by Callie Hart
“Did you say there was a man outside?” I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to shake the fog from my brain.
Amie nodded. “He’s very skinny. He looks like he’s very hungry, probably.”
A very skinny man outside? Could only be Linneman. I supposed he did have a kind of hungry look about him. “Did you let him inside?” I asked.
“No. Daddy said not to.”
“Daddy?”
Amie nodded again. “Yes. He always says not to answer the door to anybody.”
“Ah, okay. Yes, that’s very smart. He’s right. You shouldn’t.” I threw back the covers, now able to hear the polite but insistent rapping on the front door downstairs. The clock on the bedside table read eight forty-five. Jesus, how had I slept so long? Kids get up so early; I should have been out of bed and making them breakfast two hours ago. Typical that I couldn’t sleep all night and then I fall face first into unconsciousness around dawn, just in time to make myself late for everything.
Downstairs, Linneman was standing at the front door, small wisps of his gray hair blowing across his face as the wind howled across the huge front lawn. He gave me a tight-lipped smile through the glass as I hurried to the door, unlocked and opened it.
“Morning, Miss Lang. I was beginning to worry that you’d already left. May I?” He gestured past me into the hallway. “It’s rather cold out here, and I’ve been standing here for some time.”
“Oh, god, of course. Of course. I’m sorry, I—” I gave up trying to formulate an excuse for the length of time it took me to come to the door. My pajamas and my bedhead were explanation enough. Linneman stalked into the hallway, swinging the same battered leather briefcase at his side that he’d had with him yesterday. His clothing was as official and proper as it had been yesterday, too—dark gray suit this time, that looked like it was in actual fact some kind of tweed, shot through with a fine blue thread, and a severely pressed white button-down, finished off with a blue tie that had been tied so high and tight that it looked like it was strangling him.
“Should we go through to the kitchen?” he asked, casting a cool, businesslike glance over his shoulder.
“Yes. Please. I’ll make some coffee.”
“Oh, tea, if you have it,” he said in answer.
Amie on my heels, holding onto the back of my shirt, was closer than my own shadow. “Amie, sweetheart, where’s Connor?” I hissed, hoping Linneman wouldn’t hear.
“He’s playing Gand feft Auto. He said I wasn’t allowed to have a turn.” She said this morosely, as if it were the saddest thing in the world, and she had only just remembered to be upset about it now. Her bottom lip jutted out like she was considering crying but wasn’t sure if it was worth it yet.
Connor was too young to be playing Grand Theft Auto. Too young by a decade. Ronan must have bought it for him, though, and I was going to be leaving really soon, so there didn’t seem any point in racing up there to confiscate the game.
“It’s all right, kiddo. How about you sit in front of the fire in the living room and watch Peppa Pig instead, and I’ll make you some breakfast? How does that sound?”
Amie perked up immediately at the sound of breakfast. The kid was a bottomless pit. I turned to Linneman, who was setting himself up at the breakfast counter again, laying out paperwork, pens, a check book and a pair of wire framed spectacles neatly in a row. “That’s okay, Miss Lang. I shall wait right here for you to return.”
And so he did. I positioned Amie in front of the television, turned the gas fire on low to edge the chill out of the air, and made sure the little girl knew not to get too close. There was a glass door on the fire, as well as a huge, sturdy metal grate in between her and the flames, which she wouldn’t have been able to move even if she wanted to, but still…I made her promise not to budge an inch.
Back in the kitchen, Linneman was staring at the coffee pot with a very confused look on his face. I got the feeling he’d never operated one before.
“I wanted to come over and discuss Ronan’s paperwork with you once more before CPS came for the children,” Linneman said, stabbing at a button on the machine. “Now that you’ve had a little time to consider your options, I was hoping you might have changed your mind?”
