Someone to Watch Over Me

by Michelle Stimpson

  In his consistent, easy tone, Jacob assured me he would dress and get to the Bayford County building as quickly as possible. “I’ll call you when I know something. Don’t worry, Tori. DeAndre is tough. He’ll be all right.”

  Maybe he was tough at school when people ragged on his mother, but the DeAndre I’d come to care about was probably curled up in a little ball in the back corner of some room filled with malicious, foul-mouthed, pot-smoking delinquents.

  I gathered my attaché and laptop, frazzled from head to toe. My phone in hand, I flew past the empty reception area and straight to the conference room.

  “Here we go!” Lexa cheeped. Her eyes danced with confidence. “We make such a good team, Tori. I’m so sorry I ever doubted you.”

  Nerves churned in my stomach. “I’ll be back.”

  My digestive system took the news of DeAndre’s confinement as a cue to cleanse itself. Sitting there on the paper-lined toilet seat, I whispered to God in this secret place.

  Father, I don’t know what to pray, but You know what to do. Be with DeAndre. Intervene in this situation, O God. I . . . I can’t believe this happened. But You already knew. So in Jesus’ name I pray Your presence in this craziness. Amen.

  Lexa must have sensed my distress upon return to the conference room. “Is there something I should know about?”

  “My nephew. He ran away last night.”

  She inhaled sharply. “Is he all right?”

  “Thanks for your concern. Yes, he’s okay, but the police have him. Or maybe Child Protective Services has him, I don’t know.”

  “Wow. Does he run away often?”

  “Not that I know of. He’s actually a pretty good kid,” I boasted.

  “Wait a minute.” Lexa’s brows furrowed. “Is this the one who peed in your trash can?”

  “Yep. He’s the one.”

  “That was unbelievably hilarious. Sounds like something my brother would have done when we were little.”

  “DeAndre had his reasons for peeing in the trash.” Conscious of my own statement, I quickly recognized he must have had cause for running away, too.

  I read Jacob’s name and heard the phone simultaneously. “Hello?”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. They’re keeping DeAndre on the grounds he wasn’t properly supervised.”

  I protested, “But didn’t he run away? You can’t supervise someone who’s run away!”

  “Hold on, hold on.” Jacob attempted to calm me. “They just explained the protocol. Any time an eight-year-old is found wandering around town in the middle of the night, a formal inquiry automatically ensues.”

  Put in those terms, the county’s concerns made sense. “So what’s next?”

  “Child Protective Services will appear before a judge this afternoon and determine DeAndre’s temporary custody arrangements pending a complete investigation,” he explained. “If someone, preferably a family member, steps in to assume temporary guardianship, they may release him to that family member. Otherwise, they’ll put him in foster care.”

  “What time?” I glanced at my watch.

  Lexa slapped her hand on the table and shot me wide-open eyes. She mouthed “no” twice.

  “One o’clock.”

  Mental calculations put me back in Bayford at twelve-thirty if I left immediately and traffic cooperated with me.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Lexa amplified her nonverbal theatrics, standing and placing both hands on her head.

  “I’ll meet you at the courthouse,” he volunteered. “You know where it is?”

  “No.”

  “Call me when you hit the loop. I’ll lead you in.”

  “Thank you, Jacob.”

  “No problem . . . hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Pray,” he suggested.

  “I have.”

  He closed the matter. “Then it’s already done.”

  My ear buzzed with Jacob’s words while Lexa fumed in vain. “I can’t believe this! You’re leaving? Now?”

  All I could do was imitate Jacob’s calmness. “Lexa, you know this account backward and forward. You’re perfectly capable of conducting this meeting without me. We’ve practiced, we’ve prepared. You are so ready for this.”

  “Preston will not be happy,” she snarled.

  “He will be if you shine. In fact, he’ll be extremely impressed if you pull this off without me.”

  She sank back into her seat. “What is this—reverse psychology?”

