Chương 10
We followed her into an empty family room.
She shut the door.
“The county is seeking an emergency protective placement for Lizzy.”
Adam leaned forward.
“With us?”
“That is one option we are assessing.”
My pulse accelerated.
“What does assessing mean?”
“It means I need background information, household information, and confirmation that there are no immediate safety concerns.”
“We have a seven-year-old.”
“I know.”
“He’s safe.”
“I’ll still need to document that.”
“Of course.”
She looked at me.
“There is another complication.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Your brother has been contacted.”
I stared at her.
“Ian?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He remains Lizzy’s legal parent despite the guardianship arrangement.”
“What did he say?”
Carmen paused.
“He says he wants Lizzy removed from your parents’ home immediately.”
Relief hit first.
Then I saw Carmen’s face.
“But?”
“He also says he wants her placed with him.”
I stared at her.
“He’s in residential treatment.”
“Yes.”
“He can’t take her.”
“Not tonight.”
“Then why are we talking about this?”
“Because he says he is leaving the program this morning.”
My first reaction was so fast it felt physical.
“No.”
Carmen held up one hand.
“I’m not saying he can take her.”
“He’s in treatment because he nearly died.”
“Natalie.”
“He overdosed in a gas station bathroom.”
Adam glanced toward the closed door.
I lowered my voice.
“He has been sober for four months.”
Carmen nodded.
“That matters.”
“He has been sober inside a residential program.”
“That also matters.”
I stared at her.
“He can’t just walk out and become a full-time father because he’s angry.”
“No one is saying that.”
“He is.”
“Yes.”
The bluntness helped.
Carmen opened her notebook.
“He is frightened.”
“So am I.”
“He believes your parents harmed his daughter.”
“They did.”
“That belief may be accurate, but it doesn’t make him ready for immediate placement.”
I looked away.
Through the narrow window in the family-room door, a nurse pushed a cart stacked with folded blankets.
The normality of it made me furious.
Adam asked, “What happens if he leaves treatment?”
“That becomes part of the assessment.”
“Does leaving hurt him?”
“It can.”
“Can?”
Carmen gave him the same tired look Denise had given me earlier.
“I don’t make placement decisions based on one action in isolation.”
I crossed my arms.
“He’ll think we’re stealing her.”
Carmen looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because that is what my family does.”
The sentence came out before I could stop it.
She waited.
I rubbed my forehead.
“My mother will tell him I planned this.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then he may believe her and he may not.”
“You don’t know Ian.”
“No.”
“I do.”
That was only partly true.
I knew the brother who used to steal my cereal and replace the empty box in the cabinet.
I knew the eighteen-year-old who drove three hours because my first college roommate scared me.
I knew the twenty-seven-year-old who stopped answering calls when he was using and then sent long apologies at two in the morning.
I did not know the man sitting in treatment now.
Not really.
Carmen asked, “When did you last speak with him?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“What did you discuss?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at me.
“He asked about Noah.”
“What about Lizzy?”
I swallowed.
“He asked if she was okay.”
“What did you say?”
“That Mom said she was doing fine.”
The room went very still.
Adam looked down.
I felt the shame arrive before Carmen said anything.
She didn’t have to.
“I repeated it,” I said.
Carmen closed the notebook.
“You didn’t know what you know now.”
“I knew she looked thin.”
“You had concerns.”
“I let my mother explain them away.”
“Yes.”
Her agreement hurt more than comfort would have.
I looked at her.
“You’re not supposed to say yes.”
“I’m not here to make you feel better.”
I almost laughed.
“Apparently not.”
“I’m here to figure out what is safest for Lizzy today.”
Today.
Not forever.
Not what made our family whole.
Today.
Adam asked, “Can Natalie and I be considered without Ian consenting?”
Carmen answered carefully.
“That depends on the legal posture of the guardianship and any emergency order entered.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I need the actual documents, not family descriptions of them.”
I thought of Gloria’s certainty.
Full guardianship.
She had used the phrase like ownership.
“Can you get them?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“I’m already working on it.”
I nodded.
That was as much as I was going to get.
Carmen stood.
“I need both of you to give me your legal names, dates of birth, address, and information about everyone in the household.”
Adam pulled out his wallet.
“I can write it down.”
She handed him a form.
I stared at mine.
There was a box asking whether any household member had ever been investigated by child protective services.
I checked no.
Another asked about criminal convictions.
No.
Substance abuse.
No.
Domestic violence.
No.
Mental health conditions affecting caregiving capacity.
My pen stopped.
Adam noticed.
I felt heat crawl up my neck.
Years earlier, after Noah was born, I had been treated for postpartum anxiety.
It had lasted months.
Medication.
Therapy.
Panic in parking lots.
Gloria knew.
Of course she knew.
Carmen said, “If you have a question about the form, ask.”
I pointed at the line.
“I had postpartum anxiety.”
“Was your ability to care for your son impaired?”
I thought of Adam taking over night feedings when I was too frightened to sleep.
I thought of standing beside Noah’s crib counting his breaths.
“I needed help.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
I hesitated.
“I never hurt him.”
“Did a provider ever recommend you not be alone with him?”
“No.”
“Any hospitalization?”
“No.”
“Current symptoms affecting your caregiving?”
“No.”
“Then answer accurately.”
I checked yes on the mental health history line and added a short explanation in the margin.
My hand shook anyway.
This was the box Gloria would use.
I could already hear her voice.
May you like
Unstable.
I had spent years proving that word wrong without realizing I was still letting her choose it.
