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removed to a place of safety. That’s how they put it: “removed to a place of safety.”
    The experts described the baby (me) as “a normal little girl with normal potential.” I never believed that. I mean, how can two mentally handicapped people have a normal baby?
    Anyway, the judge decided baby Nell (me) could not stay with her parents. The danger to her health and happiness was too great, he said.
    My mother cried all through the hearing. All she knew was that they were taking her baby away from her. I keep a copy of the article as a memento of sorts. It was on the front page of the Weekend Sun under the headline:
    TRAGEDY WITHOUT EVIL—RETARDED PAIR FORFEITS BABY
    Retarded pair.
    No one says retarded now. Things have changed in thirteen years. Now they say “intellectually challenged” (yech!) or “mentally handicapped,” which I like better.
    I’ve read the newspaper story over and over. I know it by heart, every word. It was a long time before I could look at it without crying.
    Mom was talking to me, something about her hair.
    â€œSorry, Mom. Was I pulling? I swear it’s grown two inches since the last time I cut it.”
    Mom giggled. “Has it really, Nell? Has it really?”
    I was pretty good at doing her hair. I was taking off about half an inch using the kitchen scissors.
    â€œSo dark and thick,” I said. “It’s easy to see where I get mine.”
    Mom’s head swiveled around. “And your lovely green eyes, Nell. You got your eyes from me too, don’t forget. Don’t forget your lovely green eyes.”
    â€œKeep your head still, Mom. You wouldn’t want me to cut off your lovely pink ear now, would you?”
    Mom tensed, frightened.
    â€œKidding, Mom, only kidding.”
    She relaxed and I massaged her head and brushed her hair.
    â€œMom, could I ask you about your pearl necklace?”
    Mom thought for a few seconds. “The beautiful pearl necklace my mother left me?”
    â€œYes. Will it be mine some day?”
    â€œYours? Of course it will be yours, Sweetie. After I’m gone, everything will be yours. My music box with the little dancer. And my book of stickers from Expo 86. And my picture of your daddy on duty at the gas station in his smart uniform with the stripes. It was taken just a month before he died, you know. I remember I was out at the park that day.” She smiled her child smile at me. “Everything will be yours.”
    â€œCould I see it, the necklace?”
    Mom looked confused as she tried to remember where she kept it. “See it now, you mean?”
    â€œYes, Mom. See it now.”
    â€œIs my hair finished?”
    â€œCome and see in the mirror. It looks great.”
    On the SkyTrain home, I hooked Mom’s necklace out of my jeans pocket and let the beautiful pearls run through my fingers.
    She wouldn’t miss it. I hadn’t taken the box.
    Even if Mom opened the box and saw it empty, she wouldn’t remember anything. She would start looking for the necklace under the furniture. Thing was, it was really mine, in a way. I mean, she planned to give it to me.
    I got off at Metrotown Station.
    Ten minutes later I was in the mall, leaning over the counter of Pearson’s Jewelers as a baldy geezer took the necklace from me.
    â€œHow much is it worth?”
    He reached for his eyeglass but stopped and smiled without even using it. “It’s costume jewelry.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThey’re not real pearls.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    He examined the necklace. Then he took the eyeglass out again. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but this is worth very little.” He shrugged apologetically. “Thirty dollars maybe. Certainly no more than fifty.”
    Fifty dollars! I slid the pearls back into my pocket.
    â€œThanks very much,” I said, and took off fast expecting to hear the old geezer laughing at me,