I haven't moved since.
"Hi there." A petite woman in her fifties with short silver hair has entered the room. Her skirt and suit jacket are in muted eggplant. She has pearl earrings and speaks softly. "Are you Annemarie?"
"Yes," I say.
"I'm Sandra, with the Department of Children and Family Services. We spoke earlier."
She turns to face Eva and Mutti, who are parked on the window seat, watching.
"Are you Eva?"
"Yes," I say, answering for her. "And that's my mother, Ursula Zimmer."
"I'm so sorry for your loss," Sandra says, smiling in a sad and kindly fashion.
Eva's face hardens. I brace myself, unsure whether she's going to break down or fly into a fury. Neither reaction would surprise me--this is far too much for a sixteen-year-old to absorb. It may be too much for this forty-year-old to absorb.
"Thank you," says Mutti, neatly relieving Eva of the need to answer.
Sandra seems to understand. She turns to me. "Annemarie, can I steal you for a few minutes?"
"Yes, of course," I say.
Before I can even shift in my seat, Mutti is at my side reaching for the baby. As she takes him by the armpits and lays him against her, he emits a meep.
"Nein, nein, nein," she says, supporting his bottom with one arm and running the other around and up his back so that his head rests in her gnarled fingers. She rocks from side to side. When his thin voice rises to a wail she begins to sing: "Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf..."
I walk over to Eva, who observes me from beneath crooked brows.
"I'll be right back, sweetie."
She nods.
I kiss her forehead, give her hand an encouraging squeeze, and turn before she can see the tears in my eyes.
Sandra leads me to the end of the hall and turns right. A short jag, and then a left, down a hall that isn't brightly painted. She raps lightly on a door, waits for a moment, and then opens it. It's a small conference room with a laminate table and six chairs of molded polymer. The lights are fluorescent, embedded in the ceiling behind plastic waffle-weave. A whiteboard hangs on one of the walls. On another is a standard-issue clock and a poster that demonstrates how to perform infant CPR.
"Please, have a seat," says Sandra, gesturing toward one of the chairs. She goes around the table and sits opposite me.
After we're both seated, she looks at me for a while.
"How are you doing?" she asks.
"I feel like I've been hit by a Mack truck." My eyes spring open. "Oh my God. I can't believe I just said that."
"It's okay, Annemarie. It's just an expression."
"Yes, but...I'm sorry," I say, as my eyes fill. My hand flaps beside my face. "I think I need a minute."
Sandra reaches across the table. A tissue appears as though by magic. I never even saw the box. "Take your time."
I nod and daub my eyes with the tissue. It's a full two minutes before my throat loses the strained feeling that signals an imminent meltdown. When I'm finally able to speak again I say, "Can you explain something to me?"
"I'll try."
"How is it that Jeremy is virtually unscathed?"
"He was in the back of the car."
"But surely it must have been damaged too. I mean, if you saw what it did to..." I blink and swallow hard, trying to maintain control.
"The amazing thing is, he wasn't even hurt in the collision. After the truck carried the front away and the back stopped spinning, Jeremy's car seat simply fell out onto the highway. He hit his head and arm on the pavement."
I blink in disbelief.
After a pause, Sandra speaks. "How's Eva?"
I force myself to shift gears, because I'm still thinking about the back of the car spinning like a top, and the car seat toppling forth. "I don't know. She fell completely apart and then she pulled herself together. But honestly? I have no idea how she is."
"I can give you some referrals to grief counselors in your area, if you like."
"Thank you."
"You might consider going yourself."
I stare at my hands, which are clasped on the table in front of me. They're sweating, and I'm embarrassed by the little spots of condensation beneath them. My skin looks sallow under the fluorescent lights.
"Annemarie?"
I nod. "Uh-huh. Yup. I might."
"The thing is, something like this doesn't hit you right away. Some people get through the early stages of grief just fine, and then fall apart when the reality--and permanence--begins to sink in."
