Hurry Home

by Roz Nay

  Sully pauses. “Who are they?” I tell him the full names and hear him typing on his keyboard, and then he sighs down the line. “Okay, none of this is public record so don’t throw me under the bus here. Not that you ever have before, but I’m just saying. There are old drug charges—quite a few of them. And, okay, there’s something else.”

  My stomach clenches. I’m seconds away from finding out I was right, but I know I won’t feel triumph.

  “There was a death in the home,” he says. “About three years ago. Police attended. It looks like the Floyds had another kid, just a little guy. He died in their care.”

  There’s a long gap where neither of us say anything. White noise fizzes in my head like static. How the hell did Family Services not know about this? But we’d had no involvement with the Floyds prior to Buster. We hadn’t—but Minerva had.

  “Minerva hid this!” I say. “Oh my God, she was their Addictions worker—she must have known!”

  “She’s a piece of work. I’ll get a hold of the coroner’s report. You keep pushing on your end.”

  We hang up, and I rest one hand on the fire hydrant as it glints in the sun. Poor Buster. Time and again, it’s an uphill battle to get a child any proper protection. First Ruth shows up pregnant. And now this. My stomach twists. I can’t let another child down. This can’t happen again. I won’t let it.

  RUTH

  When I get back to the loft after lunchtime, Chase is watching a Rollerblading show on TV. He’s sprawled on the couch in his shorts and a T-shirt with a beanie pulled far back on his forehead. I guess when he called it an off-season, he wasn’t kidding. We should all be models, get paid shitloads, sit around all day.

  “Hey,” he says warily. “You’re back.”

  I hover by the front door. “I met with Alex. She said that it’s fine for me to stay.”

  His face turns into a big question mark. “You went to her work?”

  “No, I saw her at the coffee shop downtown. She was having coffee with … she was on her way back to the office.” I know enough to save some details for when I might need them.

  “Well, that’s good.” He moves to allow me a space on the couch.

  I venture forward and sit on the farthest cushion from him, next to my now military-folded bedding from last night.

  “So. You don’t mind if I stay?” I ask him.

  He keeps his eyes on the television. “Whatever Alex wants is fine with me.”

  We watch the Rollerbladers in silence for a minute. It seems to be some kind of race, four athletes zooming down a ramp together, flying over huge jumps, mostly elbowing one another out of the way.

  “Why don’t they go one at a time?” I ask.

  “Because they wouldn’t crash as much.” Chase smiles a little. “It’s television.”

  It seems gladiatorial—it has that same kind of baying crowd—and my attention wanders. To the left of the huge television is a stacked bookshelf, but from where I’m sitting none of the books look like Alex’s. She read fantasy as a kid and these titles are all Bear Grylls’s books on things like how to survive in Patagonia without a tarp. I glance to my right at the golden-boy smoothness of Chase’s skin. He doesn’t look like a guy who’s spent much time out in the cold without top-of-the-range gear. If he’s roughly Alex’s age, works intermittently but can afford this loft, my guess is he’s survived under the shelter of his parents’ steady handouts.

  “Did you play sports as a kid?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “Did Alex?”

  I could fill him in on how wiry she was, how she made it a mission to beat all the boys in her grade on sports day, and how most years she managed it. Instead, I bunch my mouth and say, “Not much.” Only an hour’s gone by since I promised I wouldn’t mention the past. Did she mean her past or mine? Did she mean everything or just the secrets? Maybe it’s all the same anyhow. It might be impossible to separate one thing from the other. But nobody lives or thinks only in the present tense. Not Alex. Not me. If Chase is going to be around a lot, I’ll have to be on my guard.

  “Where did you meet my sister?” I ask.

  He sits up straighter, smiling wide. “In the grocery store two years ago. I helped her get shortbread from the top shelf.”

  Shortbread. My mother’s favorite.

  “She had one thing in her shopping basket. Do you know what it was?”

  “A chocolate bar?”

  “Yes! How did you know that?” He turns the volume down on the TV. “It was a Kit Kat. Nothing else. Not a vegetable to be found.”

