The Other Brother (Chop, Chop Series Book 4)

by L. N. Cronk

  “Thanks,” she said, sniffing and giving me a small smile back.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No matter what, it’s going to be okay.”

  She leaned back, let out a ragged breath, and rested her head against the couch.

  “You know,” Charlotte said quietly after a moment, “most kids my age have normal lives.”

  “You’ve been through a lot,” I agreed.

  “So why can’t God just let me be normal now for a while – you know? I just wanna go to school, be with Jordan, get married one day, have kids . . . just normal stuff.”

  “Normal’s overrated,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  She didn’t say anything else for a few moments, and neither did I.

  “What if Jordan dies?” she finally asked in a terrified whisper, breaking the silence.

  “Have you talked to Jordan about it?” I finally asked her.

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “You know what I bet Jordan would say? I bet he’d say that whatever glorifies God the most is what he wants to have happen.”

  “I know he would.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes again. Then, more quietly, she said, “But I’m not there yet.”

  She let out another ragged sigh and rested her head on my shoulder.

  “Greg was a lot like Jordan,” I told her after a minute.

  “He was?”

  “Uh-huh. He always put God first.”

  “Oh,” she paused for a long moment, then finally said, “I really don’t remember much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean about my dad and Greg . . . I really don’t remember very much about them.”

  “Oh.”

  We sat quietly for a little while, and for a minute I thought maybe she’d fallen asleep.

  “Nice tattoo,” she said, admiring the back of my hand.

  “Thanks.”

  “Is it a princess?”

  “No.”

  “Yes it is,” she argued.

  “Lily picked it out.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure she did.”

  “She did.”

  “Dave?” she asked after a few moments.

  “What?”

  “Will you tell me about them?”

  “About your dad and Greg?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What do you wanna know?”

  “Everything.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I WOKE UP the next morning to what would turn out to be the longest day of my entire life. It started with Dorito jumping into my bed with me and bouncing up and down.

  “Guess what?!” he asked when he saw me peer at him through one eye.

  “Charlotte’s on the couch?”

  “YES!” he cried, bouncing higher.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t wake her up.”

  “She told me to go away,” he explained.

  “Ahhh,” I nodded. “Stop bouncing.”

  “How come it’s light out already?” Dorito asked.

  I looked at the clock and groaned.

  “You’re gonna be late for school,” I told him.

  “I wanna stay here and play with Charlotte!” he protested.

  “Nope. One more day of school and then you get to stay home for two weeks.”

  He looked at me doubtfully.

  “Plus, today’s your class party. You don’t wanna miss that, do you?”

  He sighed. “Well, can Charlotte spend the night again?”

  “Charlotte can sleep on the couch anytime she wants,” I promised.

  This satisfied him and he trundled off to his room to get dressed while I went to the kitchen and found a pack of Pop-Tarts for him to eat in the car.

  “Charlotte!” I said, pulling on my coat.

  “Mmm.”

  “Charlotte!” I said again, swatting her on the head with a glove. “Wake up!”

  “What?”

  “I’ve gotta run Dorito to school. You’re in charge of Lily.”

  “Where is she?” Charlotte asked, not opening her eyes.

  “She’s still sleeping.”

  “And so you’re waking me up why?”

  “So you’ll know you’re in charge.”

  “Whatever,” she said, turning over and nestling back down into the couch.

  Lily and Charlotte were both still sleeping when I got back, so I went into the kitchen and poured myself some cereal. I was almost done eating when Lily started cooing in her bedroom. I quickly shoveled down the last few spoonfuls of cereal and was putting the bowl in the sink when the doorbell rang. It was Jordan.

  “I saw Charlotte’s car in your driveway. Is she here?” he asked.

  I nodded. He looked over my shoulder into the living room and smiled.

  “See,” he said, looking back at me. “I told you that you were very special to her!”

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  “A bunch of us are going skiing,” he explained, striding toward the couch. “She was supposed to meet me twenty minutes ago.”

  “Hey, Charlotte,” he said, gently shaking her shoulder. “Wake up.”

  Funny how she woke right up for Jordan.

  “Hey,” she smiled at him, reaching up and hugging him.

  “Good morning,” he smiled, hugging her back. “We’ve gotta get going or we’re gonna be late.”

  “I look awful,” Charlotte moaned.

  “No, you don’t,” Jordan told her. “You look beautiful.”

  “And THAT, my friends,” I said, heading toward Lily’s room, “is what they mean when they say ‘Love is blind’!”

  After Charlotte and Jordan left, I took Lily to her weekly Mother’s Morning Out at our church and reminded her that Grandma was going to pick her up.

  When I got home, I was surprised to find Tanner sitting in the living room waiting for me.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I asked him. “Don’t you have school today?”

  “Today’s make-up exams,” he explained. “I’m done.”

