He took the box of crackers but didn’t look that interested.
She handed him the bag, and he pulled out a brand new parka with a warm hood. The one he had on wasn’t warm enough, and it didn’t look like it fit. She wondered where he’d gotten it.
“Won’t be able to keep this long,” he said as he pulled it on over his other one.
“Why not?”
“Somebody’ll take it.” His breath steamed on the frosty air as he dug into the bag and pulled out some gloves, a scarf, and a new knit cap.
Charlotte was mothering him the best she could. But Barbara couldn’t escape the irony — that her friend was dressing her son to survive, homeless, on the cold streets.
What else could she do?
Barbara had watched Charlotte, who had become one of her dearest friends, scurry around the house finding things she thought might help J.B. Charlotte was fighting her own battle with cancer. But that crisis was secondary to her worries about her only son.
Even Charlotte’s “tough love” in leaving him on the streets was more for his benefit than for hers. Her hope was that the temporary homelessness would make him hit bottom. That he’d somehow come to his senses, check himself into treatment, and do what was necessary to change his life.
But there was no sign of that happening yet.
He zipped up the coat and wrapped the scarf around his neck, then dropped the crackers back into her trunk. “I’m not hungry.”
“J.B., you said you hadn’t eaten. Take them. Eat.”
“I just need a few bucks.”
“I’m not giving you money. Is there anything you want me to tell your mom?”
He thought for a moment, tears rimming his eyes. Then he turned and staggered away.
She closed the trunk and chafed her arms, watching as he made his way off the parking lot. From the back, he looked like a stooped, eighty-year-old man.
He was only twenty-three.
“J.B.,” she called out.
He kept walking.
“J.B., go to the shelter. It’s going to get really cold tonight.”
“Hate that place,” he said.
When he was off the premises, she swallowed the lump in her throat and headed back inside. Lily waited at the glass doors as Barbara went in. “Did you tell him not to come back?”
“He knows. He’s just cold.”
“We can’t have homeless people hanging around here.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t feed him. It makes him come back.”
“He’s not a stray dog, Lily. He’s my friend’s only son.” She hurried into the bathroom, grabbed a tissue off the sink, and dabbed at her eyes.
She would have to call Charlotte later and tell her J.B. had gotten the coat. But today was a chemo day. Charlotte had it on Saturdays, since she worked during the week. Maybe she should wait until tomorrow.
Barbara studied her reflection in the mirror. Kent said she looked like Michelle Pfeiffer, but the movie star didn’t have deep lines around her mouth or grief lines between her brows. Family problems had aged her, as it had her friends.
Had she done the right thing for Charlotte’s son? Maybe she should have let Lily have him arrested. At least he’d be warm tonight, and relatively safe.
It was so hard to know what to do.
Her phone vibrated again, and she looked down at the readout. Lance. She clicked it on. “Hey, sweetie. What’s up?”
“Nothin’,” he said. “I was thinking about Jordan. Mom, do you know her mother’s name? I want to get their number from Information.”
She pictured Jordan’s mother, who looked like she’d been using drugs for decades. Though she was probably much younger than Barbara, she looked three times older. “It’s Maureen. So you’re going to call Jordan?”
“Probably. She needs to go back to treatment. Using drugs while she’s pregnant has got to be really, really bad for her kid.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to call her. I’m sure she’d appreciate that you care.”
He sighed. “It’s just that if she’s using, she probably won’t talk to me. She won’t want me to know.”
“All you can do is try. Just understand that you can’t make her do anything. Her mother can, since Jordan’s a minor, but knowing her, it’s not likely that she will.”
“Maybe I should talk to her mother too.”
“Just remember, the choice is Jordan’s. If she doesn’t want your help, you can’t force her to accept it, and you’ll have to leave it alone.”
“But, Mom, the baby …”
“I know, honey. That baby needs a hero.” Silence hung heavy over the line. “Listen, I have to get back to work.”
