Along Came the Rain

by Alison R Solomon

  Mikki would barely look at me for the first couple of days and when I tried to talk to her, she answered everything with one-word answers. But I guess at some point she realized we need to be allies. We started banging on the front door and on the walls, but nobody ever heard. I think these places mostly belong to the retired people from up north, who come here for winter. Mrs. Clark told me they’re called snowbirds, but I never did understand why. All I know is that by November Pelican Bay will be full of white-haired couples, the men in their plaid shorts, the women with their pink sun visors. But by November, we could be dead. How long can you survive if you only have water?

  Is anyone looking for us? We don’t know because we have no contact with the outside world. There’s no television and no computers. So in addition to not knowing whether we’re a headline or have gone completely unnoticed, it’s super boring. With no TV and no technology, there’s nothing to do and nothing to listen to. No music. No games. Nothing to distract us. I finished the puzzles in my book the second day we were here. We don’t even have anything to read. Mrs. Clark said she was going to buy us books to read over the summer and that she would find out what books we would need for the new semester so we could get a head start. But then we got taken away. Or she sent us away. Or…

  I feel like I’m going mad. I have to be strong. And I have to keep Mikki strong. She spends a lot of time crying.

  “What if we never get out of here? What if he comes back and starts pimping us? What if he doesn’t come back?”

  I pretend that I don’t have the exact same fears. “Don’t worry,” I say. “It won’t be much longer. Something obviously went wrong with somebody’s plan for us. Barker will sort it out when she gets back. She’s always had our back.”

  And it’s true Barker has never let us down. But she only visits us once a month and if she was out of town, who knows when she was planning on coming out again? Meanwhile, we sit and wait, and hope that tomorrow is the day Barker picks up the phone to Mrs. Clark, or Parminder, or whoever she needs to talk to, and finds out that we’re not where we’re supposed to be. If only we could give her a signal to start looking.

  Part Three

  Chapter Sixteen

  Barker, June 16

  It’s been a couple of days since I went out to Mrs. Clark’s house and I can’t put off going again any longer. With twenty-five families to monitor a week, and five new assessments, it’s hard to make room in my schedule, especially going all the way to North County. But I’m on my way to check out a potential new home, and I figure if I cut short that visit by twenty minutes, I can swing by Mrs. Clark’s. I’ve tried calling a couple of times, but just get the same message—the number is no longer in service. Thanks to HIPAA, email isn’t considered a confidential form of communication, so the only ways to get in touch with clients are by phone or by mail, and I don’t want to put anything in writing.

  I drive first to the prospective new home, a family who looks great on paper. Two older kids in college, two high schoolers still at home. I’ll have to find out where the older kids will sleep when they come home in semester breaks. Dad’s an accountant and Mom does some volunteer work with the local domestic violence shelter, but mostly she’s a stay-at-home. They’re very involved with their local faith community, which is usually an excellent thing for foster kids, but since it’s a Jewish temple, I’ll have to explain that they can’t be taking Jade County children there unless those kids happen to have been brought up Jewish. And that’s not likely since I’ve never had a Jewish foster kid on my caseload in fifteen years on the job.

  The house looks well maintained from the outside. This time of year with all the heavy rains, everything grows like crazy, but I can see their lawn is recently cut and their bushes trimmed. My knock is answered by a short, curly haired woman who pumps my hand enthusiastically and brings me inside. I can smell cinnamon, apples, and some other heavenly aroma of baking and I think, what kid wouldn’t want to live here? We go into the kitchen where Mrs. Green whips up iced coffees to go with the pastries. She tells me their name and has me try to say it.

  “Arugula?” I’m confused.

  She laughs. “Rugelach. Pronounce the ‘ch’ at the end like you’re clearing your throat.”

  I still can’t say it properly, but they’re warm from the oven and they melt in my mouth so who cares? I know plenty of social workers who won’t eat or drink anything when they do home visits, but I’m not one of them. My colleagues question the cleanliness of the home, or get concerned that they might offend someone if they don’t like something they’re offered. I figure all these homes are a lot safer than some of the cheap restaurants where we buy lunch, and I think breaking bread with someone—or in this case, rugelach—is the best way to help them relax. After all, having some stranger inspect your home isn’t the easiest thing to go through.

  Mrs. Green walks me through the house and I inspect the locks, the childproofing, make sure there’s a closet for the child’s clothes—needless to say there are plenty—and go through the rest of my checklist. Mrs. Green talks the whole time. She’s funny and warm, and I think she’s going to be a perfect foster mother. We sit in her living room and I ask my standard question about how she disciplines her children.

  “I take away their food privileges,” she says.

  “Dessert you mean?”

  “No. Dessert is something they have to earn with good behavior. If they’ve been good all week, they get dessert on Friday.” I check in mentally with myself. Yes, today is Friday, hence the rugelach. “Food privileges means basic meals. If it’s a small infraction, they lose a meal, usually dinner. If it’s something more serious, they don’t eat for the whole day.”

  I feel sick. Is she serious?