  I sat in the chair next to her. “Lexa, I’m not trying to trick you. I’m trying to make you see that you are capable, you can lead a successful major campaign, you can succeed without compromising yourself.”

  “But I need you,” she squealed.

  “Yes, you did need me to prepare you, and I’ve prepared you well. I mean, all I’d planned to do during the meeting was sit here and smile while you did all the talking.”

  She took in a deep breath. “What will happen to your cousin if you don’t go?”

  “He’ll be put in state’s custody.”

  Tears softened her flustered expression. “I wouldn’t wish foster care on my worst enemy.” She closed her eyes. “Go.”

  A brief hug sealed the deal. “Thank you for understanding, Lexa. I meant every word I said about you pulling this off. You’ll cover for me with Preston?”

  She pushed me away. “Yes. Just go, go, go before I change my mind already.”

  She didn’t have to tell me twice. I rushed out of the building, thanking God I’d been humble enough to teach Lexa how to shine. I thought I’d been helping her, but in reality, I’d helped myself.

  I called Aunt Dottie to give her an update. In her own way, she told me to be careful and not worry. Maybe it’s wrong to speed when God has made a way, but my right foot didn’t get the memo. I made it back to Bayford in record time and called Jacob for final instructions.

  At the courthouse, we touched and agreed in prayer. Jacob squeezed my trembling hands as he muttered in closing, “Amen.”

  As we walked into the building, Jacob said, “I saw DeAndre earlier. He’s fine. He thinks he’s on an adventure.” Jacob unfurled a paper he’d been holding onto and explained, “Here’s some paperwork you need to complete and give to the secretary before the hearing. I’ve already listed you as a concerned party.”

  My biggest fear assuaged, Jacob and I took a seat on the left side of the courtroom. Looked like something straight out of a scene from the Salem Witch Trials. Hardwood floors, intimidating gargoyles in all four corners of the room, simple chairs for everyone except the judge, whose ample behind had obviously been sitting in big, comfortable lounge chairs most of his adult life. I had to cut him some slack, though. Maybe listening to people’s arguments and troubles all day drained him of all energy. If his life was half as dramatic as my week, he needed to stay seated.

  “Are we on the correct side?” I whispered to Jacob as two attorneys approached the bench to consult with the judge.

  “Quiet in the courtroom!” the judge boomed.

  Out of habit, I tweeted, “Sorry.”

  “I said quiet, or I’ll have you both removed!”

  Jacob grabbed my hand. The bailiff flashed me an apologetic grin. Okay, so it’s not me. This judge had to be some kinda kin to Joenetta Lester. I checked out his nameplate. Judge Peter Kiplinger, JD.

  “Lord, You are good and Your mercy endureth forever,” someone’s ring-tone blasted. The guilty party, an elderly redheaded gentleman two rows ahead, scurried to silence the phone before the line repeated.

  Oh my gosh!

  Judge Kiplinger slammed his gavel. “Bailiff, remove that man from the courtroom and issue a ticket for disrupting our proceedings.”

  Maybe DeAndre had been right after all about these Bayford County judges being bad. Jacob and I both double-checked our phones to make sure we wouldn’t be the next victims. In the process, a text from Lexa caught my eye. We lost Inner-G. Heads will roll. You were wrong about
me. I froze.

  How could this be? After all we’d done, after I prayed to God? Nothing made sense, but I had to refocus.

  I gave myself the same pep talk I’d given Lexa only hours before. I am a big girl. I can do this. I’m a trained professional. I can market myself.

  Not helping, especially after Lexa’s awful news.

  When my own words didn’t work, I tried the scriptures with greater success. I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.

  When they called all concerned parties in our case forward, I was still trembling—but only on the inside. The state’s caseworker actually smiled as she passed me. I stood, not sure of exactly what I was supposed to do. The knee-level swinging doors hit the back of my legs as I cautiously entered Judge Kiplinger’s playpen.

