If both parents got sober and straight, they might realize what they stood to lose. Chances of that? He wouldn't guess.
He folded his hands behind his neck and leaned back from his desk. The cubicle he inhabited was no larger than a cell, walled with ugly beige file cabinets he'd inherited from the previous occupants. Most of the stories in the files were the same, an endless line of situations with no good answers. But he'd chosen it.
With a law degree from Columbia, he'd landed a position in a Boston firm and amassed a tidy nest egg by the time they offered him a junior partnership. Three days he'd considered it, then quit the firm to do social work. Certification was cake after the grueling law regime. The job itself, not. There were days—like this—when he wondered at what point he'd lost his mind.
The little faces filled his dreams and wouldn't leave him alone. He needed to stop thinking about the Price kids. The case was Cassinia's responsibility now. He had others to administer: parenting and anger management certificates to copy, a reunification and treatment plan to write, and stacks of statements to wade through, some of it pure gossip from the vultures who hovered every time a call came. The key was finding the truth amid the jealousies, defensiveness, and outright lies.
He turned to his keyboard, unprepared for the memory that slammed in. A small, broken body, as fair as the Price kids, fragile. He gripped his head, elbows to the desk, and willed it away.
Cassinia tapped his doorframe. Her cropped gray hair was shorter than his. Five silver rings adorned the cartilage of one ear, a single hoop in the other, and one more in her left eyebrow. "You're in early."
"Been a busy week. Unfortunately."
"Thought you'd like to know the kids settled in okay, once they'd cleaned up and eaten. Exhausted probably."
He nodded. "Good."
"Exam showed a possible greenstick fracture on Annie's wrist, maybe from a hard jerk. The others were hungry and dirty, but no bruises."
"So only the baby gets it?" His stomach clenched. The weakest member.
"We don't know anything yet. There could be another explanation."
But he'd seen who Vivian had grabbed and shook. "Yeah."
"Had your coffee?"
"I'm off caffeine."
"Well, you look like you could use some."
"Thanks." They shared a smile. "Listen, Cass. Don't pass me the details on this one."
"Okay." Her gaze softened. "Stay tough, big fella."
Yeah. At six-four, 210 pounds, people assumed a resilience that matched his physique.
"Hey, big guy,"
his dad used to say when they sparred.
"Show me you can take it."
And he could. He'd taken a perverse pride in absorbing the blows and giving as good as he got. Pretty soon, Webb Hammond hadn't pulled his punches.
"Watch this,"
he'd tell his buddies and barely give him time to brace. They'd all laugh when he gave it back. Some game. But at least it had been mutual.
He closed his eyes. Anniversary grief shouldn't last twenty years. There ought to be a statute of limitations on guilt. He sighed.
Just get through the day. Get through it and move on
.
————
Late in the morning, Rese dragged herself into the big stone kitchen Lance was scrubbing down with something pungent. Not otherwise fastidious, he did keep his work space spotless and orderly—the opposite of his mother's chaotic, mouse-infested kitchen. She shuddered. Uncovering that nest in the sagging ceiling had been hideous, but there'd been only one witness—Lance's Jamaican friend, Chaz. He would take her meltdown to the grave.
Lance raised an eyebrow as she sank into a wooden chair at the table. "Bad night?"
She shrugged. She'd spent most of it constructing the model staircase, but it was too late to bring it in for Brad now. He had meetings with inspectors she didn't mind letting him face alone.
Maria joined them with the baby in her arms. She looked tense and wrung out—probably hadn't slept that great either.
Lance stood up and pulled out a chair for her.
"Hola."
Her response was hardly audible.
He asked how the baby was doing and what she was going to call him. Rese recognized the Spanish phrases he had used every day since the baby was born. Why didn't she just give the kid a name?
This time she murmured,
"Digame usted."
Lance furrowed his brow.
"Es tu hijo."
Maria shook her head.
"Es su hijo."
Then she exploded. Spouting an agitated string of Spanish, she thrust the baby into his arms and ran out of the house.
Rese winced at the slammed door. "What was that?"
