“Home,” he said.
“She was afraid of home? Like, afraid of her mom? Or Charlie the contractor? What about Hector, her little brother’s father. Did she mention him?”
“Roxy was afraid for Lola.”
“Something was happening to Lola at home? Again, like with Charlie the contractor? Was he abusing her? Is that what Roxy said?”
“Lola was mad at Roxy. Lola told Roxy she wasn’t her mother. But then Lola was mad at their mother, too.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s Lola. Roxy would say trouble is what Lola did best.”
“Mike, help me understand. Whatever Roxy was worried about, she must’ve had good reason. Because everyone is dead now, including Lola. What happened? Help me, before Roxy is next.”
“Roxy didn’t hurt them. She protected Lola. That was her job.”
“And at Mother Del’s, did she always protect Lola?”
Mike wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“Could she even protect herself?”
He kept staring at the ground. No more jangling. Utter stillness, which somehow felt worse.
“I protected Roxy. Roxy protected Lola. We tried our best.”
“But it wasn’t always enough,” I filled in.
“Roberto is dead. But not everyone is as easy to kill.”
“Mike, wait—!”
Too late, however. He’d said his piece. Now, he turned and walked away without a backward glance.
• • •
I STAYED WHERE I WAS. Pretended to fiddle with the zipper on my windbreaker, adjust the Patriots cap on my head. It wasn’t hard to appear distracted, as I had so many thoughts racing through my head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Mike Davis exited the park. Then, a heartbeat later, another familiar form appeared half a dozen steps behind and followed him out.
Sarah, on the hunt.
I hoped I’d taught her well.
Chapter 17
Name: Roxanna Baez
Grade: 11
Teacher: Mrs. Chula
Category: Personal Narrative
What Is the Perfect Family? Part III
The judge shows us the children’s garden. It’s a kidney-shaped patch of dirt in a bright spot near the back steps of the courthouse. There’s a small tree in the middle. Pear tree, he tells us, flowers beautifully in the spring. A five-year-old planted it two decades ago, the judge’s first family case. Since then, he’s invited all children to add to the garden. Lola, Manny, and I each have little four-packs of pansies. The flowers will bloom this fall, he explains to us, then die back for the winter. But—he pauses for dramatic effect, staring pointedly at Manny—not before seeding themselves. Meaning we can see our pansies again in the spring. Growing bigger and stronger. Just like us.
Manny nods vigorously. He likes the pansies, but mostly the opportunity to play in the dirt. Lola and I don’t care. We just want to stand next to our baby brother. Memorize every move he makes. Record in our minds every hiccup, laugh, giggle. My ribs hurt. I move carefully, so no one will notice. Lola seems equally stiff, though like me, she doesn’t talk about it.
Manny appears perfect. We focus on Manny, everything we have loved and missed about him.
Behind us stands Susan Howe. She’s our CASA volunteer. Her job is independent of the state, she tells us, as if we understand what that means. She sits with us in the courtroom during these hearings. Does her best to answer our questions. “When will I see Mommy?” is always Manny’s question. “Why can’t I go home again?”
Mrs. Howe is also our advocate. “When can we see Manny?” is the question Lola and I always ask her. She’s in charge of coordinating such things. But she also observes us, writes up her own report on how we’re progressing in foster care, how we’re handling the rare times we see our mom, etc. Her role is not to be confused with that of the pinch-faced lady, Mrs. McInnis, our caseworker from DCF, who started this mess.
Last month, we were at this same courthouse with the same judge for something called an Adjudicatory Hearing. Basically, Mrs. McInnis presented all the ways our mother had done us wrong. Reports from the school that we consistently lacked food or money for lunch. Landlord saying we were six months behind on rent and he’d started eviction proceedings. Mom’s car being repo’d. The job she no longer had. The number of times the police had been called to the house due to her and Hector’s drunken rages.