“Yeah, okay.”
When Barbara hung up, she prayed a silent prayer for J.B. and Jordan—and for the innocent baby about to enter a chaotic world. Dabbing her eyes again, she left the bathroom and walked to the front door just as a family approached from the parking lot. There were two teens with them. That was a good sign. When a family came with adolescent children, it usually meant they were planning to make a purchase.
Either that, or they wasted a lot of her time.
She met them as they entered the store. “Hi, may I help you?”
The mother looked disinterested. “We just want to look around.”
“Great, feel free.” Barbara handed them her card. “I’m Barbara. Just so you know, I’m not just a salesperson; I’m an interior decorator. No extra charge.”
It didn’t seem to impress them, but she followed at a distance so she could help the moment they had a question. She needed another big sale, and she wasn’t going to let this family get away.
Chapter 5
Lance told himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong taking his sister’s car, because he almost had his driver’s license. In three months, the whole driving thing would be a non-issue. Having to wait until sixteen was ridiculously random, anyway, especially when a baby’s life was at stake.
The shallow reassurance didn’t soothe his conscience. If his mother found out about this, he’d be grounded until he was thirty. He’d just have to get the car back before she got home. But calling Jordan wouldn’t cut it. He couldn’t convince her of anything over the phone, especially if she was high. But if he stood with her face-to-face, maybe he could sway her.
He dropped into the driver’s seat, jabbed the key in the ignition, and started it up. Emily’s Accord wasn’t the car he would have chosen. He was more of a Corvette kind of guy, or maybe a convertible Mini Cooper. But the only wheels in his future were those on his skateboard.
He adjusted the mirror and checked himself out. He looked good behind the wheel. Comfortable, like he drove all the time. His mother let him practice a lot, and he was a natural, if he did say so himself.
As he backed out of the driveway, Lance called Information on his cell phone, asked for an address for Maureen Rhodes. After a moment, the computer texted him the address—1630 Simpson Road. He knew right where it was.
He drove the few miles to Simpson Road, constantly checking his rearview mirror for flashing blue lights.
The street was filled with old, mildewed houses with rusted cars on cement blocks in the yards, garbage molding in torn trash bags on the street.
He drove past them to a stretch of woods, the trees providing a stark contrast to the dilapidated neighborhood. After half a mile or so of woods, a lone house came into view. The house number was painted in fading, dirty white on the rusted black mailbox. 1630. This was it.
The yard was unkempt and overgrown. The paint on the house was peeling, and in places the eaves hung unevenly, apparently rotten. New Day was a palace compared to this.
He left his car parked on the street and walked across the yard that was mostly dirt and tall clumps of weeds. The screen door was torn and crooked on its hinges, and the front door was open. He knocked on the frame.
“Come in,” somebody yelled.
Feeling awkward, Lance opened
the screen and stepped inside. At once, he was hit with a rancid mixture of scents. Rotten food, body odor, cigarette smoke … He coughed, wondering if he should go back outside, but he didn’t want to be rude.
Beyond the front room, in the kitchen doorway, he saw Jordan’s mother with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Maureen was skin and bones, no more than ninety pounds of knobby joints and angular skeleton. Some of her teeth were rotten, and her chin had that look of toothless age. Her hair was greasy and hung in her face; dark circles sank under her eyes. When she saw him, she took the cigarette out of her mouth and stared at him. “What do you want?”
“Um … is Jordan here?”
She squinted as she blew out smoke, then pushed past him and looked out the screen door. “I was expecting somebody else.” She turned back and studied him. “Oh, you’re that girl Emily’s brother, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “We’re worried about Jordan because she left treatment. Is she here?”
“She ain’t feelin’ good. Come back another time.” She opened the screen door, dismissing him.
But Lance hesitated. “Please, Ms. Rhodes. I just want to talk to her for one minute.”
“I told you, she’s sick.”
“Sick how? Is the baby okay?”
