Wallflower Ink

Chapter 8

Cool, stale air greets me as I push open the doors. The scent of pine disinfectant hangs pungent in the waiting area, as if an artificial forest had sprung up sometime in the night only to be cleared away again before dawn.

I smile wistfully at that. I'm the only person who seems to like that smell. For everyone else it signifies the beginning of another long trudge toward Friday afternoon--to me, it always feels more like coming home. I utter a soft sigh. I'm going to miss this place, and that smell.

My heels click softly on the grey tile as I cross to the reception area then wait for the woman behind the glass to turn and slide the window open. She's bent over her keyboard, the phone wedged between her shoulder and ear, occasionally typing as she speaks. After a few more minutes she hangs up, then shakes her head as she stares at the monitor before her. I reach up and lightly tap the glass to get her attention.

She spins her chair around and looks up at my face through the glass. Her pinched expression smooths at the sight of me, and she quickly rises to her feet. Two quick steps bring her to the glass, and she slides it to the side with a smile.

"Why, if it isn't Miss Merri. Come to take pity on us working folk?"

"I've missed you too, Dorothy," I answer with a fond smile of my own.

And I have. I've missed Dorothy Mattingly's smile and warm eyes, and her tired yet always chipper spirit. I shake my head with a pang of regret.

"I'm afraid I can't stay long, though. Is Randal in yet?"

Randal Watkins is head of the department, a few years younger than Dorothy but with the same world weariness about his eyes. This is a mentally and emotionally exhausting job, and sooner or later it wears everyone down. No one is immune to it. It's just an occupational hazard that we've all willingly accepted.

"He's in his office. There's no one with him at the moment, if you want to go talk to him."

"Thanks, Dorothy."

I look away from my co-worker and the quiet acceptance I'd glimpsed in her eyes. Dorothy was quick to grasp the reason behind my arrival, it seems. She's seen countless case workers come and go, and the shift in her eyes tells me she knows I'm about to join their ranks. It isn't an accusatory look but more of a sad acceptance of fact.

A soft buzz comes from my right as the door's locking mechanism disengages, and I turn the knob, open the door, then step through into the awaiting hall. I pass all the office doors without glancing right or left, stopping only when I reach the door at the end. I rap lightly on it then wait to be called inside.

"Come in," comes a rumbled reply, and I take a deep breath before stepping inside.

Randal Watkins is a burly man too big for the chair he sits in. Imposing in size in a crisply pressed white shirt and black tie, he makes up for his lumbering stature with a kind heart and a warm smile that always softens the edges of his deep, gravely voice. He turns his watery brown gaze to me, rising from his seat like a leviathan slowly rising from the sea. A smile breaks across his face, dispelling any lingering shadows from his eyes.

He reaches across the desk and takes my hand in his, his embracing fingers like the warm hug of a doting grandfather. My throat tightens at the familiar gesture and my heart twists around a pang of regret.