Hurry Home

by Roz Nay

“It’s work stuff,” I say, and there’s a second where he seems disappointed.

  He crosses his arms, hooks each fist into an armpit. “Come on, then. Do your worst.”

  I exhale. What is it about Sully that’s so disarming? He knows who he is, maybe, but never leads with an ego. Reliable face. Drives an old truck with one battered Van Morrison CD in it that he plays on a constant loop. Loves his dog more than most humans love each other.

  “I went out to an intake yesterday with Minerva.”

  He nods once, like I almost don’t need to say anything else.

  “It was grim, Sully. Minerva kept saying it was an innocuous house call.” I describe the filth, the plain-as-day neglect, and Sully listens, sipping unhurriedly. He knows this world, isn’t thrown by it. He grew up here, and he’s been a cop for ten years; I could probably tell him a kid was living in a box of snakes and he’d ask how many. That’s why I’m here with Sully: I can speak in shorthand in a way I can’t with Chase. He gets it.

  “So did you remove the child? What was the intake?”

  “No, we didn’t, because Minerva’s on her usual mission to keep families together whatever the cost. Family Services doesn’t focus on what the child actually needs. It’s like there are sharks in the water and we go, hey, Let’s see if the kid can swim to shore! He might make it! But Sully, we know the truth.” I swallow. “A lot don’t make it.” Dizziness sweeps through my head, and I pitch forward for a second. Sully doesn’t notice.

  “So your team’s still big on the bloodline thing?”

  I met Sully in a liaison meeting a year ago, where unexpectedly I ranted to a roomful of social workers and police officers about the failings of the current protection system. Sully sipped calmly through that speech, too, but after the meeting he asked me out for a fresh coffee. You’re just what we need, he said. But be careful you don’t burn out too quickly. Text me whenever you need to talk. And then it kind of became a weekly thing. A couple of times a week, maybe, at the most. But it’s not like we’ve set it in stone. And he knows about Chase. This is purely a professional relationship. But I find I do look forward to seeing him. More and more. I need him. I really do.

  “Morris leans toward advocating for family, yes.” I stare down at the table. “But this baby doesn’t stand a chance if we don’t remove him.” The image of a tanned boy with a toy truck in his hand pops into my mind again, but it’s morphed a bit. It’s not Buster anymore. He’s not holding the blue car but something else: a clothespin. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the image, of the memory.

  “Minerva’s a soft touch,” Sully says. “She doesn’t always make the right call, in my opinion. Then I have to deal with the consequences on the job. And they aren’t always pretty.”

  “Exactly! So we have to do something. Better sooner than later.” I feel relief to hear him talk like this. He understands. He knows I’m not overreacting. “God, Sully, it’s good to see you.”

  “You too.” He looks down at the table, picks at a gnarl in the wood.

  “You know who else would like to see you?” I say. “Minerva. She wants your number.”

  His eyes and mouth widen like I’m suggesting he eat chalk. “Oh my God. Are you serious?”

  “I haven’t given it to her.”

  He shakes his head. “Good.” He leans forward an inch farther, puts an elbow on the table. “I’m very selective about who can reach me, Alex. You’d be breaking protocol if you passed it on.”

  “Understood,” I say, blushing, because there’s a compliment in there for me, and we both know it.

  “And about that kid…”

  “The little boy. Beautiful little boy.”

  Sully sighs. He knows I’m too involved, but he doesn’t press me. “Trust your instincts. Remember that case a month ago? You were right about those parents. If you feel Minerva’s approaching it ineffectively or too laxly, take it to Morris. He gets what you do. You’re his best social worker.”

  I try to protest, but he keeps talking.

  “No, you are. He’d listen. Just … document everything. Cover yourself. We protect the ones we can, right? Breathe new life into them? But some kids suffocate, no matter what we do.”

  Suffocate. The truth of this hits me right in the throat, and for a moment, it’s like I can’t breathe.

  “Okay?” he says, and he lays his palm flat next to mine, a comforting gesture. I wish he were actually touching me. I feel a surge of warmth.

