True Places(40)

The next time she looked up, the oven clock said 4:40. Iris was slumped over, dozing on the open book.

“Crap,” Suzanne whispered. She slipped off the stool and rummaged through the freezer for something to cobble together for dinner. Whit and Brynn had complained about the family’s recent overreliance on takeout meals, but Suzanne hadn’t had a chance to go to the store this week. Iris panicked when faced with crowds—anything more than a couple of people—and Suzanne had been too tired to grocery shop during an evening when Whit was home.

The doorbell rang. Suzanne set a package of Italian sausages and a container of marinara sauce on the counter and peered out the window. A white car she didn’t recognize stood in the drive. Suzanne wiped her hands and went to the door. A woman about Suzanne’s age greeted her with a sharp nod. She fished in the pocket of her sagging tan blazer, extracted a card, and handed it to Suzanne.

“Elizabeth Granger from Social Services, filling in for Ms. Rappoport.”

“Oh, I hope she’s all right.”

“I really can’t say.”

Visits from Social Services were not announced—Ms. Rappoport had come the day after Iris moved in—but this stranger’s stern manner ruffled Suzanne.

“Please come in. Iris is in the kitchen.” She closed the door behind Ms. Granger and led the way, resisting the urge to look around for anything untoward. What could there be? And yet the presence of the social worker, an inspector, made her suspicious of her own suitability as a parent. Had she left an open bottle of wine on the counter? Were the bathrooms a mess? It was ridiculous that her mind went to these irrelevant details, but she couldn’t help it.

Iris lifted her head and swiveled her stool to face them. Suzanne gave her a reassuring smile, and it was genuine, because Iris looked nothing like the girl who had been near death six weeks ago. She had a touch of color in her cheeks, which were no longer gaunt, and the circles under her eyes, dark as bruises for so long, had begun to fade. During the two weeks Iris had been at home with them, Suzanne had introduced her to basic grooming—using clippers for her nails, for instance, instead of a knife or her teeth—but Suzanne wasn’t sure how far to go. People stared at Iris during excursions to the doctor and dentist because she was frail and unkempt. She didn’t care how she looked, an attitude that drew attention in a town replete with the healthy and self-conscious. Just yesterday, Suzanne’s hairdresser, Rae, a quiet woman not prone to gossip, had come to the house and cut Iris’s hair. Iris had no opinion about styles, so Rae chose a shoulder-length layered cut with bangs. “You won’t have to do a thing, Iris. Just comb it through and that’s it.” The cut was perfect, fresh and tidy, and accentuated Iris’s beautiful eyes. In the doorway to the kitchen, with Ms. Granger behind her, Suzanne felt proud for the first time of the positive changes in the girl.

Suzanne introduced Ms. Granger to Iris and offered the woman something to drink.

“No, thank you.” She moved to the far end of the counter, removed a sheaf of papers from her case, consulted them, and spoke without looking up. “Iris, is it? Sixteen years old.” She regarded Iris, frowned at the unlikely veracity of this figure, and returned to the paperwork. “And no known family.”

Suzanne came around the counter and stood at the kitchen sink, as near as she could get to standing between them. Ms. Granger ignored her and began asking Iris a series of questions about what she had been doing since the last visit. Iris replied succinctly.

Voices floated in from the entry. Suzanne glanced at the clock. It would be Tinsley dropping off Brynn from an after-school project. Suzanne’s stomach knotted.

“Oh, here you are.” Tinsley’s tone suggested Suzanne had been evading her, which was not far from the truth. Brynn followed her in and went straight to the fridge, her gaze lingering on the caseworker. Tinsley gave the woman a quick up-and-down and swooped in on Iris. “So this is Iris! How lovely to meet you, dear, at long last!”

Iris pulled back as she studied Tinsley’s face.

Suzanne said, “Iris, this is my mother, Mrs. Royce.” She introduced Ms. Granger to her mother and daughter and turned her attention to Iris, who had clamped her hands over her ears. Too many people. Too much talking.

Ms. Granger made a notation on her sheet. “This is the first time your mother has met Iris? Is she visiting from out of town?”

“Oh, no!” Tinsley interjected. “My husband and I aren’t far at all. I don’t quite know why we haven’t been invited.”

“Iris is recuperating, Mother. As you know.”

Ms. Granger said, “We prefer the foster child to be integrated into all the normal family activities.”

“Good luck with that,” Brynn said as she ate from a pint of mango gelato. “Especially the ‘normal’ part.”

Ms. Granger consulted her watch. “Iris.” When the girl did not respond, the caseworker shouted her name. The girl slid her hands from her ears. “Please show me your bedroom.”

Iris looked at Suzanne, who nodded.

As Iris crossed the kitchen on the way to the stairs, Brynn said, “She wants to see where you sleep, Iris, so you really ought to show her the hammock.” Brynn pointed at the back door with her spoon.

“Really, Brynn.” Suzanne understood her daughter had become increasingly jealous of the attention Iris was absorbing, but this was too much.