“Mrs. Ross?”
“Yes?”
“This is the number given us by Claire Bostik. You’re a family member or acquaintance?”
Claire, what kind of trouble are you in now? Emmalyn sauntered toward the door and addressed the two in the room under her breath, “Need better reception. I’ll be outside.”
“Mrs. Ross?”
“I’m still here. What’s up?”
“You have Claire’s daughter, Hope?”
The cold blast of outside air had nothing over the icy fist pummeling Emmalyn’s stomach. “I do. Yes. Claire asked me to take care of her while she’s . . . ” What word? What word? How much should she reveal? Claire hadn’t attempted to keep it a secret. “While she’s at rehab. Who is this?”
“I’m with Child Protective Services for the State of Wisconsin. Delane Drummond.”
Another fist punch. The Old Rittenhouse Breakfast inched its way toward her throat, sour and stinging where it had been sweet and comforting an hour earlier.
“Things have changed, I’m afraid.” The woman’s voice didn’t lack compassion. Curious. How could she sense how hard it would be for Hope to go back to her mother this soon, before either of them—any of the three of them—were ready for it?
“Claire isn’t in rehab,” the woman said.
What kind of program would release her that soon? Wasn’t there a protocol for someone that severely addicted?
“Did she tell you she was entering rehab?” The woman sounded confused.
“Yes. That’s where she was headed after she put Hope on the plane to come stay with me.” Emmalyn kept her back to the plate glass window of the restaurant.
“She is in a hospital in Georgia.”
“Georgia? What’s she doing there?”
“Taking her last few breaths. I’m sorry, Mrs. Ross.”
Emmalyn leaned against the building. “What on earth happened? Wait. Last few breaths?”
“I’ve been in contact with a nurse there who is serving as temporary liaison for us.”
“What? I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Can you explain this?”
“She was in pretty bad shape when she was brought into the hospital. Overdose. I take it that possibility would not come as a huge shock to you.”
Emmalyn couldn’t afford to let her body language communicate what she was hearing. She glanced over her shoulder at Hope. The girl smiled and waved through the window. Emmalyn waved back and turned away. “Not a shock. But she’s never taken it this far, has she?”
“From all appearances, Mrs. Ross, it looks like it was intentional. I can’t give you details. Privacy Act issues. But we have to move quickly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Claire’s fighting to hold on until she hears that Hope can remain with you, at least until CPS can evaluate the situation.”
“Of course. Yes, of course she can.” Emmalyn’s heart raced. She pressed her palm against it to keep it from exploding out of her chest. Claire!
The woman let out a breath. “Good. Thank you. We’ll have to do a home visit, initially, to determine if it’s a safe place for Hope’s temporary housing. I’ll need to talk to the girl, too. Is it your opinion that she’ll be amenable to the plan?”
Amenable to the plan? Her mother is dying! How can any twelve-year-old girl be amenable to any plan other than her mother getting well? “She seems comfortable here with me.”
“Good. That helps. I need to get back to our liaison. There are papers to sign before . . . before Ms. Bostik is . . . unable.”
“What about Hope? What am I supposed to tell her? Can I bring her to see her mom? We could leave by plane later today and—” Emmalyn would drain every account she had to make that happen.
“Honestly, Mrs. Ross, I believe we’re talking hours, not days. Perhaps minutes. Stay by your phone. I’ll call as soon as I know where we stand. As I said, I need to talk to Hope myself. But right now, I’d like to give Claire a little peace of mind.”
Time. Of the essence. If she’d missed the morning ferry, she wouldn’t be here for Hope right now. If the phone call had come an hour earlier, Emmalyn would have clawed her way across the water to get to Hope, ferry or no ferry.
“We appreciate what you’re willing to do temporarily here, Mrs. Ross. The foster care system is backlogged so badly, I can’t even describe it to you. But we’ll talk later. Soon.”
Emmalyn could feel the cold wind more prominently now. Then a surprising warmth. Bougie draped Emmalyn’s coat over her shoulders. Bougie turned to tiptoe back into the building. Emmalyn stopped her.