  “Thanks, Sully. I’ll talk to Morris.” I take a short sip of tea. “It’s hard to explain this stuff to anyone else. At work, they just pull out the official rulebook and tell me to back away, stay neutral, do less. But somebody has to do something. Somebody has to.”

  “It’s an important job, helping those kids. I’m right with you. And don’t second-guess how good you are at it. The trick is to make sure your head’s above water so you can keep going—one appalling situation at a time.”

  I nod.

  “And as for trying to explain your work, I wouldn’t even try,” he says. “We’re a different breed, you and I. We’re ghost dogs at the gates. Most people in Moses River will never have the first clue about what we’re guarding and why.”

  We sit silently for a few seconds. His hand is still near mine. Capable hands, curved and vital.

  “What’s your book about?” I ask.

  “Oh, this old thing?” He retrieves and holds up a copy of Far from the Madding Crowd. “It’s about two people who should be together but aren’t.”

  I laugh because it’s his favorite joke to summarize books in one sentence. It’s a story of two people who should be together but aren’t. It’s a tale of loss and loneliness. It’s about a stranger who comes to town. He puts the novel away again and watches me.

  “What else is bothering you?” he asks.

  The thing about Sully is he’s always switched on, reading people. He’s the slightly scruffy, affable guy you accidentally tell everything to at a dinner party, thinking he can’t really be listening. But he is. He knows you. Deeply.

  I rotate my cup in a slow circle. “Yesterday was a bad night. My big sister showed up at my door.”

  Now he really looks surprised. “You have a sister? How has this never come up before?”

  “Probably because I haven’t seen her for ten years. Her name’s Ruth. To be honest, I thought she might be dead.”

  “Holy shit, Alex. No wonder you look…”

  He pauses.

  “That bad?” I ask.

  “No, no. It’s just that you look … I don’t know. Haunted.”

  And I thought I was doing such a good job of hiding it.

  He studies me closely. “You are not okay.”

  “No. Of course I’m not.” I take another shuddering breath. “It’s complicated.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I mean, she’s my sister. But wherever she goes, she’s kamikaze. You know? I don’t understand what she’s doing here.”

  “Maybe she missed you? You are quite … missable.”

  Inside, somewhere deep down, I smile at that, but I’m careful not to show it on my face. “Oh, it’s not that,” I mumble. My skin feels hot. “I mean, I’m not hard to find. Did she not miss me for all the other years she didn’t bother to get in touch?”

  “Right,” he says, which really means go on.

  “She’s good at the sleight of hand. You know people like her, Sully. You’ve arrested lots of them. She’ll show you this”—I wave one palm—“while she takes away that. She’s up to something. I can feel it.”

  “Huh,” he says. “Okay.”

  Why is he tilting his head like that?

  “So you’re having a hard time trusting why she’s here now, is that it? You think she’s come to hurt you.”

  I bite my lip hard, because he’s put exact words to my fear.

  He shifts away, leaning back into his seat. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, no
, you’re not wrong.” My voice carries in the overly warm bakery. I pause, check my volume. “She knew me when I was barely formed. And she did hurt me, Sully. She hurt me in ways that are unforgivable. And yet, here she is again. I didn’t say no. I didn’t tell her to go away. I can’t.”

  He nods, his eyes sad. “Sure,” he says. “She’s your sister.”

  “Exactly.” I know very little of this man’s private life, of his family, other than he’s single and lives alone. Minerva told me that much. She also once said that he has a brother in town, although I’ve no idea how she knows that, and I’ve yet to meet him. Sully protects his privacy, but his empathy feels genuine. I can tell he’s had his own struggles, too.

  “Family dynamics are rough,” he says. “You looked up to your sister, and now you’re having to look down.”

