Unspoken - 18. Bryce Easton Everard

The process itself took over a year. Applications, phone and video calls, office meetings, home inspections, public meetings, unannounced home visits, more office meetings, more phone and video calls. I understand. I really do; you don’t want to take a child that has been failed by their parents and place them with someone else who will fail them. The hypocrisy didn’t escape me though.

Nicolo and I had discussed fostering and adopting before, and we’d come to the conclusion that we didn’t think we were quite ready to adopt, but we were ready to foster. To at least provide a stable home for a child that needed it. Possibly more than one. We both had successful careers, and while I wouldn’t call us rich, we were wealthy enough that we had a couple hundred thousand in savings and a very nice house in a safe sub-rural neighborhood outside the city. So we contacted DCS, and started the process. The ASL interpreter for DCS was better than many we’ve had to deal with in the past. Children with hearing loss or damage weren’t exactly common, but were common enough.

Once we were verbally approved, there were at least three home meetings, which were really more of a hosted dinner, by one of the DCS agents so he could get to know us, to find the right fit for both us, and the child. They had no rules or regulations about gays, but obviously they wouldn’t want to place with two gay men a boy who had been molested by a male relative, for example.

I say boy, because neither one of us would have any clue what to do with a girl. We weren’t against the idea of fostering a girl, but the three of us agreed a girl probably wouldn’t be a good fit.

Yes, the topic of me looking ridiculously young was broached, and challenged. Telling the agent the story of how uncomfortable Nicolo was to engage in sexual congress with me helped, as did me calling Lorenzo and getting him to send me a couple photos of Nicolo’s room at the Bucello estate. The model posters still on the wall showed a type that wouldn’t be fulfilled by a young boy, that was for certain. It was a subject we knew would come up, and it made Nicolo very anxious, but I think most surprising was that we got more friction from us both having dual citizenship, than my physical disabilities or being gay. Go figure. Especially in the south!

The fourth dinner visit the agent had a folder, which contained both an approval certificate, which made me do a little dance for joy and which resulted in Nicolo hugs – we’d been told we’d been approved but this certificate was more official - and the profile of a boy who had been placed with them under… dubious circumstances.

He was 11, and had been removed from his parent’s “care” through a quiet series of events. He wasn’t from Georgia, he had been transferred across the country to preclude any chance of accidental contact with his birth parents. This seemed highly unusual to us, but we were new and inexperienced in the matter, so despite curiosity and incredulity, we didn’t fight for more information. He had been given a complete physical, which showed stunted growth due to malnourishment, and a psychological profile. He hadn’t reacted well when he gained the understanding that he had been physically and mentally abused; it was made clear part of taking him in would be therapy. The picture in the file was of a boy who clearly had seen better days. He had a black eye that was almost gone, a dejected look of resignation, and hair that needed a good wash and proper care. Pale brown hair, with eyes a darker hazel green than mine, skin tone maybe halfway between myself and Nicolo, and I got a stab of… something.

His name was Bryce Easton Everard.

The final clincher, I think, was the agent making the comment that despite being physically abused, he showed signs of craving physical contact. Nicolo was a touchy-feely man – our first meeting began with him laying a hand on my shoulder – he was always rubbing my shoulder, stroking the shaved area of my scalp, flicking at my wolf’s tail, or just holding me close.

I know many people would look at a picture of a hurt boy and feel pity and sadness, but I looked at that picture and I felt like I was looking at my son. Nicolo shared the sentiment, so we agreed to meet the boy. The appointment was made to have us come by the group home the next day. That night Nicolo and I came up with a plan to introduce ourselves, which included me digging out and charging the batteries of my little-used AAC machine. It was little used because despite being a more modern one than I’d had a decade ago, it burned through a battery charge faster than I’d like, and it was so much harder to be part of a conversation when I had to look down at it to use it.

Having already seen what he looks like, we didn’t need much guidance to find him. In the common room of the group home we spotted him sitting in a back corner, looking like he was trying to push himself through the wall. I looked to Nicolo, and signed ‘He is ours.’

He nodded, with a “si, bello, si.”

I made my way quietly through the room, calling Nicolo’s phone so he could hear the conversation, and slowly sat down against the wall a bit to Bryce’s right. I could see him sending me questioning glances, but he remained silent, hugging his legs, as if it would keep out the noise that surrounded us. I reached into my pocket, and pulled out my AAC. I held out a hand, in the form of a fist, and watched Bryce give it a suspicious look, before slowly giving it a bump with his own fist.

[Hi] the tinny voice of my AAC rang out, [I’m Alex and I’m mute.]

“M-mute?” He whispered.

[I can’t talk. I use sign and this device to talk for me.]

“Oh.” He breathed.

[What’s your name?]

“I’m B-Bryce.”

[It’s nice to meet you Bryce. Can I ask a favor?]

“W-what?”

[This wall isn’t very comfy. Could I lean against you?]

He looked confused, but nodded slowly. I shuffled a bit until my left leg was gently touching his right. Slowly, ever so slowly, I leant my shoulder against his. I felt him shudder a bit, then relax.

[There, much more comfy.]

He nodded slightly, a small giggle escaping. I had two ways I could go with this, and I decided to be bold.

[So how old are you, B?]

“B?”

[Is it okay if I call you B? This is B in sign.] I held up my right hand flat upright, my thumb curled in.

“T-that’s okay, Alex. I’m 11. How old are you?”

[You wanna know a secret?]

“Okay?”

[I’m 31.]

“Whaaaaaat? No you’re not!”

[I am! Here, look!] I pulled out my wallet and showed him my ID, and he read aloud.

“Alexander Aklen Bucello, 6/3/1988?? You’re really 31??”

I nodded.

“What are you doing here then??”

[I’m hoping to find a family.]

“O-oh,” his excitement fell, “me too. My parents hurt me and didn’t want me.” He was being so much more open than we expected of him. I could see him wanting to crawl back inside himself, but I couldn’t allow that, so I threw another wrench in the conversation.

[That’s okay, it wasn’t your fault. I’m married.]

“R-really? Even t-though you look f-fifteen?”

[Yes, my husband is named Nicolo. Would you like to meet him?]

“Does he look like you?”

[No, he’s big. In Sign, instead of spelling out someone’s name, we use the first letter, and a word. My name for my Nico is N Big.]

Bryce giggled “N-Big” and then blushed a bit and forced himself to stop. “Is he here?”

I nodded. [Yes, and he wants to meet you.]

“W-what?”

I nodded, and hung up the phone call. Bryce’s eyes went wide as he saw him approach, and he pressed himself harder against me, eyes wide as Nicolo sat down seiza about a yard in front of Bryce, a wide disarming smile on his face.

“Hello Bryce, I am Nicolo Alessandro Bucello. Alex there” he nodded at me, “is my husband.”

“Y-you’re huge!”

“Si, yes I know. I am six and one half feet tall.”

“Oh.”

“We have a question for you, Bryce.”

“You do?”

[Yes. You remember I said I was looking for a family?]

He nodded, sadly.

[We’d like that to be you.]

“W-What!?”

“Si, we’d like to give you a home.” [Would you like a home, B?]

A wide, genuine smile split his face, and though one eye still had slight bruising around it, he looked adorable. We hugged him tight as he sniffled through tears.

Much more would have to be discussed, and there was a LOT to do now, but we found our foster son.