“I didn’t want to disturb your phone conversation,” Bougie whispered.
“It’s over.”
“Most people put their phones away when a call is finished.” Bougie guided Emmalyn’s hand away from her ear. “What’s wrong?”
Emmalyn swallowed around the tightness in her throat. “Do you remember Max’s first words to me when he reconnected with me by phone?”
“Didn’t he say—?”
“He said, ‘I’m losing Hope.’ ” Emmalyn looked at the now silent phone in her hand. “Now it’s me. Now I’m losing Hope, Bougie. And Hope’s losing her mother.”
26
Hope stuck her head out the door. “Hey, there’s a woman on the phone who wants to know if we cater. Do we?”
We. Emmalyn heard the resonance in that two-letter word. Small shards of her fell off like sheets of ice falling from tree branches after a storm. Dangerous for those standing near.
Bougie looked at Emmalyn. “Cater? It depends on the situation, Hope. We’ve catered a few events. I’ll take the call.”
“I’m coming in, too,” Emmalyn said, finding her earth legs again.
“I was starting to worry about you,” Hope said, joining the two women on the snowy sidewalk apron. “Did you know that frostbite can start in as few as two minutes if conditions are right? Look at that,” Hope chided, an inborn motherly instinct propelling her words. “You’re not even wearing gloves. Let me get you some hot chocolate.”
How much of this kind of truth can a twelve-year-old handle? Not an ordinary pre-teen. Hope Elizabeth. Emmalyn wrapped one arm around the half child/half woman while they walked side by side into The Wild Iris. “We need to talk, Hope.”
The words stopped Hope’s progress. “Okay.” She stomped snow from her boots. From Claire’s boots. “Let me get the hot chocolate. It’s time for my recess anyway, isn’t it?” Her reserved smile told Emmalyn she knew something was up.
A haze thicker than Saturday’s fog floated in Emmalyn’s mind. What now? And how would she explain to Hope that her tenuous peace would likely be shredded before the day was over. Bougie stayed close. She also stayed silent.
“Life has never been fair to that girl,” Emmalyn whispered.
Bougie moved her lips but said nothing audible.
“Bougie, help me!”
“I am. I’m praying for you.”
Emmalyn pushed the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows. The bracelet Bougie’d given her for an early Christmas present before she’d left for the prison slid back down to her wrist. Vintage silverware curved into jewelry with a delicate cluster of small gems and a pearl. Emmalyn fingered the gems, watching them dance in the light that had neglected to notice rooms are supposed to be dark at times like this.
“Hope shouldn’t have to go through this.”
“But she is. And she’s held. Yours aren’t the only arms around her, M.”
Bougie’s eyes sparkled like the crystal beads in the bracelet. She didn’t talk like that because she was unaware of the realities of pain, or waving off the gravity of the situation. She felt it all. Deeply. But a steel cable of trust ran deeper still.
“Did you know that the winter of 2013–14 was the first time in five years it had been cold enough for the Apostle Island ice caves to be open to the public?” Hope asked as she set a tray on the fireplace table. Three mugs. Steaming. And a whippe
d cream dispenser. “Imagine. Frozen waterfalls.”
“I heard that.” Emmalyn needed another minute or two.
Hope slid one of the mugs to Bougie. “The pictures I’ve seen are spectacular. We should take kayaks out there to the caves in the summer, then see if we can visit the same caves when they’re iced up. People use ski poles to cross the frozen lake to get to them.” Her words poured out with no check valve. “Did you know Nick is good at photography? He said he’d lend me one of his old digital cameras he’s not using anymore. Do you think it will freeze hard enough to see the ice caves this winter?”
Emmalyn waited until she settled into her chair. “Hope—”
“She did it this time, didn’t she.” The last word was swallowed in the child’s hitched breath.
“Your mom has been sick a long time.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” She used her thumb to wipe a spot of hot chocolate from the handle of her mug. “Sorry. That came out wrong. She—” That beautiful, flawless face pinched itself into a mask of resignation overlaid with pain. “She wasn’t always like this. I think her . . . addiction . . . wouldn’t let her make smart choices anymore.”
