Forever Beach (6 page)

“Oh, dear. Nothing wrong, I hope.”

Not as much as Sarah hoped. “There's a glitch in the adoption process, so we may have to go back to court.”

“Oh dear.” Alice shook her head.
Already imagining the worst,
Sarah thought.

Sarah smiled, and escaping the sympathetic look she knew would follow, she strode into the back room.

She set her alarm and worked for almost four hours, not taking a break, not making a cup of tea, just working, losing herself in the intricate inner workings of the clocks.

When the alarm went off, Sarah was more than ready to take a break and feeling a real need to see Leila. She was waiting at the bus stop when the day-care minibus pulled up. The automated stop sign stopped traffic to each side and the bus doors opened.

The driver held Leila's hand as she waited for Sarah to lift her off the step. In addition to her backpack, she was carrying a rolled-up piece of brown paper.

“I'm big, Mommee,” she said. “Wait till you see.” She rattled the tube of paper at Sarah, knocking it against her head in her excitement.

“Well, let's go see, then.” They waved good-bye to the bus driver and started down the street, Leila chattering about lying on the floor and Mrs. Lester drawing all around her.

“We got to pick our marker. I chose pink.”

“Of course you did.”

As soon as they were home, Sarah unrolled the life-size out
line, while Leila jumped around and clapped and acted like a kid. Sarah said a prayer that it would last. She'd decided not to mention the ordered visit until after the weekend. That would be long enough to “prepare the child for visitation.” No reason for both of them to be freaked out for the next few days.

They pinned down each corner of the rolled paper with a book.
Where the Wild Things Are
at the top right by Leila's raised hand,
Hannah's Night
at the right foot, a much taped and retaped copy of
Wuggie Norple
at the top left, and
Marisol McDonald Doesn't Match
at the last corner.

As soon as it was finished, Leila started to climb on the paper, but stopped herself and sat on the floor. “Shoes off first.”

“Right,” Sarah agreed. “Shoes might tear it.”

Leila frowned. “It might tear.”

“It might,” Sarah agreed solemnly. “So it's a good thing we have lots and lots of tape to fix it again.”

She helped Leila to scoot onto the paper and align herself within the pink lines.

“Ta dah!” Sarah exclaimed. She refused to feel sad, or scared, or anxious.
Fix the now.
She looked heavenward like a baseball player after a home run. She wasn't sure there really was a heaven, but if there was, she knew that's where Sam would be.

“In fact, if we tape it to your closet door, you can see how much you grow.”

They carefully removed the books, rolled the paper up, and carried it into the small bedroom that had once been Sarah's.

“We'll have to move Elsa over.”

“That's okay.”

Leila stood very close, breathing hard with concentration
while Sarah carefully removed the tape from the Elsa
Frozen
poster and repositioned it on the wall next to the
Beauty and the Beast
poster.

Then aligning the feet close to the floor, she taped the Leila outline to the door. Leila stepped in front of it, twisted her body around trying to fit her arm in the raised outline. It took some tries, but at last she was satisfied.

“Take my selfie, Mommee.”

Sarah pulled her phone from her pocket and took Leila's picture. Selfies were a great way to document progress, failures, and just plain fun.

Sarah took the rest of the afternoon off, content to let Alice watch the store while she played with Leila. She kept reminding herself not to be too clingy, not to let the panic that rushed up her at unsuspecting times flow out onto her daughter. And soon they both fell into the calm brought by comfort and structure and love.

At six her cell phone jarred her from that total calm. It was Danny Noyes, Leila's adoption caseworker. Holding on to her shred of hope that it had all been a big mistake, Sarah carried the phone into her bedroom and answered the call.

“Sarah. Did you get the papers from the court?”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to touch base with you before they came in, but my caseload is into the next state.”

“I know, Mr. Noyes. How did this happen?”

