Look for Me

by Lisa Gardner

  We’re just kids doing things kids like to do. Run. Climb. Laugh.

  First kiss.

  And another moment of hope: I’m going to survive this. And my sister and my brother. We’re going to be one of those success stories. The kids who took all their rage and frustration and rose above it. A model for others to follow.

  We return at night to Mother Del’s. To the babies and their crying and whimpering. To Roberto and Anya and their mind games. It’s not so bad, because tomorrow we will have the theater again. And again. And again.

  Which means we should’ve known, right? We, of all people. Nothing so good lasts forever.

  Eight weeks after rehearsals start, we come home to a bottle of whiskey. Left on the floor of the babies’ room. A note: Heard your mother’s a drunk. What about you?

  Then a giggle coming from down the hall. Roberto and Anya waiting. Watching. So much bigger and stronger than both of us.

  I look at the bottle.

  I’m the oldest. It’s my responsibility.

  And yet Lola . . .

  “I love you,” she tells me. Then, before I can stop her from grabbing and chugging the entire bottle: “I’m sorry.”

  The bottle empties. My sister collapses. I’m on the floor beside her, a scene from a very bad play. Then Mike is there, too. But neither of us says a word.

  Where are these perfect families? Can there even be such a thing? One where everything goes so right, where no one ever hurts each other?

  Or is there just me and my family, and all of the lessons we’re still learning the hard way?

  Chapter 23

  D.D. AND PHIL HAD WANTED to speak to Juanita Baez’s lawyer before approaching the foster home. But after leaving two messages for the lawyer and receiving no reply, they switched gears. Mother Del’s, then the lawyer. Because the clock was ticking, and they couldn’t afford to just stand around.

  Or in D.D.’s case, to gaze longingly at a cell phone, desperate to see photos of a new Dog in hopes of a distraction.

  So Mother Del’s it was.

  They found the place easily enough. A squat two-story residence stuck in the middle of a haphazard row of town houses, it had a waist-high chain-link fence cordoning off a dusty stamp of a yard that was dotted with discarded toys. Phil opened the gate and did the honors of escorting D.D. up the cracked walkway to the front porch. Two bikes leaned against the railing, clearly sized for younger kids. Tucked next to the house was a bin of plastic balls—nothing that could go too far or inflict too much damage, D.D. noticed.

  She knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Finally, the door opened. A black kid stood in front of D.D. He appeared to be about eight, with a shaved head and huge dark eyes. He looked at D.D., then Phil, then D.D. again. He didn’t say a word.

  “We’re looking for Mother Del,” D.D. said at last, put off by the boy’s unblinking stare.

  He nodded.

  “Can we come in?”

  He nodded again. Still didn’t move.

  D.D. placed a hand on the door and gently pushed. The boy fell back a step. D.D. and Phil followed him through a cluttered family room—yellow-stained walls, broken-down brown sofa, plastic cups, soda cans, empty chip bags. Finally they came to what appeared to be the dining room.

  An enormous wooden picnic table sat in the middle, headed by an even larger woman. She looked up at D.D. and Phil’s approach, white face enveloped in folds of flesh and capped by coarse salt-and-pepper hair. D.D. would peg the woman’s age at anywhere between thirty and one hundred and thirty. It was just too hard to tell.

  The woman didn’t get up from the table at their approach, but picked up a napkin and wiped her hands. Around her sat three kids, ranging in age from six to twelve. D.D. saw neither a teenage boy nor a teenage girl among them.

  She and Phil appeared to have interrupted dinner, a tinfoil baking tray filled with noodles and smelling like fish. Tuna noodle casserole, maybe? It had never been one of D.D.’s favorites, and given the way the kids were pushing the noodles around on their plates, not one of theirs either.

  “I’m Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren, Boston PD.” D.D. did the honors. “This is Detective Phil LeBlanc. We have some questions regarding the Baez family. We understand that Lola and Roxanna Baez lived here for a bit.”

