by Roya Carmen
I pulled my gaze away, and stared out into the distance, toward the front of the yard. Izzie’s dad often parked his transport truck on the front yard. Most trailers had broken down pickups, quads, dirt bikes, BMX, pick-up trucks, campers, mosquito tents and kids’ toys scampered about, and Izzie’s place was no exception. It was a mess.
I spotted Pete coming toward us, and I let out an audible sigh. “Your uncle is here again.”
Pete was annoying as hell, always coming around and hanging around us. I wondered why he wasn’t hanging out with adults his own age. He was twenty-two for crying out loud. Did he not have a life? A James Dean wannabe, he always wore torn jeans and t-shirts, and a cigarette was permanently affixed to his bottom lip. And he usually carried a can of beer. Budweizer was his drink of choice.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he cheered. “What’s up?”
That’s what he called his niece… gorgeous. I thought it was completely inappropriate. But that was Pete. He was a weirdo. He and Izzie were good pals, often played video games together and fished at the lake nearby. I personally thought he was a jerk, but I would have never admitted that to Izzie.
Her eyes popped open and she smiled up at him. “Hey, loser.”
He grinned, shoved her legs out of the way and sat next to her without apology. “What are you girls up to?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Izzie told him. “Well, not nothing. We were trying to think of a way to get back at Jimmy McNaughton.”
“Why? What did he do? He didn’t try to get into your pants, did he?”
“He called her fat,” I chimed in.
Pete laughed. “The kid probably just has a crush on you, Izzie.”
“Well, if that’s the case, he’s an idiot.”
“So listen,” he said. “I saw you two at Foster’s place the other day. I don’t want you there, Izzie.”
Izzie sat up straighter, her breasts practically spilling out of her top. “What? Why not?”
“He’s bad news.”
I spotted a hint of a smile on her mouth when she whispered, “How?”
“Well, you know Simon’s little sister… how she got killed by a drunk driver. That was him… Gavin Foster.”
Izzie’s mouth stretched into an O, and my heart sank at Pete’s words. I had a hard time believing them. How could Gavin do that? How could he drive drunk and kill someone?
Izzie and I were both speechless.
“So you stay away from him, all right?”
She didn’t make any promises. She just smiled.
Pete slapped Izzie’s thigh and stood. “I’m gonna go grab a beer from your dad’s fridge.”
I was shaken. Izzie leaned back, carefree. She didn’t seem to care at all about Simon’s little sister. “So… about Jimmy…” she said.
I could practically see the gears in her little evil cunning mind turning.
She sat up straighter. “I’ve got an idea.”
“What?” I asked, curious.
An impish grin traced her lips. “You’ll see.”
That was Izzie Reed for you, always making you wait for the good stuff, making you wonder.
She was such a tease.
11
I’ve already gone over the case file about a hundred times. Madison Perez. Nine years old. Parents are Raine Perez and Colette Clarke, not married. Raine Perez is twenty-eight years old, an unemployed forklift operator addicted to Percocet and Oxytocin, following a serious work-related injury to the back. Collects disability. Colette Clarke, twenty-five, hairstylist, alcoholic with a history of depression.
Colleen Parson, thirty-one, homemaker and sister of Colette, married to Greg Parson, family law attorney. Seeks sole custody of Madison because she maintains that Madison’s home environment is not suitable for reasons of neglect, drugs and alcohol use in the home. Madison’s parents, who insist they love their daughter, are fighting these accusations.
Madison’s photo tugs at my heart; she reminds me of myself at that age. Messy hair, a spattering a freckles on her nose, and a wrinkled blouse. Her smile is forced, her expression cautious. At nine years old, I can see that she’s already cynical. So was I at that age.
Both sides of the dispute have attorneys representing them. Court-appointed for Madison’s parents, and some big-shot private firm lawyer represents Colleen and Greg.
