Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(88)

His foster mother is crying quietly, and even as I watch, she reaches up to wipe away tears.

Then my mother is there. Except not the mom I’ve known for most of my life. But a bright, shiny, glossy creature with filled-out cheeks and thickly plaited hair and a red-flowered summer dress that shows off golden limbs.

“I love you,” she’s saying, crying, to everyone, to no one. Immediately, I think: That’s it, she’s drunk. Except then I realize she’s not slurring or stumbling. She’s simply giddy. Happy. In love with us.

She grabs me. Hugs me so tight. And for just a moment, the familiar smell of her shampoo, the feel of her cheek pressed against mine . . .

My eyes burn. My chest hurts. My arms move, my hands clench. I hug my mother back for the first time in a year. I cling to her, and I think, I hope, I pray . . .

Then she’s grabbing Lola and tickling Manny and kissing the top of all our heads.

“I have this great apartment. Wait till you see your new rooms! It’s tiny—and girls, you’ll have to share—but don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the couch, and there’s a park just around the corner and just wait till you see it. You’ll love it. I know you will!”

Then we’re inside the courthouse and standing before the judge. He says he wants to talk to us, the kids, beforehand, hear what we have to say as our opinions are very important to him. Did we want to see the pansies we’d planted last year? They’d come back. Seeded themselves. So we traipse out, following the judge. Manny giggles and pokes at the dark purple blooms, then wipes his dirty hands on his clean white shirt.

I can’t talk. I can’t breathe. Inside the courtroom, outside next to the pansies. It doesn’t matter. Beside me, I feel Lola struggling the same. While Mrs. Howe keeps regarding us with her schoolteacher gaze. Waiting for us to collapse in tears? Scream in pent-up rage?

Or howl once and for all at the judge for all he’d done to us, for all our mother had done to us, for all they had done to us, then told us it was for our own good?

Back inside the courthouse now. The judge rattles off the original findings from twelve months ago. Has my mother completed mandatory rehab? She has. Is she working with a licensed addiction counselor? She is. Does she have stable employment, and has she found suitable lodging? What about school enrollment for her children, childcare arrangements for when she was away, i’s dotted, t’s crossed, her alcoholism under control?

Yes, Your Honor. Absolutely, Your Honor. Of course, Your Honor.

Forms are produced. Proof of employment, lodging, whatever. Mrs. Howe murmurs under her voice to us, explaining each step. But I can’t hear her words. I feel like I’m drowning, sinking deeper and deeper underwater, far, far away from dry land.

The bang of a gavel brings me back. The judge, sitting on high, smiles down at all of us. “I want you to know, Mrs. Baez, that despite what people might think, the goal of family court is family. To protect families. To heal families. To do what is best for each member of the family. Having said that, it is truly rare to get to do what I’m doing today: I approve your request for reunification. You have come before this court a new person. Strong, healthy, putting the needs of your children before your own. You should be proud of yourself, Mrs. Baez. It takes real fortitude and courage to effect this level of change.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

“Given the advances you’ve made, your adherence to the requirements made by this court, I see no reason why your children can’t go home with you today.”

Another bang of the gavel. Another deep proclamation. Something about a postpermanency hearing, additional follow-up. Then Mrs. Howe is standing, and we follow belatedly behind her.

Some last-minute confusion. Our mom having to huddle with her lawyer. Manny, out in the hallway, automatically heading toward his foster parents. The woman is crying openly now. She takes him in her arms, hugs him as hard as an hour ago our mother had hugged us. Then the man standing beside her is pushing the luggage toward Manny, who clearly doesn’t understand, before the woman grabs him one last time, then turns resolutely and walks away.

I go to Manny. Place my arm around his shoulders. Lola moves to stand on the other side of him.

And that’s how our mother finds us fifteen minutes later, standing in the hallway of family court. One crying son. Two stoic daughters.

She approaches slowly. For a change, her face is not giddy, but serious. Maybe even fearful as she takes in the stony expressions from Lola and me.

“I know,” she says. “I understand. I failed you. But please believe me. I love you all so much. I promise, I swear, cross my heart, hope to die, I will never fail you again.”

It’s not enough. Is there anything that would be? So it’ll have to do.

We walk out of the courthouse together. Mrs. Howe gives us a final concerned glance, a last parting wave. Then my mother loads us, our trash bag, Manny’s suitcases, into her car, driving us out to the burbs and her new apartment.

The two bedrooms are so small, there’s barely room for two twin-sized mattresses. The kitchen is standing room only, the lone bathroom an exercise in elbow control. And yet already this miniscule space with its clean counter and new-carpet smell is a world away from Mother Del’s.

For the first time in a year, I see Lola’s shoulders come down.

“It’s over,” she whispers, standing at the foot of the mattress in our new shared bedroom.