My mom had a seat at her own table next to her lawyer. Public defender, I’d guess, except he looked like a skinny, pimply-faced kid, dressed up in his father’s best suit and hoping no one would notice. His hands shook uncontrollably as he read off counterarguments he’d scribbled on a sheet of paper. A couple of times, his voice cracked. My mother wouldn’t look at us.
She sat and cried.
Manny reached out his arms for her. “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.”
She bowed her head. Cried harder.
Manny stayed on my lap for the rest of the hearing, my arms tight around his trembling shoulders, Lola pressed up on the other side. Our CASA lady, Mrs. Howe, sat with us. She patted my arm a couple of times. But we didn’t respond. She wasn’t one of us. She wasn’t family.
Today is the Dispositional Hearing. We plant our flowers with the judge like good children. Smile, nod, and appear grateful. In this new world order there are many adults to please. They all claim to have our best interests at heart. Lola and I are learning to be careful. Very careful.
Back inside the courthouse we go. I carry Manny. At four, he’s too big for this, but he hates the courthouse. He already knows who we’ll see inside, and his little body is trembling. For a moment, looking down the long corridor, I see the outline of a man against the sun-bright glass. Big guy. Hector, I think. They’ve found Hector and he will take Manny and keep him safe. Maybe, if I ask nicely, he’ll take Lola and me, too.
I hear a hitch of breath beside me. Lola has seen the same silhouette. But then the man turns. The light from the corridor windows strikes his face. Not Hector at all. Just some other big dude going about his business today. My shoulders slump. I press my cheek against the top of Manny’s head, grateful I didn’t say anything.
The judge leaves us for his chambers. We follow Mrs. Howe into the courtroom, filing in from the back. Pinch-faced Mrs. McInnis is already there, sitting to the right with her stack of paperwork. She glances up briefly, looks away. She knows we hate her, blame her for everything. And yet, last month, as she read off the long list of neglect charges, I felt embarrassed for us, not her. Because my mom, myself, Hector, we hadn’t done any better. So this lady had to come and tear our family apart.
I know the moment Manny sees our mom because he stiffens in my arms. He doesn’t cry out for her. He whimpers low in his throat, which is worse. My ribs ache. I’m having a hard time drawing a breath. It’s good we’re almost to our table, the one in the middle, where we sit with Mrs. Howe.
Lola pulls out a seat for me. I take it, settling Manny on my lap. He stares at our mom’s table, so I do, too. Same pimply-faced lawyer from last month, wearing the same too-big suit. But my mother . . . She looks better than before. Her face is fuller. She has washed her hair, put it back in a thick ponytail that gleams beneath the courthouse lights. She’s wearing a blouse I’ve never seen before. A soft peach. It’s pretty against her skin.
She looks over at us. Manny rocking on my lap. Lola biting her nails. Me, just sitting there. She smiles. Tentative. Hopeful. And my heart breaks into a thousand pieces. I want to run to her and cry. I want to stand up and scream. I want to shred that new blouse. I want to put all the pieces back together.
I’ve never loved and hated someone so much. I don’t know if I can take the strain. I avert my eyes, look down at the top of Manny’s head. When I glance over at Lola, she is simply sitting there, perfectly still, tears streaming down her f
ace.
The judge walks into the courtroom and the hearing gets under way.
More lists. If the Adjudicatory Hearing was the compilation of everything my mother had done wrong, this is the list of everything that has to happen next. Mandatory drug and alcohol counseling. Safe and stable housing. Steady employment. Parenting classes. Therapy. Random drug testing. My mother nods along to each requirement. If thirty days ago she was a drunken mess, this month she is the repentant mother, willing to do anything to get her children back. I wonder how long this latest spell will last.
The judge wants to know about fathers. Hector Alvalos is listed on Manny’s birth certificate. Where is Mr. Alvalos? Mrs. McInnis, the pinch-faced lady, says the state has been looking for him without any luck. I glance over at my mother. She is staring down at the table. I wonder if she’s ashamed that she chased Hector away. Or hiding her features because she knows where he is and she still doesn’t want him back. Not even for Manny, who’s resumed crying at the mention of his father’s name.
