· Merri ·
It's Monday, the start of a new week and the beginning of a very long day. After a breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and black coffee--during which Jace had said very little--I had joined him in the living room of my house.
He had deftly measured the area he would be working on, jotting down measurements as if he were an architect preparing for a build. By the time I'd left, he was already hard at work on the first of his stencils. I'd left in silence, without so much as a goodbye.
It's best to think of him this way, as if he's not a guest in my home but a contractor here to complete a complicated job. It will make keeping him at arm's length easier, not to mention it will guard me from accidentally letting him know how much I actually know about him, his situation, and his family in general. As far as I'm concerned, that will be a secret I'll take with me to my grave. Better he be left in the dark than start asking questions I'm not willing to answer.
As I pull out of my drive, I go over the mental list I have prepared. My first stop will be the agency; today I will let them know that my indefinite leave of absence will be permanent.
I have already waited too long to do this, and putting it off any further isn't fair to the people who are picking up the slack for my sabbatical. They need to find a replacement for me, and each day I hold them back is another day the entire office will be overloaded. It's not fair to my colleagues, nor is it fair to the families who are depending on them. It will be hard for me to walk away from my responsibilities, but in my heart I know it's for the best. I can't help others if I'm not even able to help myself. Better to let go of my dreams than to endanger the life of another child.
Already I have failed too many, and I won't take a chance that it could happen again.
Once I collect my things from work and say my goodbyes, I'll have to make an impromptu visit to my mom. It will be unusual for me to just drop by to see her, but it won't necessarily garner suspicion. I do occasionally drop by, so my doing so today shouldn't pose too many questions.
My main goal is to keep Mamma Sophie's misgivings at bay. The last thing I need is for her to stop by to check on me, only to find Jace hard at work.
I grimace at the thought. I can imagine my mother's reaction, coming through the front door to find me stretched out, face down on a worn out massage table, my back completely bare and being meticulously marred by Jace. She would either have a stroke, or I would have to find a good lawyer, a lot more money, and all the body parts Sophie'd scattered about the room while ripping Jace apart barehanded.
While I might not want his friendship, that doesn't mean I want him dead. And if I don't plan everything perfectly that could very well be his fate.
A blaring horn startles me out of my thoughts. I look in the rear view mirror at the truck that has nearly crawled into my trunk. The angry young man behind the wheel makes a twirling gesture with his hand, a 'shit or get off the pot' gesture if I've ever seen one. I look to the speedometer to find the bright orange hand firmly wedged somewhere between forty and forty five. I groan, wave an apology out my window, then press on the accelerator. The hand creeps steadily back up to sixty and I shake my head.
"Get it together, Merri."
For the remainder of my drive, I keep my thoughts as far from Jace and my mom as I can get them. By the time I reach my destination, I have regained my professionalism. I enter Morgan County's Department of Child Welfare office without further incident.
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.
"It is so good to see you back, Merri," he says, pulling his hand away and gesturing to the chair across from him. I sit slowly, already missing this man who's not only been my mentor, but also my friend.
Today is going to be even harder than I had feared it would be.
***
I drive across town, my mind numb with sadness. There had been many hugs, fond wishes, and shed tears, but I had gotten through the ordeal and am now headed to Cherry Street and the small two story home of my mother.
In the back seat is the box of my personal belongings from my office: my degree and certificates of achievement in their mahogany frames; the hand drawn pictures various children have given me over the years; the photograph of Mamma Sophie, Pops, Daryl, Byron, and myself, taken the day after I'd come to live with them.
There are other items less personal in nature, but these had been the things I'd been most eager to take back home with me today. They are the only things that matter to me anymore. Not the degree, obviously--in my mind, that is no longer worth the paper it had been printed on. No, it's the photo and drawings that mean the world to me. They are priceless, irreplaceable, and I want them near to me to give me the strength to continue my existence, even if that existence is fast approaching its conclusion.
My mind in an emotional funk, I turned left off Maple Avenue and onto the narrower Cherry Street. I pull up in front of my mom's house, put the car in park, then kill the engine. Flipping the visor down, I check my appearance. The last thing I need is for my mother to see I've been crying--that would certainly lead to questions.
To my relief my eyes are not glossy or red, though the flesh that surrounds them is a bit puffy. That I can pawn off on lack of sleep, which would not be a lie exactly, only a half-truth--and Sophie won't question it. I have never slept well since I've known her, and she knows with everything that's happened my sleep has only gotten worse. Satisfied with my appearance and excuse, I flip the visor back up then open my door and get out.