“As you know, it's our purpose to whenever possible reunite—”

“No offense, Mr. Noyes, but can we please cut to the chase. I've been in the system longer than you have and I know what this means, someone f— screwed up.”

“No, no, it's not like that. Ms. Delgado has been out of rehab for six weeks now.”

“This stint.”

“Yes, this stint. But you must realize these things sometimes take more than one try.”

“Mr. Noyes, my mother died after one of her many ‘stints' at rehab. I was eleven and had already been in the system for almost three years. My mother made the right choice in giving me up. If she'd done it earlier, I might have had a better chance of being adopted into a normal family like Leila has.”

“Yes, I sympathize, but Ms. Delgado has a new apartment now, and she's looking for a job. She's tested clean for the last six weeks and now insists that she was coerced into signing her parental rights away.”

“This was not done in a vacuum, Mr. Noyes. Several people were present, both caseworkers as well as the judge. I hope the department isn't accusing Judge Beckman of coercion.”
Stop it, Sarah. Don't be adversarial. Be sympathetic.

“Of course not, but Ms. Delgado claims her attorney didn't fully explain the meaning of termination of rights. The court feels that we need to revisit the case to ensure we're all on the same page.”

Well, we're not,
she wanted to say.
There has never been a same page. Carmen is a career crackhead. Pimped by her latest boyfriend and now out to make a few extra bucks off the government.
But Sarah couldn't say that. It would make her look belligerent, and they were all supposed to be so willing to work together.

Sarah knew the drill. She'd given Carmen the benefit of the doubt, twice now. It had been a disaster for Leila and for her—even for Carmen.

“To that purpose . . .”

Here it came. She couldn't stop it. Just couldn't stop it.

“We need to schedule a supervised visit. She wanted a full weekend visit, but we nixed that.”

“Thank you.”

“I'd hoped to schedule a visit for this weekend.”

Before Carmen falls off the sober wagon?

“But I didn't hear from you.”

Sarah willed herself to stay calm. “I just received the notification. You probably knew before I did.”

“Well, yes, I suppose. How does this coming week look for you?”

Looks like it's going to be hellish with a major chance of setback.

“I'll need time to prepare Leila for the . . .” She'd started to say
disruption in her schedule
. Caught herself at the last second.
Do not be adversarial.
These people are doing what they think is best. Sure, but seeing it from the outside was a whole lot different from feeling it from the other side. “. . . for the visit. Not this weekend. We have plans.”

It was the craft fair weekend. Sarah wouldn't be participating; no way was she going to lug antique clocks outside to subject them to the weather and sticky fingers, both sugar and theft-wise. But there would be children's activities and the beach all weekend, and Sarah wouldn't go into the store at all on Sunday.

“Ms. Delgado is available Wednesday after her AA meeting.”

“It will have to be after three o'clock, Leila isn't back from school until then.”

“Shall we say three then at family services? Room 102. I can pick Leila up and bring her back.”

“That won't be necessary. I'll bring her and wait.”

“Actually, it would be better if I pick her up.”

“Fine.” Sarah knew the drill and the psychology. Stay home so that the child knows she will have a place to return to.
Don't blow this because of your own stubbornness.
“Thank you. She'll be ready. See you on Wednesday.”

“We really do have the child's best interest at heart.”

“Of course you do. And I really appreciate your effort on our behalf.”

“Well, then until Wednesday.” They said good-byes, very civilized. Sarah hung up, barely resisting the urge to throw the phone across the room. She knew they were doing the best they could with the resources they had—not enough—for more children than they could place, with demands from all sides. Too many files, not enough money, not enough sleep, not enough people who cared. But that didn't make it okay for a kid to fall through the cracks. Not now, not then, not ever.

            
Dear Nonie

                
I don't guess you're ever gonna write me back. But in case you read this I just wanted to tell you that my mama died. They came to tell me yesterday. I didn't go to the funeral or anything. Because by the time the system found me she was already buried.

                
I asked how she died.