The judge now turns his attention to Lola and me. What about the girls? Who are their fathers? There’s only the mother’s name on the birth certificates.
“I don’t know their fathers’ names,” our mother speaks up.
“Why not? Did you tell either of the men you were pregnant? Go to them for assistance?”
She shakes her head.
“Why not?”
“I did not . . . I could not be sure at the time which man might be the father.”
My face is burning. Lola’s, too.
“But you have some ideas?” the judge pressed. “I can order paternity testing.”
My mother shakes her head. “I don’t have any ideas. I was, um . . . I was young and very foolish at the time.”
“You were drinking,” the judge states.
“Yes, Your Honor. I was partying most nights. By the time I figured out I was pregnant . . . I don’t know, Your Honor. I just don’t know.”
Lola has stilled beside me. I think she is too embarrassed to move. Then I realize she’s too angry, her hands fisted tight. I’ve done my best to keep her safe the past month. We stay tucked in with the babies. I stand guard at night. But Roberto and Anya are patient, persistent. My little knife has already disappeared. They wait, set up fights, then blame me when Mother Del appears. Punishment is a night in the closet downstairs, leaving Lola all alone.
I’m learning better tricks now. Slipping chocolate laxatives in their desserts, over-the-counter sleep aids into their dinners. I can’t fight them directly and win, so I do my best to incapacitate them. Mike has proven a good ally, sliding Tylenol PM beneath my napkin, a gift of ipecac syrup under my pillow. But it’s a long and stressful war. Both Lola and I have the scars to prove it.
Mrs. Howe always asks us how we are doing when she shows up. What do we need? How can she help? We never say a word. Last time we spoke, they took us away from our home. No matter what all these well-intentioned adults are trying to do, our lives are now worse.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” my mother is saying. “I have failed my children. I’ve failed myself. I know that. But I’ve been sober for seventeen days. I’m trying, Your Honor. I’m trying.”
The flower-planting judge likes this. He bangs his gavel, declares the hearing adjourned. Next hearing will be in three months to review my mother’s progress against the conditions outlined here—is she still sober, attending counseling, maintaining employment, finding suitable lodging, etc., etc. Until then, we’ll stay in foster care but will now be allowed weekly meetings with our mother.
Manny jerks up on my lap, reaches for our mother instinctively. But Lola and I don’t move. We know better. The CASA lady, Mrs. Howe, has walked us through this. This hearing was only the first step, to establish guidelines for my mother to follow. There are still four more court-mandated hearings to go. Review hearings at the three-, six-, and nine-month mark. Then, at twelve months, the Permanency Planning Hearing.
In other words, we’re not leaving foster care anytime soon.
We shuffle out the end of the courtroom. At the last minute, exiting the courthouse, I see the shadow of a big guy again. He turns away quickly, but this time I spy his face. Hector. It is Hector, lurking around the courthouse. Why doesn’t he just come forward? Take Manny home? Take all of us home?
I pause, grab Lola’s arm to say, Look. But then he’s gone and she’s wincing beneath the tight grip of my fingers.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, letting her go. Mrs. Howe is staring at me. Manny, too.
Hector. I saw Hector. He was here, and then . . . he left us.
Again.
I turn away from Lola and Manny. I don’t say another word.
• • •
Where are these perfect families? Is it yours? Your friend’s, your neighbor’s? I don’t think you can just point one out. The ones we’re most likely to admire are simply the ones with the best-kept secrets.
No, the real perfect families, they have warts and bruises and scars. They had to screw up and admit their mistakes. They had to do everything wrong so they could learn how to do a few things right. They had to hate so they could know what to love.
Manny is my perfect family. Lola is my perfect family.
• • •
My mother. Hector.
My father, who is nothing but a blank spot on a birth certificate.
A perfect family, I think, is one that’s learned how to forgive.
Which is why I hope eventually, even after all I’ve done, they will all still forgive me.
Chapter 18
YOU ARE WRONG. ROXANNA WOULD not hurt me. She is a good girl. Besides, she would never do anything that might harm the dogs.”