  “She always loved junk food. My mom hid cookies in the highest kitchen cupboard, but Alex would just climb for them.”

  I bite my lip. It’s impossible. The past spills out even when I’m trying to avoid it. I have to get this back on track.

  “She gave me her number in the store,” Chase says. “I’d left my cell in the car, so Iwrote it on a banana with a pen I found in the bulk food section. I called her that same night. And I never did eat the banana.”

  Keen, I think. And way, way out of his depth. My sister’s more guarded than that. The Alex I know would never give anything away to anyone until she’s sure of them. She’s created a simplified version of herself for Chase, and she’s lived it for the whole time she’s been here with him.

  “We’re happy in Moses River,” he says, as if he can hear the inside of my head.

  “Okay.”

  “Are you? Are you happy?”

  What the hell kind of question is that? When I don’t answer right away, he turns back to the television. We say nothing as the Rollerblade show cuts to commercial, and he gets up and goes to the fridge for a drink. He doesn’t offer me one, and I stay tensely on the couch.

  I don’t know if I can do this. It’s not just that Alex’s strict parameters are closing in on me. It’s not that I’m impetuous, that I can’t keep secrets. The real problem I have—the very real fear—is everything I left behind me in Pittsburgh. And everything I brought with me here. I was only trying to choose wisely, do the right thing, but I failed again. Apparently it’s my specialty. All I can do now is hope that I’ve covered my tracks, that Eli will never find me. If he finds Chase’s front door and knocks on it, it’ll be like opening the door to a flash flood.

  I place a hand on my abdomen. I will do everything to keep this baby safe. Alex has to know that. My story’s not as simple as she’s made hers out to be, but I’m not on drugs and haven’t been for a long time. If I’m a thief, I only took what was owed to me, nothing more. I didn’t even take it for me but for this baby. I had nothing. I did what I felt was the smart thing, but it always goes this way: Do something good and the universe twists it, debases it, turns it into something despicable. And by then it’s too late to go back. It happened in Pittsburgh, and it happened in Horizon. Even now, the town of my childhood is right here, nipping at my heels. Alex might feel she can outrun her past by refusing to talk about it, but mine’s not so easily diverted. I can’t escape the feeling that it’s coming to get me.

  ALEX

  It’s been two weeks since I let my sister move in, since we ironed out the rules of her stay. We’re sitting in the doctor’s waiting room behaving as we should—being quiet and keeping our thoughts to ourselves. I’m thinking about all that’s happened lately, but the smell of the clinic we’re sitting in unnerves me and rattles my thoughts. The cleanliness is too pungent, the sterility an affront. I’ve never been able to feel calm in hospitals. When I took Dad in for his weekly treatments, the chemical veil of bleach masking the persistence of death never fooled me. Next to me in the vinyl chair, Ruth’s hands rest on her small belly, but her right foot is jiggling, just like it did all those years ago when we sat together awkwardly in a clinic that looked a lot like this one.

  I know I was a little harsh on Ruth at the bakery two weeks ago, so when I came home that day and saw her on the couch watching TV, I told her that I would be there for her, whatever she needed.
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br />   “If I’m going to take you in and look after you,” I said, “I’m also going to look after your baby.”

  In truth, it was the only way I could take care of all of us. She nodded once, like she’d expected me to react that way all along.

  I took the remote and muted her show. “What I’m saying is you’ll need some prenatal care. I’ll make you an appointment for a checkup, okay?”

  “Good, because this is about you, too.”

  “Me?” I rubbed one eye. “Why is it about me?”

  “It’s all about reconnection.” She patted her belly, pleased. Look at me, she was saying. Look at the gift I’ve brought you. “And obviously I was going to ask about a prenatal clinic. I’m already a good mother, you know.” I didn’t undermine her; it seemed counterproductive.

  Since that conversation, we have settled into an unsteady rhythm in the loft. Chase is the buffer: at every mealtime, he steers the discussion to happy things—topics that can’t possibly veer off into conflict—for which I’m grateful. I can always depend on his positivity.