He was bound to ask this. He didn’t sound like he would be affected either way by my decision, though. He didn’t seem like the sort of man to form an emotional attachment of any kind; it was almost surprising that he had a wife. For all I knew (and strongly suspected), he had probably gotten married because it was the pragmatic thing to do. I briefly tried to imagine him swept away in some sordid love affair and couldn’t bend my mind around the idea at all.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Linneman. I haven’t changed my mind. I booked a flight out of Knox County this evening at seven thirty.” I felt awful admitting that the night hadn’t brought about some miraculous change in me, but it was the truth. It hadn’t. It had scared the living shit out of me, and I couldn’t wait to get as far away from this massive, empty house as soon as possible.
“So be it. Then I have the release forms here for you to sign. That means you can go, that you haven’t accepted legal guardianship of the children. I’ll prepare them for you now.” Linneman sat at the kitchen counter while I boiled water for his tea. A rising tide of guilt swelled inside me one minute, receding the next to be replaced with self-righteous indignation.
Ronan really screwed this one up. Yes, it was sad that his wife died, but he shouldn’t have done something so terrible and left a near stranger in his place to pick up the pieces. That was just downright shitty of him.
I placed Linneman’s tea on the counter, and he placed down three sheets of paper on the marble, and the two of us then sat for a moment and pondered the articles in front of us. Linneman seemed as hesitant and regretful about picking up his mug as I felt about picking up my pen. Still, we both did what we had to do.
I scribbled my name in the spots Linneman had indicated with tiny, colorful tabs, while he gingerly slurped at the pale liquid inside his cup.
“Interesting,” he said under his breath, placing the cup down. “Very…warm.” I’d never made a cup of tea before; I’d clearly messed up some part of the process, but Linneman was too polite to say so.
“If you want to get off the island today, I’d make sure to call Jerry Bucksted and see if he plans on sailing that late. The storm we had yesterday was nothing compared to the one that’ll be rolling in around dinnertime. I’d best be off, Miss Lang. It was very nice to meet you, I’m sure.”
Another storm? Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed. No way I was missing that flight, though. If I had to bribe Jerry Buckwhatever to get me back to the mainland, then that was fine by me. When I saw Linneman to the door, the thunderheads were back, charging across the horizon toward us like a heard of stampeding horses. Foreboding and black, the clouds did not look promising at all.
******
“You’ll be Miss Lang, then?” The CPS representative showed up at eleven o’clock, a little later in the day than I’d anticipated. I thought she’d arrive at the house around nine, but apparently the crossing from Port Creef was already rough, and the boat had to postpone its departure for ninety minutes until a calmer patch of weather presented itself. The woman, Sheryl Lourie, according to the laminated card she showed me on the doorstep, looked so green that I was expecting her to throw up any second. Her shirt was too tight, the material straining to stretch across her considerable chest, and her pencil skirt looked way too constricting and uncomfortable for the morning she must have had, sitting on a boat while the ocean pitched and tossed.
I’d spent the morning playing dinosaurs with Amie and giving Connor some room to brood on the sofa with a book in his hands (something to do with tree houses). They had been asking where Ronan was, and both had looked beyond hopeful when the doorbell rang, immediately shouting out for their dad. Connor looked like he was about to launch his book through a window when he saw it wasn’t Ronan.
&nb
sp; “Who is she?” he hissed at me, as we all went and sat in the living room. “Where’s my dad?”
At that, Sheryl spun around, clutching her purse to her chest, eyes wide. “They don’t know?” she mouthed.
I shook my head.
I watched as the blood drained out of her face. “I see. Well. Why don’t we all sit down and have a little chat, then, huh?” She hadn’t been expecting to walk into this situation. No one had let her know I hadn’t explained Ronan’s death to Amie or Connor. I felt bad for the poor woman. If she’d known, she probably would have had time to acclimatize herself to the idea and figure out the best way to handle the matter. Now she had to think on the fly, and that was no good for her or for the kids.
The coward in me didn’t want to stick around for the next part. It would be easy enough to slip out and let Sheryl do the hard stuff. They were going to be leaning on her far more than they would be leaning on me soon anyway. But it wasn’t right and I knew it. I sat myself down in between Connor and Amie, taking the little girl’s hand in mine. I tried to take Connor’s, but he shunted away from me, gripping onto his book, knuckles and nail beds turned white.