Emmalyn’s helplessness overwhelmed her. What do you say to a child who knows too much? Knows too much. Like Bougie. “Did you read that in the book you got from the library?”
Hope’s expression said, You don’t know anything, do you. She sighed, then responded. “No. I saw it. Front-row seat.”
“I’m so sorry, Hope.”
The young girl shrugged. “I survived. Some of us do.”
“It . . . it doesn’t look like your mother’s going to make it this time.”
They sat in silence a few moments. Emmalyn watched a single tear fall from the child’s bent head and land on the plum-colored napkin beside her mug. It left a dark spot that spread and was joined by others. Not in a flood. Individual droplets with time between.
“Can I see her?” Hope didn’t look up.
“She’s in Georgia. In a hospital in Georgia.”
“That’s one way to make sure I won’t be around when it happens. Way to go, Mom.”
Sarcasm or gratitude? The tears made it impossible to tell.
Hope’s phone rang, an ordinary ringtone, not the one reserved for her father. She looked at the number, then held the screen toward Emmalyn. Emmalyn nodded and stood to give Hope privacy. Hope grabbed her sleeve. Emmalyn sat, praying like she hadn’t prayed before.
“Yes? Yes, that’s me. She’s right here. Yes.” Hope turned to Emmalyn. “She wants to know I’m not alone, I think. Say something?” her eyes made it a question.
“Hello? Yes, Ms. Drummond.”
“It’s a safe place to talk?” the woman asked.
Emmalyn glanced at Bougie, eyes closed, head bowed, lips moving. “The safest. We’re here together.”
“It’s over.”
Courage, Emmalyn. There’ll be time for a meltdown later. “I understand.”
“She signed her portion of the papers so we need to move forward with the temporary placement without further legal involvement at this point.”
“Of course.” What could she say with Hope mere inches away?
“It’s time I talked to her.”
“Yes. Here’s Hope.” She handed the phone to the delicate hand of a delicate but fiercely brave child.
“Hello?”
Her voice sounded small and fragile, like glass wind chimes in a barely there breeze.
“Yes.” More tears fell. Hope’s face twisted like a newborn winding up for a wail that never came. “I’m still . . . here.” She handed the phone back to Emmalyn. “I . . . can’t . . . ”
“It’s okay, honey. I’ll talk to her.”
Bougie pulled a chair on the other side of Hope, surrounding her with people who cared. While Bougie handed Hope tissues and rubbed her back, Emmalyn addressed Delane Drummond. “It’s difficult for Hope to talk details right now.”
“Perfectly understandable. Can you handle dealing with this? Would you like us to send a counselor?”
No, I can’t handle it. But I know a Counselor who can run rings around your programs.
She turned her head, not to sneeze, but to flinch. Put a lid on it, Emmalyn. This isn’t the CPS’s fault. They’re trying to help. “We’ll be okay, but I appreciate the offer. We’ll hear from you soon, then, about the . . . arrangements?”
“Do you know who we should talk to about having the body transported back to Wisconsin for the funeral? Or Montana? That was her last known residence, it appears. She mentioned a boyfriend but made us promise we wouldn’t get him involved. Her records list a half-sister. I’m sorry, I don’t have her name here in front of me. She’d be the likeliest candidate for permanent placement for Hope, especially under the circumstances with Hope’s birth father. Does Hope have any connection with her mom’s sister? Her aunt?”
Oh, Claire! What a mess you’ve made! “I can talk to Hope about it. Later.”
“You have my number there on your phone from our earlier phone call? We need to get information about what to do with the bod—”
“I’ll get your number added to my contacts list right away.”
“You’re doing us and Claire a huge favor by letting Hope stay with you a little longer.”
Emmalyn traced back through the few words she’d heard Hope say in response to Ms. Drummond. “She agreed to it?”
“Not enthusiastically. But I wouldn’t expect enthusiasm at a time like this.”
“No.”
“You take care. I’ll be in touch.”
Emmalyn swiped at the dampness on her cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Not my favorite part of this job, as you can imagine.”