And I’m the lucky one assigned to this heartbreaking case. I’m the one whose job it is to interview and investigate Madison’s emotional health and quality of life. Then I will be asked to write a report stating my findings which will be used in court. I play a large role in this case, and I don’t take it lightly. This is a girl’s life, and all I want for her is the best.
I first meet her in her home. I’ve worn a professional but not too intimating ensemble; a blue pencil skirt and a frilly blouse, topped with a tweed blazer. My hair is up in a clip and my makeup is minimal. My sensible black Mary-Jane Hush Puppies carry me up the stairs of the tiny unkempt home smack in the middle of Woodland in South Chicago.
I ring the doorbell, hand grasped tightly around my briefcase handle. As soon as the door swings open, I smile brightly. I’m here to help you, I want to say, but of course, all I say is, “Hello. I’m Abigail Cooper, and I’m a social worker with children services at Warden Social Services. I believe you were expecting me. You must be Madison’s mother.”
The thin young woman, who in my opinion, looks much older than her twenty-five years, motions me in. “That’s me.” She forces a smile. I can tell she’s trying hard to be amicable, but she clearly hates every second of this.
My gaze darts around the space; toys are tucked in a large basket in the corner, marks of a freshly vacuumed carpet are evident in the living room, and the smell of Febreze mixed with cigarettes assaults my nostrils. The kitchen is tidy enough, but there is a large collection of cereal boxes on the counter; sugary dessert cereals, the kind I would never eat. Clearly, there has been an attempt to tidy up the place, but telltale signs of neglect linger about: a pile of bills and documents on the desk in the entry hall, unopened and ignored, an iPad, a laptop and a video game console on the sofa. Missing in action: books, a banana stand, a bottle of children’s vitamins.
“Madison’s in her bedroom,” she tells me. “I can go get her.”
She seems sober enough. She’s not slurring her words, nor is she wobbling. She’s put together; a pink t-shirt and dark jeans, hair up in a ponytail. Yet her nails are bitten to the quick, her nose is red, her eyes are bloodshot and her hair looks dirty.
“Actually, I’d love to see her room. We can go see her.”
Colette shrugs. “Sure.”
When we turn the corner, the first thing I see is a Jonas brothers poster. Madison is stretched out on her bed. Her eyes are glued to her device, and a bag of Cheetos sits next to her. A small mutt of a dog lies next to her.
“Hello there, Madison,” I say cheerfully. “I’m Abby.” I offer my hand.
She hesitates a beat before finally getting up from the bed and shaking my hand.
“What’s your dog’s name?” I ask. “He’s cute.”
“Scooter.”
An awkward silence fills the room.
“I like your room,” I tell her. It’s definitely nothing special; small, the walls a faded grey, posters, and girly knick knacks everywhere, the kind one can get at the dollar store.
She smiles but barely. “You can sit on the bed.”
Her mother stands by the door, clearly not planning to leave me alone with her daughter, and that’s fine because it wouldn’t be protocol for me to be alone with the girl anyway. I smile and ask her if she’d like to come to the living room with us. She follows, but she’s clearly hesitant, skeptical. Why exactly is this woman here?
As soon as we settle on the outdated brown sofas, I tell her a little about myself; how I love books, comic books especially. I tell her about my love for baking and how I live in a really cool building and have the greatest friends.
“Are
you married?” she asks.
“Nope.” Of course I don’t tell her about the divorce.
“My parents aren’t married either.”
I nod and smile
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
I laugh. “No, not at the moment.” I think about Noah, and a hint of a smile traces my lips.
I reach into my briefcase, and take out the relevant forms. Both Madison and her mom need to sign these forms to give me permission to record our conversation. Colette knows there’s no getting around this. I’m court appointed, and if she wants to keep Madison, she needs to play ball. I then pull out my notepad and my phone, and set up my recording app.