  Mother Del grunted, finally pushing back from the table. D.D. realized the woman was sitting in a lawn chair. One of the largest metal- framed chairs she’d ever seen, and probably still had to be replaced regularly, given the strain.

  From upstairs came the sound of a baby crying.

  “Ricky.” Mother Del addressed D.D.’s somber escort. “Upstairs, now.”

  The boy scooted immediately out of the room, apparently grateful to make his escape.

  “You three. Finish what’s on your plates. Then dishes. Go.”

  More hasty actions, the kids scooping up the remaining mounds of casserole from their plates and downing the congealed mass in one determined swallow. Then flying from the table, plates and silverware in hand, through the door to the kitchen.

  “You take in babies, as well?” D.D. asked curiously.

  “Couple,” the woman said, in a tone of voice D.D. already took to mean she was rounding down.

  “And how many older kids?”

  “I got a waiver,” Mother Del said, eyeing D.D. shrewdly. Waivers were the new magic of the foster care system, enabling more kids to be piled under the same roof—and earning caretakers more money.

  Foster care was hard work, D.D. knew. Many families served selflessly and believed passionately in the opportunity to help a child. Somehow, though, she doubted Mother Del fell into that category.

  “Don’t you have another kid who lives here?” D.D. asked. “Mike Davis?”

  “He’s out.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He’s a teenage boy. Teenage boys don’t like to tell you everything. Just as long as he’s back before curfew.”

  “And a girl, Anya?”

  “Also out. Play rehearsal. Community theater.”

  D.D. nodded. Meaning Mother Del currently had six kids and at least a couple of babies in her care. Equaling roughly two hundred dollars a day, tax-free income, seven days a week.

  Where did the money go? was her next thought. Because it didn’t appear to be spent on the home or on dinner.

  “I saw the news,” Mother Del said now. She remained sitting in her lawn chair, her hands folded over her considerable girth. She was wearing a flowered housecoat, like the kind favored by Italian grandmothers. Or maybe it was a muumuu. “Is it true the family’s dead, including Lola?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman grimaced. “Find Roxanna yet?”

  “No.”

  “She’s smart. Always reading books. Studying. She’s a clever one. Good with the babies, too. Never thought of her as violent.”

  “When was the last time you saw Roxy or Lola?”

  The woman shrugged. “Day they left. The CASA woman came to pick them up for court. Said it was the final hearing. Reunification, something like that. If all went according to plan, they wouldn’t be coming back. And they didn’t.”

  “Not even to revisit friends?” D.D. tested.

  “What friends? Lola and Roxy stuck with each other. Even slept squished together on the floor of the babies’ room just so they wouldn’t be apart. Thick as thieves, those two.”

  “You think Roxy would hurt Lola?” Phil spoke up.

  “Nah. Lola, on the other hand . . . That girl had a wild streak. No telling what she might do. But Roxanna was all, I’m the older sister, I’m responsible. You see it in foster kids. Their parents aren’t worth shit, so the kid becomes the parent.” Another massive shrug.

  “What about Roberto and Anya?” D.D. asked.

  “Roberto’s dead. What about him?”

&
nbsp; “We heard he committed suicide.”

  “That’s what the police told me.”

  “Where’d he get the gun?”

  “Choices are endless in this area. Walk to any street corner, someone will sell you something.”

  “You don’t seem that broken up about it.” Phil spoke up.

  “It happens. Broken families. Broken kids.”

  “How long had he been with you?” D.D. asked, frowning.

  “Seven years.”

  “Seven years? And ‘It happens’ is all you’ve got to say about it?”

  “Because a foster parent and her charges are so close? You see how many kids I have here? And I’ll have more the second a space opens up. This city’s filled with unwanted children. I’m doing my best, but no kid wants to be in foster care. They don’t walk through those doors all happy to be here. The good ones endure. The bad ones rebel. Let’s just say Roberto was more bad than good.”

  “He make trouble?”

  “With me, no. With the other kids . . . I’m not as stupid as they think.”

  “Tell us,” Phil commanded.