“Okay, then.” Sheryl tucked her hair behind her ears and got straight to it. I had to commend her—the woman didn’t mess around. “Your daddy’s been gone for a couple of days, hasn’t he?”
Amie nodded. Connor just stared. He had a struck look on his face, his cheeks pale, his dark hair falling in wisps over his forehead and into his eyes. Blinking, he opened his book and started to read, ignoring Sheryl.
“Connor, sweetheart. Put down the book. You have to listen to what Mrs. Lourie is saying now, okay?” I tried to take it gently from him, but he snatched it away, glaring at me.
“It’s all right.” Sheryl shifted in her seat, clearing her throat. She was uncomfortable, that much was clear. “Maybe Connor can listen while he reads at the same time.”
This was a terrible idea, Connor needed to pay attention, to process the information being explained to him, but I couldn’t contradict her. Sheryl was in charge. She must have done this before, surely? I tried not to acknowledge the angry look Connor shot my way, and turned my attention to Amie. She was sitting quietly, kicking her heels lightly against the sofa, looking back and forth between Sheryl and me, her tiny eyebrows banked together with concern. She knew something was up, just as Connor did.
“So, you remember how Mommy went away last year?” Sheryl continued hesitantly. Amie sniffed and leaned her head against my arm.
“She went to heaven,” the little girl said softly. “She went to be with Oscar.”
Sheryl looked up at me sharply. Oscar? I shook my head. I had no idea.
“Oscar was our dog,” Connor murmured, head still down, eyes on the page in front of him. “He got hit by a car.”
“I see,” Sheryl said again. “Yes. So your mommy went to be with Oscar. Well, that’s where Daddy’s gone as well. To be with Mommy and Oscar. Do you know what that means?”
Connor went absolutely still. Amie made a short puffing sound, eyes traveling from me to Sheryl again. “He’s not coming back?” she whispered. “Why?”
“Because he’s dead,” Connor snapped. “He died. He left us, just like she left us. I knew he wasn’t coming back!”
“Your daddy had an accident.” Sheryl pressed on, hands clasped in her lap, twisting her wedding ring around and around her finger, nails painted a very outlandish color of burnt orange. “And that means he can’t come back.”
Amie’s bottom lip was wobbling. Her eyes were filling with tears of confusion, her little body shaking next to mine. She pressed herself against me, and my heart nearly cracked in two when she looked up at me and a choked sob slipped from her mouth. “I don’t want Daddy to go with Mommy,” she wailed.
Connor still hadn’t moved. “It’s tough luck, Amie. We don’t get a say in it. We don’t get a say in anything. Right?” His eyes flickered up, fixing on Sheryl. She seemed stunned by the blunt, hard words coming out of Connor’s mouth. They stunned me, too. No seven-year-old should have had such a stark outlook on life. “I’m afraid not,” Sheryl confirmed. “Sometimes these things happen to people, and no one gets a say in the matter. I know it’s hard. I know it’s sad, but—”
“It’s not sad,” Connor snarled. “He wanted to go and be with her. I know he did. I heard him say it. He told Dr. Fielding. He didn’t want to be with us anymore. He left on purpose. I hate him. I hate him!”
Jumping up from the sofa, Connor rocketed out of the room, his book tumbling to the floor. I tried to disentangle myself from Amie, to go after him, but Sheryl reached out and put a hand on my knee.
“Best we give him a moment, I think,” she said.
Collecting Amie into my arms, I held her against me, rocking her back and forth while she cried. I wanted to disagree with Sheryl—being alone seemed like the worst possible thing for a grieving child who’d just been told their father was dead—but again, Sheryl knew best. And I couldn’t just leave Amie.
“I’m sorry,” Sheryl said. “I’d normally take a lot longer over something like this, but time really is of the essence. I can’t get stuck on the island, and the man on the boat was rather rude. He said he’d wait an hour for me and no longer. Do you think we could gather up some of the children’s things? We can arrange for the rest of their belongings to be sent over to the mainland if and when we find homes for them to go to.”
“I’m sorry? Homes? You haven’t already found a place for them to go? Together?”