Madison tells me about school, about her two best friends, and all about Scooter. I tell her all about Hobbes, the cat I used to have when I was a kid. “I called him Hobbes after Calvin and Hobbes. You know that comic strip? Hobbes was the tiger.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“That’s okay. Before your time.” I glance over at her mom’s whose eyes are skyward. She clearly doesn’t find this amusing in the least. She’s probably fixing for her next drink.
Madison is pretty chatty, but she completely clams up when I ask her about her home life, about her parents. “Daddy sleeps a lot,” she tells me. “He’s sick. He was in a big accident at work, and he has a lot of pain.”
I nod. “I see.”
“And what about Mommy?”
She looks up at her mother, and her whole body seems to retreat quietly. “Mommy… she likes pink like me.”
My mother told me once that if you can’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all. And I know that’s exactly what Madison is doing right now.
I glance over at Colette again. Heartbreak is written all over her face, and I feel so sorry for her. But it’s not my job to pity people. My one and only duty is to do what’s best for the child.
“So, Madison, what time do you go to bed?”
“Uh…” She tilts her head to the ceiling. “Uh… depends. Ten o’clock maybe on school nights… later on weekends.”
“She’s in bed by nine-ish,” her mother tells me.
I scribble in my notepad. “But you don’t fall asleep right away.”
Madison nods in agreement. “I’m usually on my iPad.”
I don’t glance at the mother. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to assess.
“What about meals?” I ask. “What do your parents usually make? Do you eat as a family? What does she make you for lunch?”
“Uh…” Madison falters, clearly not wanting to answer my questions.
“There are no wrong answers, Madison,” I assure her. “Just tell me the truth.”
“Uh…” she stares down at the carpet. “My dad doesn’t cook… My mom makes grill cheese sandwiches sometimes, chicken fingers and fries… I like that.”
I quickly jot her comments down. “Do you ever get tired of grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken fingers?”
“It’s okay because I make other stuff when my mom is too tired to cook.”
I straighten to attention. “What do you cook, Madison?”
“I make toast… and soup. My mom buys canned soup for me. Sometimes I make frozen pizza. And I can make fried eggs now. I make all that stuff for my parents too… they like it.”
Colette walks out of the room.
My heart sinks for Madison.
“I also eat a lot of cereal,” she tells me, something I could have already guessed from the collection of boxes on the counter.
“Sometimes, there’s no milk, so I eat it dry with a glass of juice or pop.”
I scribble furiously. This child gets nothing but sugar and processed foods.
“What about fruits and vegetables, Madison? Do you ever eat any of that?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t really like that stuff,” she tells me. “Sometimes we have apples and bananas but they always go bad because we never eat them, and then the flies buzz around the bananas. My mom said she’s not buying them anymore.
I have the urge to scream. Just a little. I add this information to my findings. I already have the report from the school, indicating that Madison’s lunch is often insufficient; pop tarts and granola bars, no fruit, no dairy or protein. And often, it’s completely non-existent. They often have to dig into their food cabinet, kept for impoverished and neglected children. This is how Madison’s situation all came to light in the first place. When they didn’t get a response from her parents following repeated calls, they reached out to the name listed in their files, in case of an emergency, in case both parents were unavailable, Colette’s sister, Colleen.
I shake my head in disbelief. This case is already getting to me, and God help me, this kid is going to get the life she deserves.
I’ve got you kid. I’ve been there. This is like my childhood, all over again. I’ll make it right.
12
I wanted to know more. I couldn’t believe Gavin could possibly be responsible for Simon’s sister’s death. I’d never been to Simon’s, but a visit was definitely in order.
He seemed surprised to see me, but was quick to invite me in. I slipped off my sneakers, eager to check out the place.
His dad, a portly unkempt middle-aged man, was sitting on the sofa, busy watching The Price is Right. The house was oddly very orderly, not a single thing out of place. A pretty glass vase of flowers sat on the coffee table. The carpet was cleaned. The books were lined up perfectly on the bookcase, seemingly organized by size. The kitchen counter was spotless. The towel on the oven rack seemed brand new. I’d never seen a home like this. Mine was always a chaotic mess. Izzie’s house was almost as bad. Her mother’s art supplies and paintings took up the whole place, and her dad’s tools were everywhere. Jimmy’s place was by far the worst, ashtrays and empty beer bottles on the floor, crusty dishes in the sink, stuff growing in the carpet, and a slight smell of cat urine. But this, this was unlike anything I’d ever seen before.