                
They just looked at me all sympathetic. They didn't have to tell me. She died like all users die. I guess I should be sad. Or maybe even happy to know I won't ever have to go back there, not that group home is much better.

                
I don't mind. The last place didn't work out. Surprise,
huh? I made sure they got my new address in case you get a mind to write.

                
Doesn't matter, I guess. I write you even when I don't send the letter. I think someday you might change your mind and want to hear from me. I still want to hear from you.

                
Well, that's all for now.

Your sister,

Sarah

R
eesa stood at the kitchen sink drinking her first cup of morning coffee and wondering why a garden took so many hours and years of work when nature only took a few weeks to obliterate it.

There had been a day when she would have rushed out first thing on a Saturday morning. Early with the sun and the birds, to hoe and weed and pick the week's anxieties away. It had been great therapy. She could also remember why she had quit.

She drained her mug, put it in the dishwasher, and picked up her briefcase.

Saturday. A day for family, for gardening, for hanging out at the beach. She would be hanging out at the branch office trying to catch up on her paperwork and praying no removals came in that she would have to try to place on a weekend.

“Later,” she called to Michael, who had just taken the
morning paper and a bowl of cereal into the family room. She was almost to the front door before the television began blaring the sports news.

She walked out the front door, turned around to lock it, though she didn't know why she bothered; she lived in a safe neighborhood. Down the front steps, where rosebushes used to grow, the rhododendrons that had replaced them several years earlier had begun to straggle. How could you kill a rhododendron? They grew in the wild.

Trying to ignore the feeling that the bushes were an indictment of her life, Reesa walked to the curb, threw her overstuffed briefcase onto the passenger seat, and climbed in after it.

What had happened to her?

While she was out saving the world, she'd lost herself.

At the Child Protection and Permanency field office, she parked between a beige Honda and a gray Chevy truck and went inside. There was always someone working in the Main Street CP&P office. And it wasn't always the most dedicated workers. Today two of the newer recruits, fresh faced and clueless, were plugged into their tablets, most likely playing games or gambling, while they waited for any emergency placements to come in. Eddie Quinones was sitting at his desk behind a stack of folders eating a bagel and drinking coffee from a cardboard cup.

Reesa should have stopped for another cup, herself. Actually there was no reason not to go out and get one, except that her legs felt like lead this morning. What she should be doing was not cruising Eddie's bagel but running in the park.

“Ha,” she said, laughing out loud. Eddie looked up; the two recruits were oblivious.

“And you find something in this office to laugh about?”

“No, just imagining me in a spandex running suit.”

Eddie's eyebrows flew almost to his bald head. “Not really your look, hon.”

“Don't I know it,” Reesa said, as she slipped out of her faded track jacket and hung it over the back of her chair.

She sat at her desk and booted up the clunker of a computer she'd inherited from an unused cubicle when hers had crapped out five years earlier. While she waited for it to come to life, she called the hospital.

The White boys were still hospitalized. She learned that on the second transfer. But it took three more transfers and a threat to come to the hospital with a police escort before she could find someone who had the authority to give her an update on the boys' conditions. The baby had been moved to an NICU in another hospital. Pete was stable, but there was possible kidney damage in the younger one, Jerome.

Damn, he wouldn't have a chance if he had to be on dialysis for the rest of his life.

Reesa pushed down the anger that even years of futility hadn't quite quenched. That anger, more than anything, was what kept her going.

She pulled their file to the top. Unless a responsible relative came forward willing to take both the older boys and the baby, Reesa was going to advise they be put directly on a permanency track. Maybe even if a relative did show up. In a better world, they would have a family who would take and love the boys, a family who would already have realized they were in jeopardy and done something to fix it. Hell, in the best of worlds, they would be at home with their loving parents.

And Reesa would be out of a job, and that would be fine with her.