“Please, Mr. Alvalos,” D.D. tried again, but the big man turned his head away from her, his mouth set in a grim line. D.D. shot a glance at Phil, who seemed equally at a loss.
They’d returned to St. Elizabeth’s, where Hector Alvalos had been rushed to the ER. Good news for them, the same nurse they’d spoken to earlier, Nancy Corbin, was in charge of his care. The gunshot wound hadn’t been serious. No need for surgery, just some cleaning, patching, and repair. Currently, Hector was recovering in one of the smaller ER rooms. He wore a blue-patterned johnny and was tucked in tight beneath rough-looking white sheets. He had an IV strapped to the back of his hand, a pulse monitor on his index finger, and a couple of other leads that did God knows what and went God knows where.
Did a gunshot wound even earn you an overnight hospital stay anymore? D.D. was wondering. Or maybe with a tough guy who already had an ugly scar running down half his face, they figured he’d be checking himself out soon enough? Hector appeared pale, but not that much worse for the wear.
At the moment, nurse Nancy had granted permission for them to speak with him. If only Hector would feel so accommodating.
“A female matching Roxy’s description was spotted running away from the scene,” Phil attempted next.
Hector shook his head. “I saw plenty of girls around. Beautiful day, everyone outside. Could’ve been any one of them.”
“Running up the street?” D.D. pressed.
“If you heard gunshots, wouldn’t you run?”
D.D. sighed heavily, rubbed her temples. This case was giving her a headache. And to think, seven hours ago, her biggest worry had been what kind of Dog they’d bring home from the shelter. She’d been glancing at her cell phone continuously, looking for news. So far, nothing. Most likely Alex had seen the Amber Alert and was giving her space to work. Too bad. At this point, she’d rather be dealing with a new puppy.
“Walk us through it.” Phil spoke up now, trying to reorient their reluctant witness. “After we spoke to you this morning . . .”
“I went to a meeting,” Hector said immediately, and given the way he said the word, D.D. understood he meant AA.
“I got out. I had a message on my phone. From you. About the dogs. And yes, I would take the dogs. They are good dogs, Manny loved those dogs . . .” Hector’s voice grew thick, his gaze a little wild.
“You came to the coffee shop,” D.D. prodded gently.
“Blaze and Rosie. I saw them right away, tied under the tree. There was a cop there, standing next to them. Like . . . like he was their guard.”
D.D. and Phil nodded.
“I came up. Told him my name. Then I gave him my phone, let him listen to the message. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to do anything wrong. A big guy like me, I can’t be too careful.”
Hector gestured to his scarred face. D.D. imagined his bulk and demeanor didn’t always sit well with the law enforcement community. Especially given his actions at the crime scene this morning, when he’d taken down one of her officers.
“I played with Rosie and Blaze. They seemed very happy to see me. I told them I was taking them home, they could live with me now. Are they okay?” Hector asked abruptly. “Who has them?”
“The dogs are fine. A teacher from Roxy’s school has them.”
“She has a house? What about a yard? They need a yard. Blaze likes to be outside, Rosie, too. Manny said so.”
“The woman promised to take good care of them. When we’re done here, depending on how well you’re feeling—and how well this conversation goes,” D.D. added, “we can work on reuniting you with the dogs. Okay?”
Hector lowered his gaze, nodded sheepishly. For a tough guy, he reminded D.D. an awful lot of her five-year-old son when he was in trouble.
“The cop, he gave me back my phone,” Hector continued now. “He made a call of his own. Then he said everything checked out. I could take the dogs.”
“The officer left,” Phil provided, as that was their understanding from the scene.
“Yes, he walked away. I was standing there, trying to figure out if I should call for a cab, because you can’t take dogs on the bus. Or maybe I should walk, as it was a nice day, but would that be too much for the dogs? Maybe they needed food, which reminded me, I needed to buy food. And probably dog beds, toys. So much to think about, things I hadn’t considered. Then . . .