  “He liked to rule the roost. When he first got here, he was middle of the pack. A year later, he was the oldest, and in his mind, that made him the boss. Younger kids, newer kids, were to do as he said.”

  “And if they didn’t?”

  Shrug. “Maybe their blanket would go missing. Or a pillow or a toy from home. Maybe they’d find pepper in the food, toothpaste in their shoes. He could be inventive when he wanted to.”

  “And his relationship with Anya?”

  “You mean his girlfriend? Well, former girlfriend, given that, you know . . .”

  D.D. shifted from foot to foot, the woman’s callousness getting to her. “You allow dating in your house?”

  “Like at their ages they’re gonna listen to anything I say? Boys and girls are kept separate under this roof, of course. But the teen fosters . . . they don’t spend much time here anyway.”

  Hence Mike’s and Anya’s absence, which Mother Del didn’t seem concerned about.

  “Did Anya help out Roberto with his . . . schemes?”

  “They were together.”

  “And their relationship with Lola and Roxanna?”

  “Didn’t like ’em. Lola and Roxanna came fresh from family and still had each other. In a foster’s world, that can be cause for jealousy. Roberto did his best to tear ’em apart. I wised up to some of the games—Roberto and Anya breaking dishes, pinching babies, then pointing the finger at Roxy to take the blame. Petty stuff, really.”

  D.D. wasn’t sure she agreed. “You ever see the fights get physical? Roberto or Anya hit the girls? Threaten them?”

  “No fighting. House rule. Everyone knows that.”

  Which would be all the more incentive to keep it quiet. Phil must’ve thought the same, as he said, “What about kids falling down stairs? Running into doors? That happen in this house?”

  Mother Del shot him a glance. “Roxanna fell down the stairs once, now that you mention it. But then the stairs in this place kind of match the rest of it.”

  D.D. remembered Hector’s observation that Roxanna seemed to have injured ribs when he saw her at the courthouse. She wondered if that came from this alleged fall down the stairs or if, in fact, Mother Del was as stupid as her kids thought. “You ever have to take either Lola or Roxanna for medical treatment?” D.D. asked.

  “Once, but it was Lola’s fault.”

  D.D. homed in. “What happened?”

  “Foolish girl drank a fifth of whiskey. Like, the whole bottle. I heard the babies crying, then Roxanna screaming, Mike shouting. Came upstairs to find Lola throwing up all over the damn place. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and that was that. I bundled her off to the ER, where they pumped her stomach and lectured her on alcohol abuse.”

  “Where’d she get a bottle of whiskey?” Phil pressed.

  “Don’t look at me. There’s no booze in this house. Hell, most of these kids come from addicts. I keep even the cough syrup under lock and key.”

  “Where were Roberto and Anya when this was going on?” D.D.’s turn.

  “Standing in the doorways of their rooms, watching.”

  “Just watching?”

  Mother Del stared at her. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Lola would’ve been eight years old,” Phil said. “A young girl. Why would she drink an entire bottle of whiskey?”

  “I was told the mother was an alcoholic. A kid grows up seeing that . . . Monkey see, monkey do.”

  “What happened afterward?” D.D. asked.

  That shrug again. “DCF trolled around. The CASA lady paid a visit. No one could find fault with anything. Girls settled back in. That was that.”

  “No more falls down the stairs?” D.D. asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Running into doorknobs?”

  “Nope. Lola was acting in some community play, Oliver Twist. Roxanna worked set design. Mike, too. Roberto and Anya started joining them. Guess they got tired of fighting, brokered a peace deal instead. Except for Mike. He quit. Can’t make everyone happy.”

  D.D. frowned, churning this around in her head. She couldn’t see an eight-year-old girl suddenly chugging a fifth of whiskey in the middle of the night. It already sounded forced to her. Say, something the infamous Roberto and Anya might have pulled off, if Mike Davis’s account was to be believed. Maybe Roxanna arrived too late to intervene.

  So Lola drank the booze, Lola ended up in the hospital.