  Did I look up to her? Was there a time? Something comes back to me then. First grade. I got in a fight with Grover Teague at recess and the school called my mother. In the principal’s office Mom’s hands worried over each other. She had such sturdy hands, scuffed around the nail beds from all the farmwork. Why can’t you be more like Ruth? she said when she heard what I’d done. The principal sighed in agreement. Her shirt was buttoned all the way to the throat. In her hand was a viciously sharpened pencil. It always amazes me, Mrs. Van Ness. Same gene pool, entirely different child. You might as well have bought her in a shop. In my head, I imagined her pitching forward and impaling herself on the sharp tip of her pencil. But that didn’t happen. It took years for me to understand how power works—how to build it, how to wield it. Only when I grew did I understand the long game.

  Sully clears his throat. “Earth to Alex? Did you hear me?”

  It frightens me that I did not. “Sorry,” I say, managing a light laugh. “You’d think I’d be a better listener.”

  “I was saying that in sibling relationships there’s always a jostle for power. There’s a hierarchy, but I don’t think it’s always set by age. I have a twin brother who’s four minutes younger than me, but he still tries to boss me around.” He smiles. “Doesn’t mean I let him.”

  I want to meet him, I think, but I stop myself. Instead, what I say next shocks. “When I was fifteen, I helped Ruth get an abortion.” I blurt it out, just like that.

  “Whoa.” He’s stunned, but only for a second.

  “Sorry. God. Sorry. You were telling me about your twin brother. I swerved off course.”

  “No, no. The less I say about him the better. I’ll ruin my own day. So, your sister, you helped her do that? When you were so young?” His eyes are soft at the edges.

  “She wasn’t in a good place—she’d gotten into drugs. I convinced her that she couldn’t have the baby. It wouldn’t be safe. We told our parents that we were going into town for a milkshake. I directed her to the clinic. She played music the whole ride and didn’t speak to me.”

  “You were fifteen?” He moves his travel mug to the side of the table.

  I just keep talking. “Outside were all these women with posters on sticks with horrible photos on them and banners about being a murderer. We had to push through them to get to the front door. She walked in pregnant and walked out not, and then we got in the truck and drove home.” I glance up at him. “I’ve never told anyone this before.”

  He looks like he wants to climb over the table, but if there’s more he wants to ask, he has the good sense not to. It’s amazing that he knows exactly the pace I need.

  Behind us at the bakery door, the bell sounds and someone comes in, but neither of us breaks eye contact.

  “How does Chase feel about your sister’s arrival?” He pauses slightly before saying Chase’s name.

  Oh, for God’s sake, Alex, don’t start looking for subtext.

  “Chase has learned not to ask questions.”

  “You mean you taught him?”

  He smiles, and so do I. We both know that Chase is easygoing, and I can be headstrong—but relationships are all about balance. It’s one of the reasons I chose him.

  “So why is Ruth really here? What does she want?”

  “My ‘help,’ apparently,” I say. It comes out fierce and sharp. “She’s pregnant. Again.”

  When he reaches across the table this time, he places his hand on mine. His skin is warm, electric. It feels like he’s transferring energy into me, an infusion of love and strength. He goes to speak, but as he does so, his eyes dart up to someone standing behind me.

  I turn.

  Of course. I should have known.

  It’s Ruth.

  RUTH

  “Hey, sis,” I say, setting my coffee on the table.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  There’s that face again, that little girl not coping.

  I look from the man she’s with, then back to her. “I’m checking out the town. Spied you through the window.” He’s wearing a soft gray T-shirt and is leaner than Chase, although still strong-looking. Brownish-blondish hair, cropped close to his head and sticking up in places like he only just ran a flat palm over it before leaving his house. “You’re not Chase,” I say to him.

  “No. Not even a little bit.” Whoever this man is, his face stays friendly and open. He lets go of Alex’s hand, sits back and stretches.

  “Sully, this is my sister, Ruth,” Alex says to him. “Ruth, this is Sully.”

  “Hi.” He reaches out for a handshake that doesn’t grip or linger. His hands feel like he’s good at camping, like he could build a fire or a shelter.

  “That your dog on there?” I point to the picture of a grizzled old blue heeler on his coffee mug. He must have got it made at a mall.

  “That’s Gravy. She’s fourteen.”

  “Gravy?” I say. “She isn’t brown.”

  “I just like the word.”

