Before I Let You Go(17)

“Well,” she says quietly, “thanks for your time.”

“Annie can beat this,” I blurt, and Mary hesitates.

“Dr. Vidler, you’re clearly a devoted sister, and I respect you for that.”

“You didn’t even ask about her living situation,” I say. This is just not fair; Mary has such a small part of the picture of Annie’s life. How can she decide her suitability as a parent based only on her history of rehab attempts?

“Let me guess, Dr. Vidler.” Mary sighs, as she packs up her notepad. “She’s either living with you, or she’s on the streets. Which is it?”

“She has a trailer,” I snap. “It’s not the Shangri-La, but it’s a roof over her head.”

“Does she have a job? A way to support herself? A way to buy diapers and formula and pay medical bills?”

“I don’t think so, but she—”

“Look. None of this matters, not really—not at this stage. Maybe later, once she’s been through rehab and she’s clean. But I’m sure you can understand, all that matters for now is making sure your sister can’t damage that precious baby any more than she already has.” Mary stands and slides her handbag onto her shoulder.

“Annie matters, too,” I croak, and I stand. “Surely helping Annie is the best way to help her baby.”

“That’s not my area of responsibility, Dr. Vidler,” Mary says quietly. “But I’m sure the judge will do everything in his power to give your sister another opportunity to get herself sorted out.”

“You said Annie will probably go to rehab,” Sam says quietly, and Mary nods. “Will she get a say which facility?”

“Well, it just depends on what the judge decides . . . but why do you ask?”

“My employer has opened a new rehab clinic out at Auburn. If Annie has to go into an inpatient program, that might be a good option for her.”

“I can certainly make a note of that in my report, Dr. Hawke.”

Sam rises and walks Mary to the corridor, and when he returns, he stands behind me and gently massages my shoulders. I slump forward and press my fists against my eyes.

“They’re going to take her baby away.”

“It sounds like it.”

“Is this what we do now? A woman fails a drug test and we remove her parental rights just like that?”

“Apparently.”

“This is bullshit. Shouldn’t we rush in at her with resources to help her get clean and care for the baby?”

“We’re going to need to find that lawyer, Lexie.”

“I know.” I sit up and exhale. Sam’s gentle kneading of my shoulders continues. “But first, I really need to speak to Eliza.”

“What are you going to tell Annie?”

I shake my head hastily.

“Nothing, yet. Not until I talk to a lawyer.” Sam’s hands slow, then pause, and I tilt my head back to stare up at him. “I’m not going to worry her until I know just how bad this is. The social worker made it seem bad, the cops make it look bad—but what do I know? Maybe all she needs is a decent lawyer to untangle it.”

“Maybe,” Sam murmurs, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it any more than I do.

“This new rehab place . . .” I prompt him.

“Maybe it’s a long shot, but I thought it might be worth mentioning. They have intensive recovery programs from four to twelve weeks, and since it’s owned by the same company we’d get a reasonable discount on the fee. Plus, it’s only an hour away, so that’s a bonus.”

“Okay,” I say, and I rise. “I need to get back to her in case she’s woken up.”

We return to Annie’s room to find her still dozing lightly, so we quietly take the visitors’ chairs to wait for her to wake. I pretend to play with my phone while Sam reads a newspaper, and the silence is a relief. I’m flicking through my Facebook feed, but I don’t see anything that flies past me on the screen. My mind is elsewhere, back in Sam’s office, reliving the conversation with Mary Rafferty. Maybe I could have liked Mary, if I’d met her in another professional setting—one where she and I were on equal footing, instead of this messy encounter. Now that I’m calmer, I can recognize that she was almost charming in that polite, friendly way I’ve grown to appreciate after eight years in the South. I’m still bristling at the way she leaped to judge my sister, but I reluctantly acknowledge that’s probably necessary for her job. How many times a day does she have to quickly assess a child welfare situation?

Her intentions are probably good. Surely no one would work for CPS unless they genuinely cared about children. But that doesn’t change how completely, bewilderingly messed up all of this is, or how maddening it is that the state’s first response is to grab for Annie’s parental rights. I’m only hoping that an attorney can make sense of this.

“Lexie.” Annie’s eyes are still closed when she speaks suddenly, and I startle.

“Yes?”

“You’re tapping your feet and it’s driving me insane.”

I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I press my feet hard into the floor and mutter, “Sorry.”

Annie wakes properly then, and after toying with the cookies and juice box that someone left on her table while she slept, she asks Sam if he will do her a favor.