more hours. That kind of “work” just wouldn’t cut it.

“The thing you have to understand,” Michael said, “is that I committed suicide a month ago.” I suppressed the urge to correct him. It took a lot. “I was laid up, medically unable to go looking for a job, for about two weeks. So that leaves about 14 days that I could have been looking for a job in the last month.” Holding up his fingers to further illustrate his point, he continued. “I was attending required therapy sessions 2 days a week. I was working 3 days a week. So that’s 10 days out of 14. Plus, I came to Coudersport and visited with the kids, but with the time it took to drive here and back, I spent the night, so that’s another 2 days. And today I’m here. So that leaves one day – one day – that I could have been looking for another job.”

Now I can stand a lot of things in this world for the sake of harmony with my fellow man. But such blatant manipulation of the facts was royally pissing me off.

“May I say something?” I asked the arbitrator.

“Sure,” she said. The tone in her voice made me wonder if she had been thinking the same thing I was.

My chair had been angled away from Michael this whole time. Now, turning it to face him directly, I looked at his face. He has this coming. “What are your hours?” I asked him, taking him off guard.

"Do I have to answer that?” he asked the arbitrator.

“Actually, yes. I was about to ask you that anyway.”

“Well, I work 7 pm ‘til 11 pm, 3 nights a week.”

“Well, then,” I said, still not taking my eyes off of him, “You could be looking for a job from 7 am until 7 pm. You say that you’ve been too busy? TOO BUSY? I have been keeping the house clean, taking care of the kids, finding suitable day care, getting government assistance to pay for that day care, working as much of my full-time job as I could without a steady babysitter around, and I managed to find the time to put in eight applications and have an interview. And all of this time that you’ve been telling me we need to move to where your mom lives because of all the opportunities that are there – and you’re living in the town where your mom lives and you’re working at a gas station!”

And then the bitchiness was gone. But at least I got that out before I lost hold of it. The rest of the meeting was a bit of a blur. The arbitrator determined that neither one of us was working to our full potential. We could both have higher paying jobs than what we had. I, however, pointed out that, at least for the time being, I needed to work first shift in order to get government assisted child care. He could work any shift at any place.

“Since he doesn’t have a decent job,” the arbitrator said, speaking to me although Michael was right there, “I can’t make him pay you anything in child support. The government says that if I require anything of him, he has to make enough to support himself before he can pay to support the kids.” Well, doesn’t that just suck? “However,” she said, “I can require that he get a job.” Addressing Michael directly now, she said, “I am going to put in this agreement that you will pay Cecelia fifty dollars in child support, and that you will get a job within sixty days from the date of her application for support.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, as she took another breath to continue, “but fifty dollars?”

“Well, he has stated that he has no expenses, since his mother is currently paying all of his bills, but I can’t require that he send you everything. Fifty dollars is the maximum amount that I can require for someone who makes as little as he does.”

“All right,” I said, “but fifty dollars every week? Every two weeks?” thinking it was the latter.

“Per month,” she said. I think my jaw actually hit the table.

“O…K…”

“And sixty days,” she said, rising from her chair. “To get a better job.” Michael and I stood up too. Walking slowly towards the door, she spoke directly to Michael. “Michael, as soon as you get a better job I want you to fax a letter to this office and call this phone number,” she said, handing him a business card. “Now, I have to speak with each of you separately,” she added, looking back toward me. “So Michael, why don’t you go out into the waiting room and wait with your mother”. She nudged him toward the door.

As soon as he had left, I looked at her. I think I was still numb from the whole ‘fifty dollars’ thing. “Cecelia, do you have any questions?”

“Um, you need me to sign something?”

“Yes,” she said, opening a folder and smiling. “If you want his payments direct-deposited, you’ll have to sign this paper and take it to your bank for one of the tellers to sign. They used to just have the petitioners fill it out but apparently they were filling it out wrong and then not getting their money and complaining, so they added this step to an already-complicated process. Otherwise, we’ll just send you checks in the mail.” That wasn’t a big decision. I’d probably go with direct deposit and save some trees for slightly more hassle.
“Anything else?” she asked.

“I just hope you’re not buying the ‘poor me’ routine,” I said bitterly, still thinking of the fifty dollars.

“Hmm” she hummed, effectively ignoring my statement. “I have to go speak to him now.”

Somehow I always knew, too late, that I’d said the wrong thing. I mean, she even said that’s the most she can require him to pay without a decent job. So I stayed in the conference room while she went up front to the waiting room.

When they were done, Michael and Ashley left. I went to the bank and filled out the direct deposit form. I called the babysitter and asked if I could take this time to go job hunting. She agreed, and I drove to a few places. The hospital even gave me an on-the-spot interview, but said they didn’t actually have any open positions for full-time day shift right now. So I went and picked up the kids. It had been a banner day.