There were hundreds of things Reesa could do if she had the time, the money, the energy. Child services ran her dry, beat her down. And just when she thought she would hang it up and quit, a child found a good home, she saved a life—or she'd lose one—and then she knew she couldn't give it up. She just couldn't.

That's when anger kept her going.

I
LONA WIPED THE
sweat from her brow with her wristband. It was time to put this baby away. She concentrated her energy, bounced the tennis ball a couple of times. Good. She liked the feel of it. She touched it to her racket and in one smooth move smashed the ball into the opposite court.

“Let.”

Damn. She pulled the second ball out of her pocket; she hadn't thought she'd need it. Let it fly; the serve was softer, not as powerful. Not as much fun. But it did the trick. Garrett Dunne managed to return it, barely, and she whizzed a passing shot right past his ear. All he could do was grumble.

“Man, you're vicious today,” he said, dropping onto the bench where their tennis bags and water bottles were stored.

Ilona laughed. “You're just getting soft. All that politicking to make district attorney.”

“I'm in shape.” He rubbed his face with a pristine white towel and tossed it on his bag. “What say we clean up and meet in the club bar for a drink?”

Ilona looked at her watch. It was a habit not a ploy. She had nothing to do tonight but go home and read some briefs.

“Sure, a quick one.”

“Or two.”

“One, I have work at home. Twenty minutes?”

“Do you ever take time off?” Garrett asked.

“Of course, I'm taking time off now.”

It didn't take Ilona twenty minutes to look her after-tennis best. It was one of the many things she'd learned from her parents. Always look your best. No holey socks for Ilona Cartwright. No shirttails sticking out. The message was clear.
Don't let anyone see who you really are.

She walked out of the women's locker room, showered, refreshed, hair just as relaxed and straight as when she'd stepped into the shower. Was she a little overdressed for tennis? White linen slacks, silk tee. Not at all. She hadn't joined the most prestigious country club in the county to dress like a slob.

But she also made sure it didn't look like she tried too hard. Being one of the few black women members, even with skin as light as hers, she made a point of being casually perfect.

Ilona beat Garrett to the bar and took a table on the veranda where there was a hint of a breeze and shelter from the worst of the sun.

She saw a few people she knew. None of whom she really cared about seeing. If they wanted to say hello, they would wander over sooner or later. She shoved away the little niggle of doubt she'd never been able to completely erase. That one day, they might snub her, deride her, might see her for what she really was.

            
Dear Sarah,

                
I thought it was going to be nice here. It's beautiful and has a big yard, and a swimming pool and everything. But it isn't very nice. I don't think they'd like you. I'm pretty sure they don't like me.

                
Remember that movie we saw where the aliens had taken over all the women in town. That was funny. Remember. We laughed till we almost pissed ourselves. But I have to remember not to say words like piss. Well, it isn't funny. I think Mrs. Cartwright is one of them.

                
She tells me to call her Mom.

                
I call her Mother instead. She just smiles and it scares me. They don't do anything mean to me. Mostly they don't even pay that much attention to me except to tell me what to do and how to act, especially “in public.”

                
And I do it. Because I've been to places before and I don't want to go back. I hope you don't end up in one of those places. The kind where they tell you how to act and then they hurt you. The Cartwrights don't hurt me, not in any way you can tell. Only in my heart, but nobody can see that.

                
And it is cushy living here. I just wished they'd love me.

                
I don't know why they didn't adopt you. At least you're white.

                
Anyway. It won't be any good you coming here. I'm going to stay if I can. I can get an education here. They're some kind of important people. I'm going to get everything I can from them. Then one day I'll come find you and you won't have to worry about where you're going to live ever again.

                
Why haven't you written to me?

Your sister,

Nonie

“Did you order anything yet?” Garrett asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to her.

Ilona shook her head, momentarily speechless from the un
expected memory. Garrett raised his hand. A waiter appeared at their table. “Gin and tonic with a twist,” Ilona said.