  “You coming forward or what?” he asked.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. You want me to come up there?”

  “Affirmative.”

  I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me. I took another step toward the judge’s stand, surprised my joints hadn’t given out on me already. In a passing manner, I looked back at Jacob. He nodded slightly, confirming the scriptures.

  “Your honor,” the caseworker began, “this is simply a matter of formality. DeAndre Lester was found riding around town this morning on his bicycle. The state requests custody until we can determine whether or not he is being properly supervised.”

  He turned to me. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Tori Henderson. DeAndre is my cousin. I’d like to request temporary custody.”

  “Oh.” The caseworker smiled again, her curly blond wig mirroring her bubbly personality. “You must be the one he was trying to visit. When the police asked DeAndre where he was going, he said he was riding to Houston to be with Cousin Tori. Evidently, he’s very fond of you.”

  Emotion flooded my body. He was coming to see me? I had to stay centered.

  “Miss Henderson,” the judge inquired, “what is your relation to DeAndre?”

  “He’s my cousin . . . by marriage.”

  “Whose marriage?”

  “My mother married his uncle.”

  “So he’s not your first cousin?” Here we go with all this numerical stuff!

  “No, your honor. But his aunt, our aunt, was caring for him until she had a stroke. I stepped in to help and I’ve been taking care of him for several weeks now.”

  Judge Kiplinger took a moment to review DeAndre’s file. “His mother’s incarcerated?”

  “Yes,” the caseworker and I said.

  “But you live in Houston?” he questioned again.

  “For now.”

  “For now? When do you plan on moving—and where to?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, we’re—I’m . . . in the process of making a decision . . . about moving.”

  Judge Kiplinger leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. The caseworker bit her lip. I felt my face tingling under the judge’s ogling eyes. He pressed a finger on his temple, raising a row of wrinkles that covered his fingertips.

  “Who lives with you in Houston?”

  Suddenly, I wished Jacob hadn’t come along. “My friend.”

  “Your friend who?”

  “Kevin Walker. But we just broke up. I won’t be living with him much longer.”

  Judge Kiplinger raised his voice. “So you’re living in Houston with your ex-boyfriend—for now—and you want me to grant you permission to drag little DeAndre hundreds of miles away to thrive in your unstable home?”

  The caseworker focused on the floor, where my heart lay.

  “Absolutely not,” Judge Kiplinger lambasted. “I will not subject this child to a questionable living arrangement. DeAndre Lester is hereby awarded to the state pending further investigation by the Department of Child Protective Services.”

  That stupid gavel sealed DeAndre’s doom, in my wretched opinion. “Next case.”

  Numb, I passed through the hinged doors wondering how my life could get any worse. Jacob met me at the aisle and put an arm around my shoulder, escorting me from the courtroom. I burst into tears on the courthouse steps.

  “They wouldn’t let me have him, Jacob. He’s in foster care and it’s my fault,” I cried into his chest.

  He wrapped his arms around me, kept me from melting right there on the concrete.

  With snot dripping from my nose, I looked up into Jacob’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Jacob, about the whole Kevin thing. I wanted to tell you, but—”

  “Shhhh,” he stopped me. “We can talk about that later.”

  I felt a slight tap on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” the caseworker tried to comfort me. “We’ll take good care of him. Here’s my card.” I read the name: Stella Gentry. “Call me if you have any questions. I’ll do my best to keep communication open between you and DeAndre. You obviously love him very much.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Well, don’t you worry, Miss Henderson. The foster families in Bayford County are very receptive to colored children.”

  Ain’t that special?

  Chapter 29

  Iworried myself sick that next week. Literally. Fever, chills, runny nose, no appetite. Despite Cassandra’s whopping daily cash register balance, I was bummed about DeAndre, Jacob, and NetMarketing. In essence, my entire life had bottomed out. My nightly prayer centered not on my problems, but on DeAndre’s well-being.