I clear my throat. "I know all about the various stages of grief. I lost my father last summer."
"Oh, Annemarie. I'm so sorry."
"Yeah. Me too," I say.
She nods. A long silence stretches between us.
"Well," she says finally. "In that case you know that there are certain practicalities we need to address even though it's probably the last thing you want to do. I followed some leads on Sonja's family this morning, and I'm afraid there doesn't appear to be much there."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that it seems she was the only child of a woman with a fourteen-year-old warrant for her arrest. Everyone's best guess is that she's in Argentina. At any rate, she's not on the radar."
I stare in shock. "What about her father?"
"Her birth certificate said 'Father Unknown.' The mother cohabited with a number of men, but only married the last one, whom she since divorced. I spoke with him this morning."
My jaw flaps for a moment before I can speak. "And?"
Sandra looks at me, stretches her lips into a grim line, and glances down at her hands. "His main concern, after wondering whether he might stand to gain anything from the estate, was whether he could get stuck with the interment costs."
I stare in disbelief. "Are you serious?"
She nods.
The import of this begins to sink in. "Does that mean I have to make arrangements for them both?"
"You don't have to, no," she says softly. "But it's beginning to look as though nobody will object if you do."
"Oh." My head suddenly feels as though someone has driven a stake behind my right eye socket. I drop my forehead onto my hands. I cannot imagine how I'm going to survive the next few days.
"I'm so sorry, Annemarie. I'll help in any way I can."
"I'll find out what the wills said. What's going to happen to Jeremy?"
"Wills?" Sandra leans forward, almost eagerly. "Do you really think there are wills?"
"Oh, there are wills. I guarantee there are wills. Roger's a lawyer," I say. Then I repeat, a little more forcefully, "But what's going to happen to Jeremy?"
"Well, actually, that's what I'm sorting out this afternoon."
"What do you mean by 'sorting out'?" I say.
"He's well enough to be discharged, so if there really are wills--"
"I already told you, there are wills," I say loudly.
"--and if they specified guardians, that will help things immensely."
I pause. "And if they didn't?"
"Then I need to arrange for transportation back to Minnesota."
"Minnesota! But why?"
"Because he falls under the jurisdiction of the Minnesota DCFS."
I sit forward in my chair. "Please tell me you're not thinking of putting him in foster care."
"Unless the wills made other--"
"The hell with that! I'll take him!" My voice sounds angry, but in fact it's panic. I'm frightened to death for that little baby who had his downy head pressed beneath my chin just minutes ago.
"Annemarie, it's not that simple."
"Of course it is. We're family, and we want to take him."
"It doesn't work that way. We can't just hand babies over to anyone--"
"We're not anyone! We're family!"
Sandra sighs. "Eva is. But legally, you're not. And Eva is underage, so she can't take custody. But if you're sure you want to do this, I can help you get licensed as a foster parent."
> "Oh. Well then," I say, slightly appeased.
"But you realize you won't be able to just leave here with the baby."
"Why not?"
"Even if we get started tomorrow, the licensing and training process takes anywhere from four to six months."
I straighten up in my chair. "Four to six months!" I sputter. "That's absolutely insane!"
"Eva will have visitation rights, of course."
"Fat lot of good that will do her if he's in Minnesota and she's in New Hampshire!"
"I'm sorry, Annemarie. I didn't make the rules."
I am stunned, left staring at her face in horror. Eventually I realize the futility of arguing. "No. Of course you didn't. So he's going into a foster home for four to six months no matter what?"
"Unless the wills--"
"Yes, yes, unless the wills, etcetera, etcetera," I say testily. I slump back into my seat. "So what do we have to do?"
"I'll bring the application forms tomorrow. You'll need to provide me with references and fill out medical forms for everyone in the house. We also have to take fingerprints. We can get all that in motion before you go home."
"And then?" I say weakly.
