Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(45)

The judge wants to know about fathers. Hector Alvalos is listed on Manny’s birth certificate. Where is Mr. Alvalos? Mrs. McInnis, the pinch-faced lady, says the state has been looking for him without any luck. I glance over at my mother. She is staring down at the table. I wonder if she’s ashamed that she chased Hector away. Or hiding her features because she knows where he is and she still doesn’t want him back. Not even for Manny, who’s resumed crying at the mention of his father’s name.

The judge now turns his attention to Lola and me. What about the girls? Who are their fathers? There’s only the mother’s name on the birth certificates.

“I don’t know their fathers’ names,” our mother speaks up.

“Why not? Did you tell either of the men you were pregnant? Go to them for assistance?”

She shakes her head.

“Why not?”

“I did not . . . I could not be sure at the time which man might be the father.”

My face is burning. Lola’s, too.

“But you have some ideas?” the judge pressed. “I can order paternity testing.”

My mother shakes her head. “I don’t have any ideas. I was, um . . . I was young and very foolish at the time.”

“You were drinking,” the judge states.

“Yes, Your Honor. I was partying most nights. By the time I figured out I was pregnant . . . I don’t know, Your Honor. I just don’t know.”

Lola has stilled beside me. I think she is too embarrassed to move. Then I realize she’s too angry, her hands fisted tight. I’ve done my best to keep her safe the past month. We stay tucked in with the babies. I stand guard at night. But Roberto and Anya are patient, persistent. My little knife has already disappeared. They wait, set up fights, then blame me when Mother Del appears. Punishment is a night in the closet downstairs, leaving Lola all alone.

I’m learning better tricks now. Slipping chocolate laxatives in their desserts, over-the-counter sleep aids into their dinners. I can’t fight them directly and win, so I do my best to incapacitate them. Mike has proven a good ally, sliding Tylenol PM beneath my napkin, a gift of ipecac syrup under my pillow. But it’s a long and stressful war. Both Lola and I have the scars to prove it.

Mrs. Howe always asks us how we are doing when she shows up. What do we need? How can she help? We never say a word. Last time we spoke, they took us away from our home. No matter what all these well-intentioned adults are trying to do, our lives are now worse.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” my mother is saying. “I have failed my children. I’ve failed myself. I know that. But I’ve been sober for seventeen days. I’m trying, Your Honor. I’m trying.”

The flower-planting judge likes this. He bangs his gavel, declares the hearing adjourned. Next hearing will be in three months to review my mother’s progress against the conditions outlined here—is she still sober, attending counseling, maintaining employment, finding suitable lodging, etc., etc. Until then, we’ll stay in foster care but will now be allowed weekly meetings with our mother.

Manny jerks up on my lap, reaches for our mother instinctively. But Lola and I don’t move. We know better. The CASA lady, Mrs. Howe, has walked us through this. This hearing was only the first step, to establish guidelines for my mother to follow. There are still four more court-mandated hearings to go. Review hearings at the three-, six-, and nine-month mark. Then, at twelve months, the Permanency Planning Hearing.

In other words, we’re not leaving foster care anytime soon.

We shuffle out the end of the courtroom. At the last minute, exiting the courthouse, I see the shadow of a big guy again. He turns away quickly, but this time I spy his face. Hector. It is Hector, lurking around the courthouse. Why doesn’t he just come forward? Take Manny home? Take all of us home?

I pause, grab Lola’s arm to say, Look. But then he’s gone and she’s wincing beneath the tight grip of my fingers.

“Sorry,” I say quickly, letting her go. Mrs. Howe is staring at me. Manny, too.

Hector. I saw Hector. He was here, and then . . . he left us.

Again.

I turn away from Lola and Manny. I don’t say another word.

? ? ?

Where are these perfect families? Is it yours? Your friend’s, your neighbor’s? I don’t think you can just point one out. The ones we’re most likely to admire are simply the ones with the best-kept secrets.

No, the real perfect families, they have warts and bruises and scars. They had to screw up and admit their mistakes. They had to do everything wrong so they could learn how to do a few things right. They had to hate so they could know what to love.

Manny is my perfect family. Lola is my perfect family.

? ? ?

My mother. Hector.

My father, who is nothing but a blank spot on a birth certificate.

A perfect family, I think, is one that’s learned how to forgive.

Which is why I hope eventually, even after all I’ve done, they will all still forgive me.





Chapter 18


YOU ARE WRONG. ROXANNA WOULD not hurt me. She is a good girl. Besides, she would never do anything that might harm the dogs.”

“Please, Mr. Alvalos,” D.D. tried again, but the big man turned his head away from her, his mouth set in a grim line. D.D. shot a glance at Phil, who seemed equally at a loss.