“I'll have the same,” Garrett said. “Actually,” he said, leaning closer as the waiter left to get their drinks, “I'd kill for an icy Bud Light right out of the bottle. But the bad taste brigade would blackball me from the veranda bar.”

Ilona laughed. They were all hiding something.

Their drinks came, and Ilona's mind began to wander to her divorce case. The problem with socializing with lawyers was that you could never discuss your work. And she didn't really think Garrett wanted to hear what the latest interior designer had charged her for the brilliant idea of putting a few colorful pillows around the living room to make it “pop.”

Ilona felt like popping the designer, but she signed the check and smiled and maneuvered the woman toward the door, while she thought,
Next time I'm hiring a man, and don't have anyone call me for a reference
.

“Oh shit,” Garrett said, drawing her attention back.

“What? Are you just realizing that I beat your socks off?”

“No,” he said smiling, his glass half raised to his lips. “Your ex just came in, and with the new wife.”

“He never comes to the club on Saturday. Saturday is for sailing or polo. Sunday's the club for brunch, Wednesday for tennis.”

“Well, he's here today.” His smile broadened and he lifted his chin. “He's seen us and he's headed this way.”

Ilona shrugged. “And we were having such a lovely time.”

“And there's more,” he mumbled before he half stood and shook hands. “Kevin,” he said in his most jovial voice. “Where you been keeping yourself?”

“Busy,” Ilona's ex-husband said.

Kevin Morrissey Blake had been handpicked by her parents. The wedding had been overrun with dignitaries, the dress cost thirty K, and the marriage lasted all of three years.

Ilona didn't wish it back. She wasn't sure she even liked him. Tall, blond, decent enough to look at. A man who knew what he wanted and went after it. And what he wanted was a political career, and the way he went after it was to woo Ilona and then her father.

He still had her father, and he was welcome to him. They were welcome to each other.

She fortified her smile and turned to say hello. But her gaze went right past Kevin's beaming face to his new blond wife. The bitch was pregnant. He'd come to gloat.

But Ilona had spent the last ten years in a courtroom, and she wasn't about to fall for this little piece of malice aforethought. “Why, look at you,” she said enthusiastically. “As round as a tomato.”

She rubbed the model-thin trophy wife's baby bump.

The woman, whose name Ilona had conveniently forgotten, blushed, smiled up at Kevin for support. Ilona could have told her that was useless; he was watching Ilona, his head tilted slightly, trying to figure out what she was thinking. He would never get it.

“So good to see you two,” she continued, like they were all best buds.

Kevin woke up. “Have you seen your parents lately?”

Nice segue, Kev.
Ilona's smile stayed securely in place. “Not lately. I'm up to my ears in cases.”

“I saw them the other day. I didn't think your mom looked too good. Is she ill?”

Ilona had no idea. They only spoke in public, and they were rarely in public at the same time. Ilona made sure of that. “A little tired; she just got off the garden club circuit. You know how exhausting these house tours can be.”

“Well, we'd better get going. Meeting some people for drinks.”

Ilona smiled. “Orange juice for you, little mama.” She gave the baby bump one more rub. And the couple left.

“Hell, girl, you are lethal. You were rubbing that tummy like you thought a genie might pop out.”

Ilona laughed. “And wouldn't that have been something for the veranda staff to talk about. We'd all be blackballed for sure. I think I'll have that second gin and tonic.”

Garrett expelled a breath. “I'm going straight for the Bud in a bottle.”

R
EESA DECIDED SHE
would knock off and go home at three, but at five till, one of the field caseworkers showed up with a boy, about thirteen, dirty and obese. The caseworker, whose name she remembered was Dominic, looked like he'd had the worst time of it. His shirt was torn, and there was dirt of some kind Reesa chose not to observe too closely on his cheek and hands. As soon as he released the kid, the kid bolted for the door, but he slipped on something, probably whatever was stuck to his shoe, and slammed into a file cabinet.

The caseworker closed his eyes. “Eddie, help me out here.”