  God, I don’t know why You allowed him to be put in foster care. People say I’m not supposed to ask You questions, but since I’m already thinking it, You might as well know—I do wish I knew why You allowed this. Just like with Job.

  Anyway, I trust You know what You are doing. Please protect him. Please work this whole thing out like Your Word says. Amen.

  Instead of me reading scriptures to Aunt Dottie, she read to me nightly. If I followed along in my Bible, I could decipher her words. She emphasized encouraging passages—mostly in Jeremiah and Isaiah. Every day, her speech improved. This must be what DeAndre did for her—sat and listened to her talk.

  Jacob dropped by once to check on me. Being subject to his bright, cheerful aura made me feel even worse. Why was he being so nice to me after what I’d disclosed in court? The woman he deserved in his life certainly wasn’t sharing an address with another man.

  Aunt Dottie left us alone in the kitchen. My hair was as dry and brittle as my lips but I didn’t even care. This was the real me Jacob claimed was dead. Yeah, he had the Bible on his side, but my phantom was stronger than most, I guessed.

  “You don’t have to keep playing this charade.” I granted him a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  “Who’s playing?”

  “Achoo!”

  “Bless you,” he conferred. He snatched a paper towel from the holder on the counter and rejoined me at the table. “Here.”

  “Jacob, stop with the kind come-as-you-are thing already. Don’t you want to know who I was living with and why?” I grilled him.

  “Yeah.” He came clean finally. “But I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready to get it over with.”

  He tightened the corners of his lips. “Go.”

  “Kevin’s my ex-boyfriend. We lived together for eighteen months. In fact, I was living with him when I came here to Bayford.”

  Jacob’s brows jumped.

  “But he’s never home. He’s a traveling salesman. We hardly ever see each other.”

  Jacob solicited, “But you were living together?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never moved out?”

  “No. But I plan to.”

  He posed another question. “What’s the holdup?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, my life was cut and dry before I came back to Bayford. Then the store, and DeAndre, and . . . you. Everything changed.”

  “I told you things would be different once you started walking in the Word.”

  “I thought you meant for better, not for worse. Now DeAnd
re’s in foster care, my job is in jeopardy, and you know all my personal business.”

  He laughed quietly to himself. “Yes, ma’am. I sure do.”

  “I’m sorry, Jacob.” I laid my hand on top of his. “Being with you has shown me what it’s like to be in a real relationship with someone who actually has my best interest at heart. The more I got to know you, the more I realized . . . what I had with Kevin wasn’t real. He became less and less significant until there was nothing to tell, really.”

  “Is that the whole truth?”

  I laced my fingers between his. “Yes. Kevin and I were finished a long time ago.”

  “Well, since we’re putting all our cards on the table, there’s something I need to tell you, too.”

  “Surprises are not welcome. What?”

  “I already knew about Kevin.”

  “How?”

  “How else?” he hinted.

  “DeAndre.”

  “Yeah. You might not want to tell him too many of your secrets,” Jacob warned. “He told me Kevin lived there, but he didn’t stay there. Had me confused.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

  “It wasn’t time. We haven’t committed to anything formal, haven’t made any declarations about this relationship—if that’s what it is. I didn’t want to pressure you,” he rationalized. “I still don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t want to pressure you.”

  Jacob probably didn’t mean to sound like Kevin in his effort to prevent stress in our relationship, but I’d heard this all before. In my brain, no pressure meant no obligation. No accountability. And, by the same token, no passion.

  “I like pressure, Jacob. Pressure makes me sharper. Gives me something to look forward to.”

  He smiled. “Me, too. So here’s my first and probably my only pressurized question.”

  “Already?”

  Stress lines formed on his forehead. “How soon can you move out of the apartment you’re sharing with the old dude?”

  “Depends on what happens with my job. I’m meeting with my boss soon.”

  His facial muscles relaxed. “All right, Schnookums.”

  “Uh, let’s not do pet names.”