"And then we'll check your references and run criminal background checks--"
My stomach drops through the floor. Every one of us, including Mutti, has had a run-in with the law over the course of the last year. None of us was actually arrested, per se, but that doesn't leave me feeling very confident.
"--and if everything checks out, a caseworker will come out and do a home study."
"And that takes four to six months?"
"The lengthiest part of the process is the training classes. They only run every three months, so you'll have to wait for the next session to start."
I sit forward, outraged. "Training classes! Why would I need training classes? I've already raised a child! I know what to do!"
Sandra shakes her head. "Annemarie, believe me. I understand your frustration. But you also have to understand that there is absolutely nothing I can do about this."
There's a long silence, broken only by the sound of the clock's minute hand wobbling forward.
I rise stiffly, crunching the tissue in my fist. "I'll find out about the wills."
She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. It is tasteful, unornamented. "If I'm out of my office, leave a message. I'll check in at regular intervals. You can also have me paged."
I turn to leave.
"Annemarie?"
I stop in front of the door, my hand already on the knob. I'm afraid to turn around. "Yes?"
"I just want to say...I think that what you want to do is remarkable."
"No," I say, still facing the door. "I'm just doing what anybody else would do."
There's a slight pause before she answers. "I only wish that were the case. Trust me. It's remarkable."
I hope she continues to think so after she sees our background checks.
I stop by Jeremy's room long enough to tell Mutti that I have to go back to the hotel room to take care of some business.
Jeremy is sleeping in his crib. Eva is passed out cold on the window seat, which has been transformed into a single bed. The blinds have been drawn, and she's curled in the fetal position, wrapped in a thin blanket with her back toward me.
Mutti sits in the rocker by the crib. Its side is dropped, and Mutti's fingertips rest against the baby's.
"I have to make some phone calls," I say, speaking quietly into her ear. "If you can possibly keep Eva away, please do. If you can't--well, I don't know what. I guess I'll go on a walk with my cell phone."
Mutti nods. She looks as awful as I feel, with dark gray circles beneath her eyes and blotchy skin.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" she whispers.
"Other than keeping Eva away, no."
"Are you calling funeral homes?"
"No. I've got to take care of something else first."
Mutti trains narrowed eyes on me. "What?"
I glance first at Eva--who heaves a great shuddering sigh--and then at Jeremy, who sleeps on his back with all four limbs spread out, palms facing the ceiling.
I lower my voice, and then lean so that I'm once again speaking into her ear. "They want to discharge Jeremy into foster care--in Minnesota no less. So obviously I'm applying to become a foster parent."
"Well, of course you are," Mutti sputters indignantly.
Again, tears spring into my eyes. "They're trying to tell me it will take four to six months, but I don't believe it yet. I'm going to call some of Roger's lawyer friends and see if there are any alternatives."
"Mein Gott. Yes. Obviously. Go, shoo," she says, flicking one hand toward the door. "Go fix things. In the meantime, if I have to chain myself to him, I will. Go!"
I practically run back to the hotel room.
Hell, who am I kidding. I run the whole way.
Despite its being nearly a year since I last called, my fingers dial Roger's office phone number without so much as a fraction of hesitation. I can choose between Alfred Gaines or Lawrence Scoville. I choose Lawrence, because he was close to Roger, even though he hates me.
It wasn't like this at the beginning, of course. When he and Roger were first made partners, the two of them had big plans for us. We were supposed to be "couple friends"--or even "power couple friends"--since in the late eighties and early nineties that was part of the required wardrobe of an upwardly mobile lawyer.
As couples go, we seemed like a good fit. The two men were rising stars, and Peggy and I were homemakers with babies of about the same age. Roger and Lawrence had starry-eyed visions of dinner dates, bridge games, shared vacations, charity balls, and golf outings. The problem was that the dinner dates and bridge games were supposed to involve gourmet cooking by the lovely stay-at-home wives, the shared vacations were supposed to involve Peggy and me keeping our toddlers from drowning in the surf while Roger and Lawrence went deep-sea fishing, and the golf outings left us--Peggy, me, and our babies--stranded at home on playdates.