I wish you hadn’t had to get involved at all.
When the phone call ended, Hope switched from leaning against Bougie’s shoulder to leaning against Emmalyn’s. She wasn’t a noisy crier. But her narrow frame shook.
Pirate Joe entered from the kitchen, surveyed the scene, and pivoted for an immediate retreat. He slipped back into the room long enough to deposit four heavy-sounding coins—must be quarters—in the Jesus Jar. Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink.
Hope stiffened at the sound but didn’t open her eyes. “Is that Pirate”—sniff—“Joe?”
Emmalyn stroked Hope’s silk hair. “Yes, honey.”
“I promised I’d teach him how to start a blog.”
“That’s kind of you,” Emmalyn said, brushing wisps from Hope’s face.
“Today. I promised I’d teach him today. Oh, no!”
Emmalyn and Bougie pulled closer. “He’ll understand, dear one,” Bougie said.
“No. Not that.” Hope pressed her palms to her forehead. “I have to be the one to tell Dad.” She sniffed again and sat up straight in her chair. “I have to be the one.”
“Why does it have to come from you, Hope?” Emmalyn took a tissue from Bougie and blew her nose while she waited for an answer.
“I’m his daughter.”
Bougie nodded toward Emmalyn. “M can tell him. She’s his wife.”
“Not that she acts like it.” Hope pressed her fingertips against her lips. Her eyes revealed a new level of pain.
Bougie pulled back like an archer ready to release an arrow. Emmalyn waved her off. “Hope, there’s too much truth in what you said.”
“I’m so sorry,” the girl pressed out through a veil of new tears.
“We’ll talk about that later. But it’s true. I haven’t treated him like my husband. I let my pain do the communicating. I let pain and loss dictate my life. Even before your father went to prison. And that kept me from thinking clearly, until now.”
Hope’s eyes glistened, chin trembled.
“It’s because I haven’t handled things the right way I can tell you what doesn’t work,” Emmalyn said. “Your father and I are still figuring things out. We have a long way to go. But I care about you so much. Let me help you with this.”
>
Hope’s beautiful eyes, puffy and red, kept leaking liquid Broken Heart. She pushed her chair back and stood. “You’re not my mom. You’re nobody’s mom!”
She bolted for the restroom. The words stayed behind.
* * *
Emmalyn waited fifteen minutes, then tapped with her fingernails on the restroom door and said, “Let’s go home, Hope. I’ll be in the car.”
Emmalyn had read stories of flying bullets stopped by a Bible in a soldier’s pocket. She pulled hers from the passenger seat where it had ridden all weekend and held it to her chest. The onslaught thudded, but didn’t penetrate as it might have. She was nobody’s mother. But she was Max’s wife. And she could love anyway.
Emmalyn opened her eyes when she heard the car door click. Hope slid into the seat, head down, still sniffling.
Nothing human could make the scene less tense or soften Hope’s distress. Emmalyn put the car into drive and steered it toward the cottage. Christmas decorations outside businesses and homes mocked the reality of what they faced. No, that wasn’t right. Plastic reindeer and shivering inflated Frosty the Snowmen mocked reality. Lights mirrored their need. Peace on earth. Joy to the World. Emmanuel—God with Us. Yes. Yes. And yes.
The strings of white Christmas lights Hope had asked for sat on the floor of the backseat along with most of the other crafty things on her list. What were the chances she’d want to use them this year of all years? You can’t lose a mom . . . or a baby . . . this close to Christmas without it changing you forever. Emmalyn should know.
How were they going to maneuver through the minefield of the next few hours, much less the holiday? And a funeral? And the possibility that CPS would see the cottage as too remote, Emmalyn as too inexperienced, and the family dynamic too bizarre. Even for foster care. If that’s what they called what Emmalyn offered. Hope had a dad. An incarcerated dad. And he was committed to raising his daughter.
He hadn’t yet said he was committed to reclaiming their marriage.
* * *
Not unexpectedly, Hope headed for the stairs as soon as they got in the door.
As Waters Gone By Page 25