  Then he asked, “When’s Laci coming home?”

  “Her plane comes in in about four hours. Why?”

  “I, uh, I found out something about Anthony.”

  “What?”

  Tanner ran his hand over the top of his head.

  “He, um, he really shouldn’t be in the same house with Amber.”

  “Why?” I cried. “What did you find out?”

  “I don’t know how to say this,” Tanner said. “He’s a really messed-up kid.”

  “Messed-up, how?”

  “He got taken away from his mom when he was about seven years old. He got taken out of his house because his mom’s boyfriend was . . .”

  “Was what?” I asked when he didn’t go on.

  “Was molesting him,” Tanner finally said, reluctantly.

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly, “but why’d you say that he shouldn’t be in the same house with Amber?”

  “It’s really common for kids who’ve been abused like that to become abusers themselves,” Tanner said. I felt my stomach tighten.

  “But they don’t all become abusers, do they?” I asked in a panicky voice. “Just because he was abused doesn’t mean that he–”

  “He did,” Tanner interrupted.

  “What?”

  “He did become an abuser.”

  “What?”

  “I’m telling you that he molested a little kid and that he doesn’t need to be in that house with Amber.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  “I know,” he said, emphatically.

  “Does Social Services know?” I cried.

  “I don’t know. I guess not.”

  “I mean, they . . . they surely wouldn’t put Amber in a home with someone who has sexually a
bused kids if they knew about it . . . would they?”

  “I don’t know how she got put in the same house with him,” Tanner said.

  “We’ve gotta call them and let them know!” I said, lifting my phone from my belt.

  “No!” Tanner said, stopping me. “David, listen to me! We can’t tell anybody.”

  “We have to!”

  “No,” he said again. “We can’t let anybody know that we know about this.”

  “But–”

  “Look, a friend went way out on a limb to get me this information,” Tanner said. “They could lose their job.”

  “I don’t really care about some friend of yours and their job right now!”

  “They’re not just my friend,” he said quietly. “They’re a friend of yours, too.” I stared at him. “And it’s about more than just them losing their job . . . they could go to jail.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I’m not going to tell you, but I promise you don’t want them to go to jail.”

  “We have to get Amber out of there!” I finally said, turning back to him.

  “We will.”

  “How? What are we going to do?”

  “Don’t worry,” Tanner assured me. “I’ve got a plan.”

  ~ ~ ~

  AFTER TANNER LEFT, I called Amber’s social worker. I couldn’t help myself. She didn’t answer her phone, but I left a message.

  “This is David Holland,” I said. “I need to talk with you about something . . . something very important. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.”

  After that I was way too uptight to get any work done. I decided I’d better go to Mom and Dad’s and get the rest of my stuff since I’d promised them everything would be out of there four days ago.

  I prayed the entire way over to Mom and Dad’s.

  Please, Lord, keep Amber safe. Please, God, help me and Tanner to get Amber out of that house. Please don’t let anything happen to her.

  ~ ~ ~

  I HAD JUST pulled into my parent’s driveway and turned the car off when my phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Holland?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Erin Lamont, returning your call.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, my heart pounding in my chest. “Thank you for calling me back.”

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, sounding like she didn’t really want to know.

  “What do you know about the older boy who’s living there with Amber?”

  “Mr. Holland,” she sighed. “I’ve told you . . . I cannot discuss any specifics of the children who are under our supervision.”

  “Do you know anything about him?” I persisted.

  “I’m not going to discuss this with you.”

  “Amber needs to be out of that house!” I practically shouted.

  “It is the policy of the Department of Children’s Welfare to not remove a child from a certified foster home without justification–”

  “But there is justification,” I argued.

  “Such as?”

  “The older boy in that family . . . he’s not the kind of person Amber needs to be around! It can’t be good for Amber to be living in the same house with him. Who knows what he’s–”

  “I know that you want Amber,” she interrupted. “I understand that. But all of our families – and all members of those families – have undergone rigorous background checks, home studies, and trainings. I can assure you that we do not place children in a home unless we are confident they will be safe and well cared for.”

  “She is NOT safe in that home,” I insisted.

  “Do you have any more “evidence” of wrongdoing on the part of this boy or the family?”

  Tanner’s voice rang in my head. David, listen to me! We can’t tell anybody . . .

  “Well, no,” I stammered, “but–”

  “Quite frankly, Mr. Holland, Amber’s placement is none of your business,” she said. “I don’t know how much more clear I can make that to you.”

  “Could you just investigate this boy?” I begged.

  “I have TOLD you, Mr. Holland. All of the families that we place children with have been thoroughly–”

  “NOT THIS TIME!” I yelled into the phone. “Why can’t you just admit that maybe you made a mistake? I’m telling you that somebody needs to investigate that boy that’s living there. It’s your job to make sure that Amber’s safe.”

  “You do not need to tell me how to do my job.”