I never was any good at playdates.
I'll admit I was having some trouble back then, figuring out what I wanted to do with my life, and it's entirely clear I didn't try very hard at my role in the foursome. Housewifery was my second career, and the main reason I chose it was that it was the furthest thing I could think of from competitive riding. By the time all this was going on, I had already tired of it. And eventually I blew up. Unfortunately, it happened in front of Lawrence. That was fourteen years ago, and he hasn't said a civil word since. But still, he's Roger's partner and best friend, and so I think I need to speak to him.
"Aldrich, Scoville, and Gaines," says a sweet young voice.
"Brenda?" I say.
"No, I'm sorry. Brenda's no longer here."
"Oh. Well, anyway, I need to speak to Mr. Scoville," I say.
"Certainly. May I tell him who's calling?"
"Annemarie Zimmer. Aldrich," I add quickly, realizing he may not recognize my maiden name, to which I've reverted.
"One moment, please," she says.
There's a click and I'm left listening to Pachelbel's Canon, sullied by ocean waves.
After a long wait, there's another click. "I'm sorry, Mr. Scoville can't take your call right now. May I take a message?"
My jaw drops in indignation. I shouldn't be surprised--Lawrence has never made much of an effort at hiding his feelings about me. But to refuse my call? That is simply too much.
"Tell Mr. Scoville this won't take long. I really need to talk to him."
"Uh..." says the hapless girl.
"Please. This is important."
She goes off. The Pachelbel returns, fighting hard against the synthesized tweeting of birds.
"Mr. Scoville says that he's in a phone conference that starts in four minutes, and he really can't--"
"Tell Lawrence," I say, hissing out his name, "that if he doesn't take my phone call, I will call his personal
line once a minute, on the minute, for the rest of the day; and if that fails, I will do the same to his cell phone. I need to speak to him."
I don't have either of those phone numbers, but I don't suppose he knows that.
The distraught receptionist catches her breath. "One moment, please," she says in a quavering voice.
Another click. Now the birdsong and ocean waves are combined, completely overwhelming the Canon.
"Annemarie!" Lawrence booms, pretending that he didn't just try to refuse my call. "Long time no hear. How are you?"
"I'm terrible, Lawrence."
His voice changes to alarm. "Why? What's going on?"
"I need to know who Roger's family lawyer is."
"Uh," he says. I can hear the cogs turning in his head. "I really don't think it's my place to, uh...Why don't you just ask Roger? I thought you were all at a horse show together?"
"Roger's dead, Lawrence. So is Sonja. And the state is trying to place their child in foster care."
A deep gasp comes through the phone line.
"I can't let that happen," I continue. "I need to find out what the will said, and I mean in the next hour or two."
"How? What happened? And they're both...? Oh dear God, dear God--"
I hear an explosion of crying at the other end of the phone; manly, choking noises that hardly sound human. My animosity melts completely. A lump rises in my own throat.
"They pulled out in front of a tractor trailer on I-88," I say softly. "The truck had a full load and no chance of stopping."
"So it was...quick?"
"Sonja died on impact. She never knew a thing."
"And Roger?"
I pause. "He hung on for a while. He died last night. It was...for the best."
Lawrence is silent for a moment as he absorbs this. "But the baby's alive?"
"Alive. And fine. Practically unscathed. He's got a fairly impressive goose egg on his forehead and a greenstick fracture of the ulna, but it's almost healed. In fact, he's well enough that they want to discharge him from the hospital. As you know, Roger had no family. Apparently neither did Sonja. I need to find out whether the will said anything about guardianship. Because if it didn't, they're going to ship Jeremy out to some foster home in Minnesota even though I said I want to take him."