The street is quiet and peaceful, just as it always is, and as I make my way up the walk I smile, despite the sadness tugging at my heart. This had been a wonderful place to grow up, I think, and even if the circumstances that brought me here had been depressing, I wouldn't have had it any other way.
Here, I had always been loved.
Here, I had never had to worry about when my next meal would come or which of the strangers who passed through my front door would be the next monster to haunt my dreams.
Here, on this street, in this house, I had been allowed to be a little girl, encouraged to dream and to believe in a brighter future than I'd ever thought possible.
I climb the steps to the front porch, nostalgia and tender gratefulness swirling like tendrils of warm summer mist in and around my heart. At the front door, I turn the knob, knock as I open it, then call out as I step over the threshold.
"Mamma, are you home?"
The knock is merely ritual, not required. Sophie has always made sure her kids knew they were welcome. Any time, day or night, this would always be their home, and they'd be just as free to walk through its doors as she was.
"In the kitchen, baby!" her warm voice comes through the house, as inviting as a ray of sunshine after a storm.
I smile then follow it through the house. I step into the kitchen and am taken aback by the sight of my mom, sitting at the table, sorting through the bills. That had always been Pop's job and no matter how long he's been gone, the sight always makes me sad.
"Cookies are on the counter. Milk's in the fridge. Help yourself while I finish up."
I smile at Sophie, my sadness dissipating a bit with the familiarity of the greeting. Grabbing a saucer and glass, I snatch a couple of the sweet treats--still warm, as if Sophie had made them specifically for my visit, though I hadn't phoned ahead--and then fill a glass with milk. I return to the table, sit across from my mother, then nibble in silence as I watch her work. When she finally finishes, she scoops everything into a neat pile then slides it to the side of the table nearest the wall. She lifts her smiling eyes to mine.
"So, what brings you by on a Monday morning?" she asks, folding her hands neatly before her.
I shrug. "Just wanted to stop by, see how you're doing."
Sophie laughs. The sound is warm and full, and draws an answering smile from me.
"Now, don't you know by now you can't hide anything from me? You always blush when you lie."
Heat creeps up my neck to pool in my cheeks. I smile wanly, knowing I've been caught in my lie.
"Now, why'd you stop by?" Sophie asks again.
"I just needed to see you, to let you know I'd be unavailable until next week."
"Oh? This wouldn't have anything to do with your quitting your job, would it?"
I blanch. I'd known word would get to Sophie--she'd worked closely with the agency for years and was a highly respected woman, and a valued asset--but I hadn't thought it would be so soon. I grimace then set the cookie I'd been eating back on the small plate.
"I guess in part," I admit, looking away. "Mostly I just wanted to let you know I'd be busy for the next few days."
"Does this have anything to do with a man?" she asks bluntly. I shoot my gaze to hers.
"Jeez, no! Mamma, you know there's no one."
But even as I say this an image of Jace Declan--in a t-shirt and grey sweats, barefoot in my living room--flashes before my eyes. Sitting at a drafting table, soft light spilling from the attached desk lamp above him, highlighting the delicate crease between his dark eyes as he concentrates on the art he's creating. This is partially about a guy I suppose, just not the way Sophie suspects. My flush deepens, as if my skin is dying to give my thoughts away or to call me a liar.
"Mm-hmm," Sophie says, nodding her head and eyeing me skeptically.
She doesn't believe me, but that's okay. It's not as if the look she levels at me is condescending. In fact, it is almost encouraging. 'You need a nice boy' that look says and I bite my lip to keep from frowning.
"Honestly, mamma, if there was a guy, do you think I'd be able to hide that from you?" Here I meet Sophie's eyes, my stare growing serious. I will not get her hopes up for something that is never going to happen. I am not in love, not even in like, and neither are in the cards for me.
Sophie sighs.
"No, honey, I don't suppose you could. Guess I was just kinda hoping ..." She lets her words trail off then shrugs her shoulders. "I just want you to be happy again."
The sadness in the old woman's eyes and words make my own eyes sting. I reach across the table and take one of my mother's hands in both of mine. I press it gently, a hug to soothe the other woman's troubled heart.
"I will be," I say softly, not knowing whether I'm lying for Sophie or myself.
"You've had enough trouble and heartache in your life for three people. I just want you to know that there's more to this world than heartache. And though you might not have found it yet, there is good in this old world, too--you just have to be willing to recognize it when it comes along. I don't want you to miss your opportunity to be happy because you're too busy being sad."