  Have you ever been to Mexico, Ruth? We have, haven’t we, Alex? Such a beautiful culture, although it’s very important to stay within the hotel grounds. Or, Ruth, have you made it out to Prayer Rock yet? It’s a great hike. Totally doable in your condition. I could go with you. Or we could all go …

  Ruth says very little, as instructed. I don’t know if she’s more talkative with Chase when she’s alone with him in the apartment, but from what I can tell, she’s sticking to the rules. Chase hasn’t asked me any unusual questions or mentioned anything new about my childhood. But they’re definitely spending time together. I find two smoothie glasses in the sink sometimes, matching pink foam around the rims. When Chase’s boss called to tell him he had a few extra shoots coming up, I couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved.

  I do wish Ruth would tell me more about the baby, but every time I ask who the father is, she goes silent. It has to be Hal Nightingale’s, though the very thought of any continuation of his gene pool makes me sick to my stomach. I’ll get her to tell me soon enough. If that man is going to be showing up at my home, I want to be prepared.

  At work, things have progressed more dramatically. When I talked to Morris about the gravity of the previous Floyd son’s death—as well as Evelyn Floyd’s very recent substance-abuse file—he was caught off guard.

  “The little boy was called Rocky,” I said. We sat knee to knee in his office. “He suffocated when he was four months old. Evelyn left him unattended on the couch, propped up beside her bowl of Cheerios. She couldn’t say how long she was gone for. Rocky toppled face-first into the cereal and couldn’t right himself.” Saying the words out loud made me shudder. I could see his eyes as he struggled, the frantic flap of his tiny hands.

  “How the hell do you know all this?”

  I handed Morris the coroner’s report, watched him blanch as he read it.

  “Did you come by this information legally, Alex? Or are you pulling strings again?”

  “It wasn’t hard to find.” I was doing my job, and he knew it.

  “As tragic as this is, this coroner’s report isn’t grounds for Buster’s removal.” He folded the paper in half, negating it. “The brother’s death was three years ago, and it was never deemed neglect. It’s recorded here as accidental.”

  “I know, but you have to admit it makes the current situation more troubling. We need to go back there. And you need to come.”

  He smoothed his tie flat. “I’ve assigned Minerva to the case. You and she can—”

  “Minerva knew what happened to Rocky Floyd, and she didn’t say a damn thing! Morris, I’ve been very controlled about that. I haven’t been adversarial at all, contrary to what Minerva’s told you. I haven’t gone barreling into her office to ask why, why she would keep that kind of information to herself during an intake visit. I have to assume it’s because she didn’t feel it was relevant, which, by the way, is completely nuts.”

  “Alex, you can’t throw blanket statements around like that in the workplace. It’s divisive.”

  I counted items on my fingers like a heinous shopping list. “The previous infant died unattended in their care. The second one was left unattended outside a post office. See the pattern? When I first saw Buster, he was sleeping with his face in a couch cushion, with his mother passed out beside him. I mean, is it the same couch where her last son died? Has she even replaced it? The house is disgusting. And Evelyn has an open Addictions file from just months ago. Months, Morris!” I could feel my face growing hot. “Do you not worry what will happen if things go the same way twice? If it got out that we knew about the first instance and did nothing to prevent the second, the media would be all over us.”

  He sucks in air through the gap in his teeth. He’s thinking. I wait.

  “At the very least, you have to see for yourself,” I say.

  “You haven’t mentioned any of this to Minerva?”

  “No. I thought it for the best that I come to you first. In the spirit of not being divisive. After all, you’re the team leader.”

  “Okay, good, yes, that’s right. I certainly am. I mean, that’s not an ideal working relationship, obviously. All channels of communication between colleagues should be open.” He pauses. “When’s the next home visit?”

  “End of July.”

  “I’ll speak with Minerva and explain that the Floyd case has caught my eye. I’ll come with you. But, Alex, if I agree with Minerva…”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” I raised both palms. “I’ll respect your decision. I trust your judgment, Morris. I just want you there for the visit.”