  “You deprive them of food? What do you do, make them stay in their room?”

  “Oh no, that wouldn’t work nearly as well. I cook their favorite meal and make them sit at the table. Then the rest of the family eats, and they watch. When my oldest daughter was fourteen, she stayed out beyond curfew. I found out she’d gone to the movies with a boy from school. I gave her nothing to eat from Monday to Friday, and let me tell you, she never did that again.”

  It’s not the first time I’ve heard a parent proudly describe an abusive situation as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but I’m furious that it’s this parent in this situation. Not only have I lost a prospective foster home, now I’m going to have to make a child abuse report which can take hours. Usually I explain to the parent why I have to make the report, but this woman is so creepy that I decide I’m not going to say a word. I ought to call the report in right now, but I really need to get to Mrs. Clark’s and I’m already running late, thanks to the coffee and cake, which is now churning in my stomach as if I’d eaten poison.

  “How soon will I get my first child?” she asks as I stand up. When hell freezes over, I think.

  “There’s some paperwork I have to file first. We’ll be in touch,” I say, trying to avoid shaking her hand as I back out of the front door.

  I jump in the car and start heading over to Mrs. Clark. I feel like I need to take a shower. I’m the first one to know that people don’t have the word “abuser” tattooed on their forehead, but still, I like to think I can read people reasonably well. If you’d have told me Mrs. Green was going to turn out to be a member of the Bates Motel, I’d have laughed in your face.

  ****

  I pull up to Mrs. Clark’s domicile and right away, I see her car in front of the garage. I feel as if an enormous weight has just been lifted from my chest. When I ring the doorbell, she answers almost immediately.

  “Hello Barker, this is a surprise! I didn’t think I’d be seeing you for now.”

  I’m not sure what she means. “I couldn’t get you on the phone.”

  “I had to change my number. I kept getting hang-up calls and some kind of heavy breathing from a private number.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Bu
t I wish you’d have left me the new number.”

  “I was planning on giving it to you, but I didn’t think you’d need it right away. I only got home yesterday. But don’t stand on the doorstep, come on in.”

  As we walk down the hallway, I notice the usual clutter of tennis rackets and gym shoes isn’t there. We go into the kitchen and she offers me a soda, but I decline.

  “You mentioned coming home. Where did you go?”

  “I took myself on a last-minute hiking trip to the Chattahoochee National Forest in Georgia. Oh my word, it was spectacular. Have you been there?”

  “Georgia? You went to Georgia?” What is going on today? Have all my parents lost their minds? She can’t be taking Florida foster kids hiking out of state without my permission. She knows that.

  “Yes. I’ve been meaning to go. And after the girls left, I decided I would just jump right on it before I got the next lot in.”

  “The girls left…? What do you mean?” I try to sound calm but inside I’m screaming. The girls left and you didn’t call my office?

  Now it’s her turn to look confused.

  “What do I mean? I don’t understand what you’re asking.” She pours herself a glass of water and sets it on the counter.

  “You just said the girls left. Where did they go?” Please, let this be some kind of nightmare, and I’m going to wake up any minute.

  “Why I don’t know. I thought you’d know that. You arranged it.”

  “I—I what?”

  She is looking at me like I’m mad, and I start to feel like I might just be going crazy.

  “I got a call from your office. She said the girls were being moved. I must admit, I was quite disappointed. I really thought things were going so well. I had so many plans for them, I even thought—”

  I don’t want to hear it. “Who called? When?”

  “I don’t remember her name. It was while you were on vacation. How was your vacation by the way?”

  How can she make small talk with me? But then I realize that as far as she’s concerned, nothing untoward has happened.

  “Retreat. I went on a spiritual retreat. It was great,” I say through gritted teeth. “But I don’t understand how you just let the girls go.”

  “Hon,” she says. “Being a foster parent, I just do what I’m told. The worker said you told her to pick up the girls. When she got here, she showed me her badge, so of course I let her take them. What else was I to do?” She looks at me strangely. “Is something wrong?”

  I’m not sure how to answer. “Describe the person who picked up the girls. Did you check that she had a county badge?”

  Mrs. Clark describes the person and I know right away it’s my student, Parminder.

  “Tell me again which day she came to take the girls?”

  “Let me see…” She starts doing mental calculations in her head, I hear her mumbling which days the girls were scheduled for tennis. “It was so hot. I asked them if they were sure they wanted to play…but you know how young girls are, they’ll play in any weather…and then the next morning, yes, the next morning—June thirteenth.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nods her head vigorously. “Yes, because it wasn’t quite as hot and I remember thinking what a shame it was, that they wouldn’t get to play tennis later that day. After they left, I felt so depressed I knew I had to do something dramatic. And right when I was looking at the newspaper, there was an article about places of beauty that were less than a day’s drive away, and I thought—”

  “Thanks.” I cut her off because I really don’t want to hear her thought process. I already have more than enough information.

  Parminder Chatterjee finished her internship on June twelfth, one day before she picked up the girls from Mrs. Clark’s home.

