Before I Let You Go(30)

“Lucky?” I repeat weakly, and I look at Annie again. She’s drawing in heaving breaths, trying to calm herself down.

I spin toward the door and move to follow the judge. I’m on autopilot—each step fueled only by mindless rage, and a towering sense of injustice that I can’t even begin to make sense of. Annie has made mistakes. Yes, Annie has made monstrously bad decisions over the course of her adult lifetime—but this? What good does that idiot think he’s going to do in forcing her away from her baby straight after its birth? Those early weeks are so crucial for bonding. And if the goal is for Annie to be an effective parent, surely allowing her time to bond with her son or daughter should be crucial. I’m cataloging all the points to this argument as I storm toward the door, ready to confront this judge as soon as I catch up to him, but Bernie steps in front of me as I leave Annie’s room and she says flatly, “Whatever you’re about to do—don’t even think about it.”

“But if they just give her some more time—”

“However bad this is, speaking out of session to that judge is going to make it worse.”

“But this is all bullshit! It’s not right. We have to appeal.”

“This isn’t Law and Order, Alexis. There is no appeal—I told you, this is a juvenile court hearing. Judge Brown has made his decision and we need to find a way to make it work now.”

“Make it work?” I repeat, but I’m outraged and my voice is too loud and other staff members are starting to stare at me in the corridor. Bernie pushes me into Annie’s room and closes the door behind us. She leans against it, as if I might physically burst past her into the corridor, and I close my arms over my chest and glare at her, and suddenly I’m angry with Bernie, too. She should have warned me that this might all happen quickly. I should have known to prepare Annie for this.

“Okay, so they’ve thrown the book at you, Annie,” Bernie concedes. “But rehab is actually a good idea, right? Annie? You want to get clean, don’t you? Well, maybe the timing isn’t ideal, but this will give you a chance to complete a rehab program and be clean and ready to get your life together before the baby is old enough to notice you’re even gone.”

“I can’t let my one-week-old baby go into fucking foster care,” Annie says, and she’s snarling at Bernie, who raises her eyebrows and says quite calmly, “Foster care or kinship care, Annie.”

“What the fuck is kinship care?” Annie demands, and suddenly everyone is staring at me. I feel the flush creeping up my face.

I should have thought about this, too. I should have run the idea by Sam. I should have been better prepared. I stare at Bernie, and my vision goes blurry, and then I turn back to Annie and I whisper, “It means the baby would go to a family member until you’re ready to care for it.”

A family member; we both know what that means. Annie would never allow the baby to go to the community, even if Mom wanted it to—and even if Mom did, Robert would never allow that.

Which leaves only one possible person if kinship care really is the way to go.

“You?” Annie whispers, and the tears are rolling down her face and she wraps her arms around her belly as she chokes, “Would you do that for me? I can’t ask that of you.”

“The baby will probably be in the hospital for some time as we manage the NAS symptoms,” Eliza points out, but I hear her only from a distance, because I’m staring into my sister’s eyes. She said she couldn’t ask this of me, but her gaze is pleading, and without a single word that’s exactly what she’s doing.

“How long did you say the rehab program will be?” I ask, as the buzzing in my ears grows louder. Maybe . . . maybe if it’s only a month, the baby will be in the NICU the whole time.

“Ninety days.”

Three months. There’s no way the baby will be in the NICU that long. That means the baby would need to come home with me, probably for several months.

“Could you, Lexie? Would you? Please?”

I should check with Sam. I know I should check with Sam. But Annie is breathless with desperate hope, so I rush to the bed and I take her hands in mine and I whisper, “Of course I will.”





10


ANNIE


Luke,

You made me cry this morning. That’s not easy, so I’ll give you credit—what you said gave me a lot to think about. You’re right—I do carry a lot of shame. In fact, even writing that made me angry—because for me, shame and anger are always entwined. If I’m angry, you can bet your ass that something made me feel ashamed first. It’s just how it works. I’m easily embarrassed, I’m self-conscious—I’m well aware of the catastrophic disaster my life has become. And it’s heavy. Shame is heavy on me . . . it’s crushing . . . suffocating.

That doesn’t mean I don’t deserve it.

I’m still crying. Fuck, I hate this. Well, while I’m already a mess, I may as well tell you about Robert. I hate writing his name, you know. I hate saying it, too. There was a period of a few years when I was estranged altogether from Mom when I just refused to say that name aloud—it would stick in my throat, and I’d almost gag if I tried.

I digress, so let me pick up where I left off in the last entry.

We learned more about him over the weeks before the wedding. He was a widower; his first wife had died in childbirth along with his infant son. He spoke about his first wife and lost child freely, but with an odd sense of distance from the loss.