  Then they decided to live happily ever after?

  D.D. didn’t buy it for a moment. Her cynical cop’s mind had an entirely different spin on things: Lola went to the hospital, and then Roxanna caved. Did whatever it was Roberto wanted just so long as they never bothered her sister again. At which point Roberto and Anya joined her and Lola at their new hobby, the community theater, in order to keep an eye on her.

  Sex? Could it be that awful, that simple? Roxanna submitted to abuse in order to keep her little sister safe? Except why was Lola the one suddenly acting out?

  God only knew what went on in a place like this. D.D. already wanted to leave, and she wasn’t a helpless kid. Everything about Mother Del, the house, smacked of hopelessness. No wonder the older kids did their best to stay away as long as possible.

  “You ever talk to Juanita Baez?” Phil was asking now.

  “Girls’ mom? She showed up. Different. I don’t normally see the parents much. Then again, not too many of my kids get reunited.”

  “What did she want to know?”

  “Same questions you’re asking now. Except she was a little more hostile on the matter. Convinced Lola was abused by some perv under my roof.”

  D.D. watched the woman with fresh interest.

  “Look,” Mother Del rumbled. “This house ain’t no castle. And I’m no fairy godmother. But I run a clean operation. House rules, strictly enforced. No drinking, no drugs, no hanky-panky. And that’s that.”

  “Where do you sleep?” D.D. had a thought. “This number of kids, an area for babies. There can’t be that many bedrooms upstairs and they must all be taken.”

  “Got a room downstairs.”

  D.D. looked around. “Where? I see a family room, dining room, kitchen. That’s it.” Then she got it: the front room and its debris field of empty soda cans and chip packages. “You sleep on the sofa, don’t you? Front of the house, farthest room from the stairs. Hell, they could be tap-dancing on the second floor and you’d be none the wiser.”

  “I’m a light sleeper,” the woman growled, but her eyes were darting back and forth now, trapped.

  “Truth is, you don’t know what’s going on in your house.” D.D. pressed her advantage. “Nor do you care. You just want the money, plain and simple.”

  “Simple?
You think there’s anything simple about this? I got six kids and three babies to keep clothed and fed. I don’t need any lectures from some skinny blond cop. This work is hard. These kids are hard. But I do my best. And the rules are the rules. If there was anything happening to that little girl, it wasn’t on my watch.”

  “Where then?”

  “School. Bus. Park. Take your pick. Kids spent a lot of time together, you know, and not just in this house.”

  D.D. frowned. Yes, a bunch of kids from the same home would’ve attended the same school. And yet . . .

  “What about this community theater?” she’d just started to say when she heard the sound of a door opening behind them.

  She and Phil turned.

  A teenage girl stood just inside the doorway. D.D. didn’t even have to think.

  “Anya Seton?” she asked.

  The girl turned and fled.

  Chapter 24

  AFTER PARTING WAYS WITH THE CASA volunteer, Mrs. Howe, I took a walk. A breeze had kicked up, the temperatures moving to the biting side of fall as the sun faded from the horizon. I hunched inside my thin windbreaker, wishing I’d thought to wear more layers, even a scarf.

  The area was still busy this time of night. Brighton was one of the most densely populated neighborhoods in Boston and looked it. Narrow streets jammed with hulking apartment buildings or anemic town houses. Wider streets buzzing with coffee shops, corner marts, laundromats. Something for everyone and everyone with something to do.

  I wondered if Roxanna Baez had liked living there. Had it scared her when her mother announced they were moving in with her new boyfriend at his place in Brighton? Had it occurred to Roxy that they were returning to their past? Or, three years later, had she and Lola considered their time at Mother Del’s behind them? They were no longer vulnerable foster kids but a reunited family, living in a real house—with two dogs, no less.

  Had they felt good in the beginning? Or by sixteen was Roxanna Baez already one of those kids who lived most of her life in fear? Of what she’d come home to after school? Of the latest loser her mother had found in a bar? Of all the ways she’d need to protect her younger siblings?