She put the cigarette back in her mouth, narrowed her eyes. “Son, that’s none of your business,” she said. “Now I’m expecting company, so I need you to leave.”
The house didn’t look in any condition for company. He glanced through the small living area to the kitchen. There were dirty plates and glasses all over the counter, and garbage spilled out of a trash can. The carpet was caked in mud and dirt, and cigarette butts lay wherever they’d been dropped.
Lance heard another car arriving outside, and Maureen opened the screen door. “There they are. Finally. Now, go on. I can’t have you here.”
Lance started toward the door but then heard someone in the hallway. He turned around. Jordan came into the living room, wearing leggings and a big, baggy T-shirt. Her face looked pale and had a gray cast, and her long brown hair was tangled. “Lance, what are you doing here?”
She’d been crying. Her face was swollen and puffy, and her hands trembled. Her stomach still looked bloated, but nothing like it had the last time he’d seen her. “Jordan, you had the baby?”
“Yeah, this morning,” she muttered.
Maureen let the screen door fall shut and gave her daughter a stern look. “Go back to your room and get the baby. They’re here.”
Maureen went outside, letting the screen door bounce shut behind her. Jordan stepped to the window and peered out.
“Are you all right?” Lance asked quietly.
Jordan stared at the man and woman getting out of the car. “Those people. I don’t want them taking my baby.”
Lance followed her gaze. “Who are they?”
“My mother and my brother have some kind of deal worked out. I don’t want it.” She wobbled, as if she might pass out, and caught herself on a chair.
Lance grabbed her arm and steadied her. “Are you okay? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”
“My mom wouldn’t take me. I had her here at home.”
“At home? Why?” She didn’t answer. “Jordan, where’s the baby?”
“My room.” She straightened as another car pulled into the yard—the blue Dodge he’d seen at New Day when her family visited. Zeke got out of the car and went to the visitors, greeting them like they were old friends. “Finally, he’s back,” she said bitterly. “Mom sent him to get diapers and bottles, but he probably stopped off to get high.”
“Is the baby okay?”
Her voice flattened. “I don’t know.”
He twisted his face as he tried to make sense of this. “Has a doctor seen her?”
“No.” She turned to a table near the door, moved papers and clutter. “Where is the other set of car keys?”
The couple with Maureen and Zeke closed their car doors and headed to the porch. Jordan backed away from the window. “Lance, I need your help.”
“Okay. You want me to take you to the hospital?”
As the visitors reached the porch steps, Jordan turned and ran back up the hall.
“Jordan!” Lance called after her.
The bedroom door closed, and he heard the lock click as her mother ushered the couple in. The screen door squeaked as they stepped into the house.
The man and woman were well dressed. They glared at Lance. “Who’s this?” the man asked.
“Some friend of Jordan’s,” Maureen said. “Kid, I told you to leave.”
Zeke pushed in past the others and stared Lance down. “You hear her, dude? She told you to go.”
Lance didn’t move. “Ms. Rhodes, Jordan doesn’t look good. She should be in the hospital and so should the baby. If you won’t take her, I will.”
“I’ll take care of Jordan,” Maureen said. “Don’t you worry about it.” She stormed through the house and yelled, “Jordan, bring the baby! We’re waiting.”
Lance just stood there, astonished at what was happening. “Ms. Rhodes, are you giving the baby to them?”
She swung back around, her eyes glowering. “How many times do I have to tell you to get out of my house?”
“Jordan’s upset about this,” he said to the couple. “I don’t think she’s ready to give the baby up.” Maybe they would listen. No adoptive parents wanted to deal with an indecisive birth mother, did they?
But the man’s eyes flashed. “Get him out of here, Maureen, or we’re calling the whole thing off.”
“No!” Panic crossed Maureen’s face. “He’s leaving!” She took Lance’s arm and pushed him toward the door.