  “Is that my jacket?” Alex asks.

  I needed something to wear, and I’d seen it on a hook by the door. “I’m just borrowing it.”

  There’s a look that passes between Alex and Sully.

  “I should get going.” Sully spins on the bench, lifts his leg over to stand. He’s not that tall, but his boots are police issue. So Alex is hanging out with a cop. “Here, you can have my seat.” He waits while I sit, checking his pockets for keys and picking up a battered novel from where he’s stashed it on the seat. “Text me later, Alex.” He puts one hand on my shoulder as he moves off. “Really good to meet you, Ruth. Bye, Alex.”

  Then he’s gone, taking his jean jacket and his phone, his novel and his Gravy mug with him. But something of Sully hangs in the air over Alex’s head long after the jingly bell at the door has gone quiet.

  “What are you doing?” she asks again, once he’s out the door.

  “What do you mean? I’m having a coffee.” I place my cup on the table. “Is that a crime?”

  She doesn’t answer, just kind of shrugs. Neither of us says a word for a long minute.

  Finally I say, “I remember a time when you weren’t so keen on cops.”

  She doesn’t reply, just grabs her phone from a pocket and busies herself with the screen.

  “He seems nice, though,” I say.

  “Okay, let’s get a few things straight.” She sets the phone onto the table with enough force to squash a bug. “First off, it’s not me who’s had a lifetime of skirmishes with the law. So let’s just skip to the chase.”

  “Chase?” I say. “That’s Freudian.” I don’t know why I enjoy watching her struggle like this. Maybe it’s just a leftover from childhood. She was always so easy to incense. Before, I mean. When it wasn’t so risky, so loaded.

  “We need to talk about your plan. What are you here for? How long are you staying?”

  “Not sure how long I’m staying.” Another measured pause.

  “How far along are you? You’re barely showing.”

  “Five months. Something like that. What? I’m tall. I hide it well.”

  She rolls her eyes like it’s not the only thing I’m hid
ing, and I resent the implication.

  “Chase and I had a good chat this morning over breakfast,” I say.

  She shifts on the bench like it’s heating up underneath her. “You had a chat? About what exactly?”

  “This and that. One thing he did say, though, is that if I needed to stay a little longer, he was okay with it.” It’s a trick I learned a long time ago: Play one parent against the other. So rarely do they actually have time to compare notes.

  There’s a moment where she scrunches her eyes and rubs them like she used to when she was losing at Monopoly. “What else did Chase decide?”

  “Nothing else.” My coffee is too sour, and I search around for sugar. “You don’t tell him much, you know.”

  “I tell him plenty.”

  “He wanted to know more about you. About your past.”

  Energy crackles from every part of her—the same fire—but she is so much more in control of it than she used to be.

  “You said you needed help last night. With what?” Her teeth sound tight, as if she’s clamped them with wire.

  “Everything.” I lean in. This is it. The defining moment. “I’m in trouble, Alex. I mean it. I’m in danger.”

  “You’re having a baby in a few short months, you mean. And you have no money.”

  “It’s more than that. I left in a hurry. I had to. I didn’t bring much with—”

  “Why?” Her eyes are a sea storm gathering. “Why did you leave in such a hurry? What are you on the run from this time?”

  My fingertips drift to my temple, where I smooth my hair forward to cover my bruise. How deftly I thought I was stealing away from that house, how clever I thought I’d been. But Eli knew everything, predicted my every move, and he was waiting for me. He cared more about money than he did about me. I’d misjudged my importance all over again. Old habits die hard.

  “Look, I took a bit of a wrong turn. I did something hasty—I’ll admit it—and it might not have been the smartest thing, and now I’m—”

  “Does Hal know you’re here?” She slams down that sentence so hard that it clangs in my ears. She’s stuck on the Hal thing again, looping around and around in her head that he drank too much beer when he was meant to be working, that he threw rocks at stray dogs. Never mind all the other things she constructed in her head. That was ten years ago, and she’s still talking about it like it was yesterday! The truth is that Hal was never only one thing. Nobody ever is.