"I hope a misunderstanding." Lance stared at the sleeping infant. Neither his mother's outburst nor the bang of the door had disturbed his sleep.
"What did she say?"
"That she didn't bear the healthy baby I expected. But I healed him, and he belongs to me."
"What?" Her jaw dropped open.
"She probably means something completely different." He brought the infant's shaggy head up against his cheek with a painful expression.
Something miraculous had happened with the infant. He swore it was God alone, but it had been Lance's hand on the baby's face. No wonder Maria was confused.
"You can't just keep a baby."
He opened his eyes. "I'm not stupid, Rese."
"Yesterday you said you wanted kids."
"Our kids. Yours and mine."
She flushed. "Well, look at you." She waved her hand at his comfortable handling of the infant.
"That doesn't mean I think he's mine."
Rese turned to the door. "Where did she go?"
"I hope just far enough to calm down. But I'd better go see. Here. Hold him."
"What?" She had never held a baby. Neighbors didn't call the daughter of the crazy woman to baby-sit their kids. But as Lance eased the soft, warm bundle into her arms, an indescribable feeling seeped in, a liquefying warmth starting in the pit of her stomach and surging up her torso. Her arms seemed to conform to his shape. His milky breath drifted up, drawing her face to his. She kissed his soft forehead, then looked up at Lance.
"I love you." He kissed her mouth, lingering long enough to arrest her breath, then went out the door Maria had slammed.
————
Fours hours after Maria left, Sofie paced the long parlor with the baby whose cries squeezed her heart like a fist. His body stiffened and his arms trembled with the urgency of his need. Blood infused the caramel-colored skin of his face, forming tributaries of blue through his forehead to the shock of black hair that sprang from his scalp. Where was Maria?
"Let m . . . e." Nonna said from the overstuffed chair. Months past her stroke, what strength she still possessed had returned, and Sofie nestled the baby into her grandmother's lap.
Rese hurried in from the kitchen with a bottle. "I hope this is right. They had a million kinds of formula, bottles, and nipples, and I have no idea what makes one any better than another."
None of that mattered if they were only tiding him over until Lance found Maria.
"Did you ch . . . eck the temperature?"
"Umm . . ."
"Put a drop on the inside of your wrist," Sofie told her.
Rese did. "Just warm."
Nonna took the bottle and coaxed it into the sobbing infant's mouth. If he didn't accept the artificial nipple, things would get worse before they got better. A baby so new, who'd hardly been out of his mother's arms, knew only what comfort he'd found there. Sofie pressed her hand to her sternum, aching, but the baby started to suckle.
Nonna's face crinkled into a smile. Rese expelled her breath. Sofie closed her eyes, relief washing over as rhythmic sucking replaced the strident cries. Was there any urgency, any helplessness like a disconsolate baby?
She watched him drift off in Nonna's arms. What was Maria thinking? Didn't she know how soon her infant would need her? Maybe not. There'd been so much to learn. The baby exhaled noisily.
Now that he'd quieted, maybe Sofie could work. She settled into the other end of the parlor, where she'd set up her laptop, reference studies, and manuals. But memories kept pressing against her will. She'd accomplished next to nothing by the time Lance came in hours later, empty handed.
He came into the parlor. "Is she back?"
From her place at the window, Rese shook her head.
He sagged. "I can't think where else to look. I've driven every street in town, and it's getting dark."
Sofie said, "I don't understand how she could leave him. Why would she do that?"
"I don't know." He rubbed his jaw and headed into the kitchen.
Rese turned. "She gave him to Lance."
Sofie set down her note card. "What?"
"She said Lance healed him and he should have him."
"Healed him?"
"He was born with a cleft palate. He wasn't breathing. Maria just sat there screaming her head off, so Lance picked him up and covered his face. When he took his hand away the baby started crying and his mouth was . . . fixed."
Sofie stared. "Lance worked a miracle?"
"He says God wanted to do something." Rese crossed her arms. "But it was his hand."
Months ago Lance had extended forgiveness to the man who'd ordered their grandfather and great-grandfather murdered. He had poured himself into Nonna's troubled past until Momma wrung her hands with worry, but in the process, he had found an acute connection to God. Could that connection . . .
