Chương 3
Address.
Names.
Ages.
Whether weapons had been mentioned.
Whether anyone had made a direct threat.
Whether I knew where the children currently were.
"No," I said.
Saying it aloud made my stomach tighten.
"I don't."
The dispatcher said they could conduct a welfare check.
After the call, I sat staring at my phone.
Then I opened the FAMILY folder and added the voicemail.
For the first time, I wasn't preparing to send money.
I was preparing to find out what was true.
The deputy called me back forty-eight minutes later, while I was trying to convince Hazel that sleeping outside my body was not a personal betrayal.
His name was Deputy Cole, and he had the tired, matter-of-fact voice of someone who had spent years knocking on doors where nobody wanted him.
"There are no men outside the residence," he said.
I looked down at Hazel, who had finally gone quiet against my forearm.
"No vehicles?"
"Nothing matching what you described."
"What about inside?"
"The apartment appears unoccupied at the moment."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"The children too?"
"No one answered."
He paused before continuing.
"There is an eviction notice posted on the door."
For a few seconds, I could hear only the soft hospital ventilation and Hazel breathing through her nose.
"An eviction notice?"
"Looks recent."
"Can you tell me why?"
"Not from the notice itself."
He hesitated.
"I did speak with the property manager."
I sat straighter despite the pull in my stitches.
"And?"
"He said your sister is behind on rent."
"How far?"
"He wouldn't give me an exact number without authorization, but he said it's multiple months."
I stared at the pale green wall opposite me.
"Did he mention threats?"
"No."
"People coming to hurt her?"
"No."
"Loan sharks?"
Another pause.
"No, ma'am."
My mother had raised me to believe silence was disrespectful.
That morning, silence felt like the only thing keeping me from screaming.
Deputy Cole asked whether I had another possible location for Penny.
I told him I didn't.
That was humiliating in a way I hadn't expected.
I had paid my sister's bills for years and did not know where she would take her children if she lost her apartment.
He said they would document the welfare concern and continue trying to locate her.
Then he gave me an incident number and told me to call immediately if I received any direct threats involving the children.
"Thank you," I said.
After the call ended, I wrote the incident number on the back of an infant-feeding worksheet because it was the only paper within reach.
Then I stared at the number as though it could explain why my mother had been willing to terrify me on the day I gave birth.
It couldn't.
At eleven thirty, my discharge paperwork was still incomplete, and I had become irrationally angry at the hospital television.
A cheerful woman on a daytime program was demonstrating how to organize a pantry using matching clear containers.
I wanted to throw something at her.
Instead, I turned the television off.
Hazel woke immediately.
"Of course."
She began rooting against my gown.
"Your timing is hereditary."
Mrs. Alvarez arrived twenty minutes later carrying my winter coat, two reusable grocery bags, and a foil pan of something that smelled like cheese.
She was five feet tall in sneakers and had the expression of a woman who regarded most systems as badly managed personal challenges.
"You look terrible," she said.
"Thank you."
"I mean medically tired."
"Much better."
She set the pan down.
"I made enchiladas."
"Daniel told you not to feed me spicy food."
"Daniel is in another time zone and has no authority in my kitchen."
That nearly made me laugh again, so I held my abdomen.
Mrs. Alvarez noticed and immediately became less funny.
"How bad?"
"Manageable."
"That is not a number."
"It's fine, Rosa."
She narrowed her eyes at me.
I had been calling her Mrs. Alvarez for four years, and she had been trying to force me to call her Rosa for three and a half of them.
"Your mother called me," she said.
My head snapped up.
"When?"
"This morning."
I felt the first clean spike of anger I had experienced since labor.
"How did she get your number?"
"You gave it to her when you and Daniel went to Georgia last year."
I had forgotten.
Of course I had.
"What did she say?"
Mrs. Alvarez looked toward the bassinet before answering.
"That you were having some kind of postpartum episode."
For one second, I actually smiled.
It was too absurd not to.
"Impressive."
"She said you were confused about money."
My smile vanished.
"Anything else?"
"She asked whether I could persuade you to call her."
"Did you?"
"I told her I was not in the business of persuading grown women to call people."
I looked down at the hospital blanket.
"Then she cried."
That part landed harder.
Martha's tears had always worked on me because she rarely wasted them.
"Real crying?"
Rosa shrugged.
"Sounded real."
I hated that I cared.
I hated even more that some small conditioned part of me immediately imagined my mother alone in her kitchen, frightened, believing Penny was in danger.
"What did you tell her?"
"That I was picking you up."
I looked up sharply.
"And then?"
"Nothing."
"Rosa."
Her mouth tightened.
"She asked where you would be staying."
My heartbeat changed.
"You told her?"
"I told her home, Maya."
She looked genuinely confused.
"You are going home."
I closed my eyes.
"It's okay."
"It is not okay."
"No, but you didn't know."
Rosa pulled out the visitor chair and sat.
"What is happening?"
I considered giving her the abbreviated version.
Then I thought about the twenty-seven missed calls.
I told her everything.
Not all ten years.
That would have taken the rest of the day.
May you like
I told her about the ten thousand dollars, the supposed men outside Penny's apartment, the sheriff's visit, and the eviction notice.
Rosa listened without interrupting.