  “Somebody does,” I said, still yelling, “because obviously you’re not doing it!”

  I was desperate.

  “If I have to,” I threatened, “I’ll call your supervisor and make sure Amber’s removed from that home!”

  There was a pause before she responded.

  “Mr. Holland,” she said, rather sweetly, “my biggest concern for Amber at this moment, actually, is that a grown man who barely knows her and who has no apparent reason for involving himself in her life to the extent that you have, has developed an abnormal and questionable interest in her. Frankly, I find that your continual investigation into every aspect of Amber’s life is not only disturbing, but quite possibly I believe it could be considered stalking, which – as I’m sure you’re aware – is illegal in this state.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Holland,” she went on, “that if you don’t stop obsessing over this child, then I’ll have no other choice but to file a restraining order against you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare . . .”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Mr. Holland,” she said, her voice suddenly cold. “I file restraining orders against people all the time if I feel they’re a threat to the children I supervise. It’s my job. You won’t be allowed to get within two hundred yards of her . . . not even to walk your little boy into his classroom in the morning.

  “Now,” she said, once again in that sickly sweet tone. “Is there anything else that you need to discuss with me, or can I get back to my job?”

  I was speechless.

  “I gather we’re done then, Mr. Holland,” she said when I didn’t answer. “Have a good day.”

  And then she hung up.

  ~ ~ ~

  I SAT FOR a moment in disbelief. I closed my phone and stared out the window to my parent’s house. Finally, I looked at my watch.

  Dad was probably going to arrive any minute – he usually came home around eleven for lunch. I decided to try and get my things fast and get out of there before he showed up. My stomach was too knotted up to make small talk right now.

  I let myself in through the front door quickly and bounded up the steps. Once I reached the top step I hurried down the hall, but what I saw when I stepped into my bedroom made me stop in my tracks.

  The boxes that I’d stacked so neatly in my closet a few weeks before were now along the wall, under the window. Some of the boxes were opened and some of the stuff was out of them.

  But more than that. Apparently Mom and Dad’s “guest” had arrived.

  He was sitting in front of those opened boxes – in the midst of all my things – and he was looking at my yearbook. He was reading the page that had been dedicated to Greg and Mr. White. The page with the message on it that I’d written to them.

  “Hey,” he said. “Look what I found.”

  He turned toward me a bit to show me the yearbook. I could see his face now. He was smiling. Something about him seemed so familiar that I felt I should know him, yet I had no idea who he was.

  Obviously he wasn’t expecting to find me when he turned around, because his smile disappeared.

  “Oh,” he said, startled. “I thought you were Troy.”

  (Troy was my dad.)

  “What are you doing?” I yelled.

  “N-n-nothing,” he stammered.

  “You are too! Get outta my stuff!”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he said, standing up and extending a hand toward me. “I’m Jacob.”

  “I don’t give
a rip WHO you are!” I said.

  Except that I didn’t really say “rip”.

  I said a word that I only say on days when I’ve found out that a little girl I love is probably being molested and that there’s nothing I can do about it. Something I say only on days when someone threatens to take out a restraining order against me. Only on days that Jordan might have a devastating neurological disease. And only on days that I walk into my old bedroom and find a stranger searching through my most personal belongings.

  “Get outta my stuff!” I yelled, stalking over to him and trying to grab the yearbook out of his hands. It tumbled to the floor and landed face down, pages bending.

  “Now look what you did!” I said, still yelling. “You ruined it!”

  “You did that!” he argued. “I didn’t do it.”

  “If you hadn’t been messing with all my stuff in the first place it wouldn’t have happened,” I said, kneeling down next to the yearbook and trying to straighten out the pages. I closed the cover and put it into an opened box.

  That’s when I saw Greg’s sweatshirt. On the floor.

  Greg had worn that sweatshirt the last time we’d played one-on-one in our driveway a few days before he’d died. It had been unusually warm that day and he’d stripped it off, hanging it over the fence and playing in just his t-shirt. He’d forgotten to grab it before he went home, and Mom had washed it so it would be clean when I gave it back to him . . . but I’d never had the chance.

  Now I reached for it – to get it off the floor. To fold it carefully and put it on top of the yearbook – where it belonged.

  “Let me help,” Jacob said, grabbing it just before I did and carelessly stuffing it into another open box.

  “Quit touching my stuff!” I yelled, shoving him away from the boxes, hard. He sprawled backwards and I grabbed the sweatshirt.

  Jacob rose to his feet and came after me. I’d just managed to get to my feet when he slugged me in the jaw. Now I was the one who went sprawling backwards across the floor. My head hit the wall and I literally saw stars.

  I scrambled to my feet and headed back toward him, ready to punch him back, but before I could, someone grabbed me from behind and stopped me.

  “David!”

  It was my father. I turned to face him, lowering my fists.