I trailed a hand along the keys of the old upright piano in the living room, too big for the space. “Do you play?” I asked him.
“Yeah, my mom is a music teacher.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“Who have you got with you?” his dad growled.
“It’s my friend, Abby,” Simon told him. “We’re just gonna go to my room.”
“You’re clean now? No lice on you?” his father asked me.
I frowned at him. “I’ve never had lice, Mr. Cook.”
“You’re still friends with that little hussie?”
“Yes.” I looked away, wanting to punch him in the face.
Simon grabbed some cookies from the cupboard, and his dad shot up. “What are you doing? Don’t you be eating any more cookies. You’re already a fat ass and you’re only fourteen years old.”
Simon still had the cookies in his hand. “But it’s just two cookies...one for Abby...”
His dad twisted his wrist, and the cookies fell to the floor. Simon’s eyes welled up. “Now get lost,” Mr. Cook scoffed, but we both just stood still, stunned.
“Go,” he barked.
Simon and I ran to his room as fast as we could.
I was still shaking five minutes later. “Why didn’t he just ask you to put back the cookies politely?”
“He just gets a little mad sometimes. It’s just the way he is.” He twirled a lock of his golden hair, always kept a tad too long. “You know… with what happened with my sister and all.” He looked out in the distance, avoiding my gaze as tears made their way down his freckled cheeks.
“I see,” I said. It was sad but I was glad we were on the subject of the accident because that’s why I was there. “Uh… do you remember the accident?”
He raised his head slowly up at me, and there was so much sadness in those big beautiful blue eyes of his, it broke my heart. “Yeah… I wish I didn’t.”
“So… uh… your car was hit by a drunk driver. That’s what I heard.”
<
br /> He nodded. “Yep. Some asshole speeding, totally wasted.”
“What did this asshole look like?” I asked, and he shot me a dubious look, probably wondering why I would care what the jerk looked like. “Uh… old… like eighty or something. He was a small man, way smaller than my dad. He got arrested and thrown in jail, so that was a good thing, I guess.” He stared at the floor again, at his gold trumpet and his scattered Legos. “But that couldn’t bring her back, though.”
“What was her name?” I asked, secretly relieved that the intel I had gathered pointed to Gavin’s innocence.
“Samantha,” he said, “but we’re not allowed to say her name around here.”
Later that day, I baked some blueberry muffins for Simon. And for Gavin too. I baked for everyone, but these muffins were special. They were a pretext to see Gavin again. I knew I should listen to my dad and Pete and stay away from the man, but everything about him was magnetic, everything from his dark bedroom eyes, his soft masculine voice, to the tattoos covering his arms. He intrigued me and made me feel foreign emotions I couldn’t quite understand at the time. But today, I easily recognize them as attraction and desire.
He’d just stepped out of the shower when I knocked on his door. He was quick to answer and greeted me with a huge smile, staring at the basket of muffins in my hands. “For me?”
I handed him the basket, giddy. “Yes.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. Haven’t you heard about my famous muffins and cupcakes. I bake them for everyone around here.”
He laughed before biting into one of them. I watched him chewing, studied his Adam’s apple as it rippled, and eagerly awaited his verdict.
He winced. “Not great.”
My eyes grew wide. “What?”
He laughed, a loud hardy chuckle. “Just teasing you. These are fantastic.” He indulged in another bite, and motioned me to the blue sofa in his living room. “Sit.”
I did as told, and studied his living room: a big television in the corner, a bookcase filled with books, a guitar hanging on the wall, and quite a few pictures of him fishing, or with Magnum.