Sheryl inched forward on her chair, pulling her lips into a tight line.
“Mr. Fletcher only…moved on…yesterday, Miss Lang. Rehoming children is a process. It’s probable that we’ll find somewhere for Amie to go in a couple of months. Connor’s older, so it might be a little more difficult to place him. Also, his…behavioral issues might make it harder to find a family equipped to provide the attention and care he needs.”
They weren’t going to be kept together? They weren’t going to find homes for months? I hadn’t even considered something like this might happen. God, how could I have been so naïve? I felt sick, all of a sudden. Sicker than I had already been feeling for the past twenty-four hours. “Where will you take them, then? Now? When you get off the boat?”
“To a group home for children. It’s a safe place. A wonderful establishment, Miss Lang. I assure you, the children will be taken care of there. The people who run the home are the best at what they do.”
A group home for children? I knew what that was. That was basically an orphanage. I could picture the rows and rows of beds, all filled with children crying themselves to sleep. Kids bullying each other, no one around or caring enough to protect them. And I’d heard the stories. The shame-filled confessions of the damaged kids who had been molested by predators in places like the group home Sheryl was championing right now. My arms tightened around Amie.
“I’m sorry, I—” I didn’t know what to say next. I didn’t have the right words to voice my horror.
“I understand your concern, Miss Lang, I really do. But rest assured, I will be checking in with Amie and Connor every week. I’ll personally be looking for families to take care of them myself.” She said this as though checking in once a week with them was enough, was more than satisfactory, when in actual fact it was disgraceful, and made me want to cry on the spot.
“They definitely won’t be kept together?” I said, clutching hold of Amie, who had balled my t-shirt up in her little hands and was clinging onto me as if her life depended on it.
Sheryl’s mouth pulled down in a sorry expression. She bore the kind of apologetic look someone might wear if they were informing you they were out of fresh milk at the grocery store, though. It didn’t feel all that sincere. It probably wasn’t her fault. She was undoubtedly desensitized to situations like this by now. Amie and Connor were just two more unfortunates who’d found their way into the system. They were reference numbers, files on her desk that mea
nt more paperwork and more headaches than she had time for.
“It really is okay,” she said. “I’ve successfully found homes for over sixty-five percent of my kids. That’s twelve percent higher than the average case worker,” she said, leaning forward to impart the information to me, speaking out of the side of her mouth, as if she didn’t want to sound like she was bragging.
Sixty-five percent was meant to be impressive? If she’d said ninety-five percent, it still wouldn’t have been good enough. How, in good conscience, could I let Sheryl take the kids, knowing the misery and loneliness they would endure in a group home? How? Did Ronan know this would be the case, the consequences for his actions if I refused to be manipulated by him? I was pretty sure he did. I was pretty sure he was still manipulating me now.
I sighed, dreading the next words to come out of my mouth. They had to be said, though. He had won. Ronan, after everything, had won. I was going to have to give him what he wanted, otherwise my guilt was going to consume me for the rest of my damned days. “I’m afraid I can’t let you take them, Mrs. Lourie. I’m going to have to keep the children here with me.”
She frowned, head tipping to one side. “I’m sorry? I thought you were just the nanny?”
“No. Ronan left the children in my care. He asked me to care for them for the next six months. I had thought they would be better off with another family, someone more qualified to care for them, but in light of this new information…”
Sheryl jerked back in her chair, pulling some paperwork out of her purse. “Well this is highly irregular. No one mentioned Mr. Fletcher had made you the children’s guardian in the event that anything happened to him?”
“His will and estate was only recently updated. His lawyer, Mr. Linneman, has the paperwork, I believe.” I seriously hoped Linneman hadn’t destroyed Ronan’s guardianship documents. If he had, there probably wasn’t much that could be done; Sheryl would be well within her rights to take the children and disappear back to the mainland with them. Where would she even take them, anyway? Back to New York? Doubtful. It would cost money to send them back, and why bother, when they had no family or anything tying them to the area with Ronan gone. They were going to end up in an entirely different state than the one they had been raised in, simply because their father decided to die on a tiny island off the coast of Maine.