  ****

  I call Sam while I’m still in the car on the way back to the office. He and the grandkids are back from Cape Canaveral but he’s still on vacation. “I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t urgent,” I tell him. “But I have to report something pretty serious to you.” I tell him what’s happened.

  “Go right to my office, and don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there within the hour.”

  When I get back to the county building, I go to my desk and start drafting an incident report, although I know this is way bigger than just writing up a statement. I hate doing this kind of bureaucratic stuff. I know I’m no good at it. Sam will write the official report but he’ll need my version of events to do so. He has to walk right past my cubicle to get to his office, and when he arrives, he pokes his head around the partition and motions for me to follow him. I gather up my laptop and some notes while he strides away, making his way swiftly down the hall. When I enter his office, he’s already pulling out the county manual. He’s wearing a dark suit, and a dark blue tie surrounds the collar of his stiffly ironed shirt. My heart sinks. His usual attire consists of cotton pants with a polo shirt, or perhaps a light-colored button-down short-sleeved shirt. He only looks this formal when he has a meeting with the Chief or when he talks to the press. In this case, I suspect he may have to do both.

  I tell him again what happened.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the day you went out there and no one was home?”

  “I didn’t want to get Mrs. Clark into trouble. She’s been a model foster parent.”

  “Didn’t want to get yourself in trouble more like it.” I don’t respond. “This is why you’re not a supervisor. You don’t think like one.”

  I bristle. He’s always told me what a good social worker I am. I hope this is just fear for his own job talking. “It’s true that I didn’t want to get the department in trouble. I was hoping they’d come home from some camping trip they’d forgotten to inform us about, and nobody would be any the wiser.”

  He grunts. I show him the report I’ve written up so that he can see the timeline of events.

  “You didn’t think it odd that she’d changed her phone number and you couldn’t contact her?”

  “My clients change their numbers all the time. Or they forget to pay their bills so they have no phone connection for a few days. Foster parents aren’t exactly wealthy.” In theory, we don’t accept foster families unless they can prove they have enough income without the stipend they receive for having kids in their homes. In practice, many of them need every penny we give them. I don’t tell him that Mrs. Clark isn’t one of those foster parents living on the edge, using the county payments to make ends meet. “And you’re sure it was your student who picked them up?”

  “Our county isn’t exactly the poster child for diversity. She’s the only Asian-Indian we had on staff.”

  “And now she’s abroad somewhere?”

  “Yes. I emailed her right away, but the email bounced back with an error stating that it was undeliverable.”

  He looks at me with his eyes narrowed. “What address?”

  “Her university one of course. It’s the only one I have.”

  “She must have given us details of her next-of-kin from when she started her internship.”

  “She gave us her parents’ address and home phone number. However, I distinctly remember that she told me they spend every summer in India. So we don’t have any way to contact them.”

  “You’ve really messed everything up this time.” Sam is practically snarling at me.

  “I hardly think you can blame me for any of this,” I respond wearily. I’m so tired of always having to answer to some person in authority for everything I do. I remember the days when a social worker just got on with her job. I remember when we barely had to do any documentation and when the only thing we cared about was the people we served. But everything’s changed in my profession and now it’s all about being accountable to stakeholders.

  Sam sighs at my response. “Did you document your first visit to the home, when they weren’t there?”

  “Not yet. I know I should have, but I just didn’t get to it yet.”

  “Good. I don’t
like to do this, but since we only have twenty-four hours to report an incident, we’re gonna have to make it look like today was the first day you went out there. That you got behind on your visits because of your vacation.” I don’t interrupt him to remind him that it was a retreat to renew my batteries, one that he suggested. “It still won’t look good, but it will look a hell of a lot better than not telling anyone about two missing children for several days. And I don’t need to tell you that this is strictly between you and me, do I?”

  “No sir, of course not.” Relief floods through me. I know I run the risk of losing my job over this fiasco, but now I’m not in it alone. Sam has become complicit in falsifying our documentation. If I go, Sam goes. And given how close he is to retirement, that’s not going to happen. Which means when all this is over, I’ll still have a job.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wynn, June 13

  “Is this Wynn?” The voice on the other end of the phone is a little breathy and has a slight accent.

  “That depends who’s calling.” I don’t think it’s a robo call from Sri Lanka, but I won’t say anything until I know for sure.

  “This is Parminder, Barker’s student. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need you to do us a favor.” I thought Barker told me Parminder’s last day was yesterday, the same day Barker left for the retreat, but I’m hardly one to hold on to details like that. “We have a fantastic benefactor who donated his beachfront condo for two weeks. He wants us to give it to foster kids who are aging out of the system. That means they’ve reached the age of eighteen, so we don’t have to provide homes for them anymore.” I remember now what Barker said about Parminder. That she’s very condescending and comes across as a know-it-all. Does she really think I don’t know what it means for kids to age out of the system? “We just heard of two girls for whom this would be perfect. I’m already on my way to pick them up but I have a plane to catch so I can’t take them to the condo. It’s in Pelican Beach.”