Lance jerked free. Something wasn’t right here. Jordan was being railroaded. He moved back toward the hall. “Jordan! Jordan!”
She didn’t answer. Apparently, she didn’t want him here any more than her mother did. But hadn’t she said she needed his help? What was that about, if she was going to lock herself in her room?
“I’ll get the kid myself!” Maureen yelled. She pushed Lance out of the way and tried Jordan’s doorknob. Locked. She banged on the door, shaking the house.
There was still no answer.
Lance heard Zeke’s heavy footsteps rattling up the hallway. The rage on his face startled him.
“You! Out now, or I’m gonna smash your face in!” Zeke grabbed Lance by the shirt and dragged him back into the living room.
Lance tried to pull away. “Maybe I should just call the police!” He jerked free, pulled his cell phone out, and started to punch in 911. Zeke grabbed the phone and threw it against the wall. When it hit the floor, he crushed it with his foot. Then he picked up the pieces and threw them out the door.
“Hey!” Lance yelled. “That was my phone!”
As Lance charged him, Zeke grabbed him by the throat. Jordan’s brother was skinny from drug use too, but he was several inches taller than Lance. Zeke’s wild eyes suggested he could snap Lance’s neck without a thought. “You leave now, you little cockroach, and if you say one word to the police, I’ll find you and rip your head off. Got that?”
Lance knocked Zeke’s hand away. “She’s your sister,” he choked out. “The baby’s your niece!”
Zeke took him by the collar, ran him to the door, and threw him out. Lance tripped going down the front steps and landed on his hands and knees in the crabgrass. Getting quickly to his feet, he looked for his phone. He found the pieces in the dirt, the glass front smashed. He tried to turn it on, but it wouldn’t power up.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, despite the chilly wind. He looked around, dazed. He couldn’t go back in. Zeke might kill him.
He rushed back to Emily’s car, slammed the door, and locked it in case any of the lunatics inside came after him. Then he pulled onto the street. He’d hurry home and call 911. Maybe it wouldn’t be too late for the police to help Jordan.
But as he turned the corner onto the next
street, a baby’s cry ripped out. He slammed on the brakes and looked into the backseat. A newborn baby lay on a pillow on the back floorboard, eyes screwed shut, face red, crying as if it understood perfectly the mess it had been born into.
Chapter 6
Lance got out of the car and threw open the back door, lifted the baby off the floorboard. The tiny child was wrapped in a towel, squirming and grunting as he held her. He looked out the back window. No one was following him. He half expected to see Jordan running up the street to get her baby. Clearly, she had taken it out of the house through her bedroom window and put it in his car. No wonder she hadn’t answered Lance when he’d called out to her.
Where was Jordan now? What did she expect him to do? He put the pillow on the front seat and laid the baby down. Carefully, he worked the seatbelt around the pillow, knowing this wasn’t safe. He sat there a moment, trying to decide what to do. His phone was smashed, so he couldn’t call his mother or the police.
He had no choice but to take the baby home. There was no way he could return her to that chaos. She could be killed or given away to strangers. Jordan had said she needed his help. Well, he was going to help her.
The baby kept crying, so he put his finger in her mouth, wondering when he’d washed his hands last and wishing he had something to feed her. Jordan hadn’t left him a thing—no bottle, no pacifier. He drove home carefully, slowing around curves and turns, stepping on the brakes gently so the baby would stay put.
When he got back to his house, he didn’t park Emily’s car down the driveway where it had sat for a year. Instead, he pulled up to the garage, opened it with the remote on the visor, and drove inside, closing the door behind him. If any of the neighbors saw this it would be too hard to explain.
Carefully, he slid his arms under the baby’s, lifted the little thing off the pillow. She was so light, so fragile, so tiny. He held her out in front of him, studying her. Jordan had diapered her with a hand towel and safety pins, but the baby had nothing else on. She started to cry, so again he pressed her to his shoulder, careful to hold her head as he took her into the house and back to his room.