  So that’s progress, however hard-fought.

  Now, in the doctor’s office waiting room, Ruth is seated beside me, still jiggling her foot. “Will you stop that?” I say. “Read a magazine.”

  “Everyone’s staring. They all think I’ve gotten myself in trouble.” She turns to me. “How can you stand it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a grown woman. They don’t think that. They’re not even looking at you.”

  But she’s right. People are staring. Across from us, a woman in an impeccable maternity outfit licks her forefinger and turns the page of a novel, but she’s not looking at the words, only at us. She’s easily in her third trimester, the cover of the book submerged in the sponge of her belly. And there are other furtive glances our way. Why are all these mothers-to-be assessing us? Perhaps it’s a trait among pregnant women in an ob-gyn waiting room—the need to compare, to outdo. Who will win the prize for Best Baby, Best Mom? Or maybe they’re trying to figure out how we’re connected, why I’m here with her rather than, say, her husband. From our lack of affection, it’s pretty clear we’re not a couple.

  “Try this.” I hand Ruth a small book of baby names. “Might as well be prepared.”

  She takes the book but doesn’t open it.

  “What about Oscar? I’ve always liked that name.”

  She makes a noise like she’s blowing a fly off her lip. “That’s such a Chase name.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He’d call his son something posh and corporate, ready for a pinstriped suit. A name for a New York portfolio.” She pauses. “Remington. Hamilton. Excalibur.”

  I laugh—I can’t help it, even though I feel a twinge of disloyalty. She joins in, pleased.

  “I thought you were getting on well with Chase.” It’s not a question. “You’re watching TV together, sitting on the couch, drinking your little smoothies.”

  She ignores my sarcasm and begins to flick through pages of the baby book. “That’s on you, Alex. You picked an easy guy to get on with.”

  I can’t quite read her tone. “Chase is really good for me.”

  When she speaks again, her voice is lighter. “Did you know we’re predisposed to choose men who remind us of our fathers? Does Chase remind you of Dad?”

  I snort. “Dad was not an easy guy to get on with.�
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  “I know, right?” She leans in, now conspiratorial. “He was so harsh all the time. Getting praise from him was like—”

  “He was still a good man, Ruth,” I cut in. I can’t let her speak ill of him, especially after what she put him through. “If he was harsh, he was also fair. I learned a lot from him.”

  She sinks back in her chair, her expression closed, and for a moment, I’m sorry. It’s her own fault, though.

  “Dad took a strong line on things, but he had integrity. The world needs more of that.” I keep my tone level. “Unlike your Hal.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Haven’t you given that up yet?”

  “Given that up?” Is she joking? Across from us, Perfect Third Trimester turns a noisy page. I feel like spitting on the floor. “He had a magnetic pull on you. It surpassed everything else.”

  “You don’t know it all, Alex. Despite what you may think, I have actually turned my life around.”

  I lower my voice, but my whisper sounds hoarse. “Then why did you leave Pittsburgh?”

  She hesitates. “My … the father of my baby. He wasn’t able to turn his life around.”

  “Who is he, Ruth?”

  She opens her mouth to speak, but just then, a nurse enters the waiting room and calls her name. Ruth stands and looks down at me, her eyebrows raised.

  “You want us to go in there together?” I ask. Last time, all those years ago in Horizon, we separated in the waiting room. And we never came back to each other the same.

  “Of course I do.” Then she exhales as if I’m unsupportive. “Just stay with me, will you?”

  The doctor’s office is as white and blank as the rest of the clinic. A diagram of human anatomy above the oak desk shows sections of a body with the skin stripped back. I know it’s scientific, but the sight of the muscles and bones is alarming, like a warning of what lurks beneath. The doctor himself is white-haired and stout—a roll of fat at the back of his neck folds above his collar like an extra pair of lips.

  “Hello,” he says to me. “I’m Dr. Richard Trevalley. Which one of you is Ruth?”