Rese said, "When he and Antonia got here, he passed out at my feet. He could hardly eat. Antonia said he'd been used up by God, but the night Maria had her baby—I'd never seen him so intense."
"He's always been passionate."
"It takes more than passion to work miracles. Doesn't it?"
"I don't know." Sofie slid her fingers into her hair. "There's that part in the Bible that says it's no longer we who live but Christ who lives in us. Maybe there's a spark God can ignite in someone who's willing and open enough to accomplish His purpose. Lance has always wanted to do big things for God."
Rese paced. "Well, Maria's confused." She turned at the window. "Or maybe she intended to leave the baby all along."
"Did it seem that way?"
"No. She held him all the time. But the baby's almost a week old, and she hasn't named him. And she looked terrible this morning, as though she'd cried all night."
"Postpartum depression?"
"I have no idea." Rese planted her hands on her hips. "We don't know anything about her except what Michelle told us."
Lance had given Sofie the bare bones of Maria's previous situation, living in a single room with six migrant workers, any one of whom might have fathered the baby. "She wouldn't go back to where she'd been, would she?"
"I don't know. Maybe they took her back. I only know there's a baby here with no mother."
Sofie looked up. She'd barely seen Maria and had no fix on her mental-emotional state. The thought of her being snatched away from her infant sharpened the ache. Had she left him with Lance for his protection? Could what had seemed selfish be, instead, an act of supreme sacrifice?
A pall fell over the house as night drew on and Maria didn't come back. Sofie walked the colicky infant to sleep in the room she'd chosen to share with him, the room they'd given Maria. White organza and silk sprays of jasmine created a look so pure and pristine it hurt. Innocent. Unblemished.
Gently, she laid the baby down in the white wicker bassinet. She ran her finger over the soft curve of his head, then pulled the yellow flannel over him and patted his back. One miniature fist rested against his cheek. His mouth moved in dreamy suckling.
She stepped away and pressed her hands to the small of her back. When she'd left New York, she had not for one moment guessed she'd be doing this. Lance didn't like it, but Rese had no experience with babies.
Her own had been carefully excised, yet it came back now with aching detail. The nameless baby needed care. All through the day, other arms had held him, other hearts beat against the pink shell of his ear, but she knew what he wanted. She looked down and whispered, "Where's your momma? How could she bear to leave you?"
M
att took the call with a sigh. An abandoned infant. Hispanic. One week old. At least he hadn't been found dead in a Dumpster.
He pocketed his keys and prepared to face it. As he reached the door, his pager went off. He checked the number. Becca. He'd call her from the car, give her a chance to vent, then think of a few good things to say about Ryan. Neither mean nor destructive, Ryan merely sat on the irresponsible end of the graph. Could be worse. A lot worse.
He buckled his seat belt and keyed in her number. "Hey, Becca."
"Sorry to call you at work."
"I wouldn't have given you my pager if that was a problem."
"Right. Well, I'm looking for a date."
"Aha." He turned the key in the ignition.
"Friday night is the sales awards dinner, and if I show up alone the stockbrokers will be hitting on me all night."
Nothing wrong with her self-esteem. "I see the problem."
"Will you escort me?"
"Uh . . . Bec. Ryan would love . . ."
"Come on, Matt; you look good in a suit."
He headed toward the address where someone had walked away from an infant. "I can't date Ryan's fiancèe."
"It's just an awards dinner and I'm not his fiancèe."
"Becca, Ryan's my friend."
"And I'm not?"
"Of course you are." He turned through the intersection. "You both are. Don't put me in the middle."
She sighed. "I thought you'd be there for me, Matt. You let Ryan hang out, but I don't get any of your time?"
"That's not it."
"I need someone big and good-looking to run interference. And I haven't seen you in weeks. This is a reasonable request."
Except Ryan would be devastated. Or furious. Or both. But Becca was his friend too. If Ryan had been busy or out of town, he'd have accompanied her without concern. But she'd given back Ryan's ring—thrown it, to be exact. Technically that meant she was available.