by Lisa Gardner
D.D. got it: “Disguises.”
“She’s smart. Smarter than me, to tell you the truth. But she’s also been talking to my friend for the past hour—”
“Another vigilante?”
“Another survivor helping a survivor. Sarah’s good. And honest. Meaning if she’s been with Roxy—”
“Roxy couldn’t have been the shooter. She has an alibi. All right.” D.D. made her decision. “Normally, I’d take someone like Roxy straight downtown for questioning. But in a situation like this, that probably guarantees her clamming up. So let’s go to the theater. Question her together. Because she has to start talking. There are too many dead bodies for her to still be keeping quiet.”
“Not the theater,” Flora said. “Too public. My friend has a place.”
“Deal. Bring the dogs.”
“Trying to soften her up?”
“You have your strategies, I have mine.”
“She’s not the shooter,” Flora insisted.
D.D. merely shrugged. “Which should worry all of us even more. Because if not Roxy, then who? And how much time do we have before our mystery gunman strikes again?”
Chapter 31
Name: Roxanna Baez
Grade: 11
Teacher: Mrs. Chula
Category: Personal Narrative
What Is the Perfect Family? Part VI
Permanency Planning Hearing. Today, we are all returning to family court to meet with the judge who’d let us plant pansies in the children’s garden a year ago. This is it, Mrs. Howe, the CASA volunteer, is explaining to us. The judge will assess our mother’s progress against the requirements set forth at the Dispositional Hearing. Then, he’ll render a verdict.
Basically, depending on requirements we barely understand and definitely have no control over, Lola and I may find ourselves staying for additional weeks, months, years at Mother Del’s. Or we may go home today. Did we have any questions?
We don’t talk. Lola packs her bag. I put my schoolbooks in my backpack. Mother Del gave us a single black garbage bag for our clothes, personal possessions. We still have plenty of space left over.
Lola doesn’t ask me what I think will happen today, and I don’t volunteer any opinions. She rubs a baby’s back. We stand and wait in silence.
• • •
Anya and Roberto appear in the doorway. Even from five feet away, I can feel their rage. But also something else. Envy. White-hot jealousy.
“You’ll come back,” Anya snarls now, as if to prove her point. “Even if the judge says you can go home, how long do you really think that’s gonna last? Your mom’s a drunk. Only a matter of time before she loses herself in another bottle.”
I don’t respond. Neither does Lola. Anya isn’t telling us anything we haven’t already figured out for ourselves.
“You think you’re better than us,” Anya continues now. Her voice is thick with tears. I watch her swipe at her eyes, smearing her mascara. “Stop it! Stop staring at me!”
What’s that line? It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I wonder if that applies to parents. That at least Lola and I once had a mother, whereas Anya, Roberto, this room of sad babies . . .
Mrs. Howe appears in the hallway behind them. She looks from Roberto and Anya to us and back again. She has a way of seeing things. But no matter how many times she’s asked, Lola and I have never answered her questions. She doesn’t have to live with the consequences of telling the truth. We do.
“Do you need help with your luggage?” she questions now.
I heft the trash bag, shake my head.
And that’s that. We head down the stairs, Anya and Roberto trailing behind us, other kids eyeing us curiously. Would we be back in a matter of hours? Last week, our mom assured us everything was going great. Her lawyer was so optimistic. She babbled and babbled and babbled, Manny nodding along to things he clearly didn’t understand, while Lola and I remained quiet.
Sometimes, you have to have hope. And sometimes, it is just too painful.
Outside, Mike stands on the front porch. For a change, he isn’t bouncing, isn’t drumming his fingers. He looks at me, doesn’t say a word. If we never come back, where will that leave him? Alone in a house of enemies? Where Roberto and Anya have no one else to torture but him?
If our positions had been reversed, if it had been his long-lost mother about to take him away . . . I don’t think I could’ve taken it. I think I would’ve thrown my arms around him, begged him, promised him anything to make him stay.
Mrs. Howe walks down the steps. Lola follows. I remain rooted, clutching my garbage bag.
“Don’t come back,” he whispers suddenly, fiercely. “Promise me. We’ll never see each other again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“In the diaper bag, the last of the supplies . . .”
He doesn’t say anything more. I remember the very first day, the butter knife he’d tucked in my hands. I recall the theater, sitting together on the lighting catwalk, swinging our feet in midair. I think he’s the best friend I’ve ever had. And the only person who’s truly seen me, truly put me first.
Then I think I’m much more like my mother than I’d realized, because I still turn and walk away from him.
Manny is waiting outside the courthouse. His foster parents have dressed him for the big event in a white collared shirt and khaki pants. He races over to us. Throws his arms around Lola. Throws his arms around me. I notice his foster parents standing off to one side. They have luggage at their feet, two brand-new suitcases, clearly purchased just for Manny.
His foster mother is crying quietly, and even as I watch, she reaches up to wipe away tears.
Then my mother is there. Except not the mom I’ve known for most of my life. But a bright, shiny, glossy creature with filled-out cheeks and thickly plaited hair and a red-flowered summer dress that shows off golden limbs.
“I love you,” she’s saying, crying, to everyone, to no one. Immediately, I think: That’s it, she’s drunk. Except then I realize she’s not slurring or stumbling. She’s simply giddy. Happy. In love with us.
She grabs me. Hugs me so tight. And for just a moment, the familiar smell of her shampoo, the feel of her cheek pressed against mine . . .
My eyes burn. My chest hurts. My arms move, my hands clench. I hug my mother back for the first time in a year. I cling to her, and I think, I hope, I pray . . .
Then she’s grabbing Lola and tickling Manny and kissing the top of all our heads.
“I have this great apartment. Wait till you see your new rooms! It’s tiny—and girls, you’ll have to share—but don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the couch, and there’s a park just around the corner and just wait till you see it. You’ll love it. I know you will!”
Then we’re inside the courthouse and standing before the judge. He says he wants to talk to us, the kids, beforehand, hear what we have to say as our opinions are very important to him. Did we want to see the pansies we’d planted last year? They’d come back. Seeded themselves. So we traipse out, following the judge. Manny giggles and pokes at the dark purple blooms, then wipes his dirty hands on his clean white shirt.
I can’t talk. I can’t breathe. Inside the courtroom, outside next to the pansies. It doesn’t matter. Beside me, I feel Lola struggling the same. While Mrs. Howe keeps regarding us with her schoolteacher gaze. Waiting for us to collapse in tears? Scream in pent-up rage?
Or howl once and for all at the judge for all he’d done to us, for all our mother had done to us, for all they had done to us, then told us it was for our own good?
Back inside the courthouse now. The judge rattles off the original findings from twelve months ago. Has my mother completed mandatory rehab? She has. Is she working with a licensed addiction counselor? She is. Does she have stable employm
ent, and has she found suitable lodging? What about school enrollment for her children, childcare arrangements for when she was away, i’s dotted, t’s crossed, her alcoholism under control?
Yes, Your Honor. Absolutely, Your Honor. Of course, Your Honor.
Forms are produced. Proof of employment, lodging, whatever. Mrs. Howe murmurs under her voice to us, explaining each step. But I can’t hear her words. I feel like I’m drowning, sinking deeper and deeper underwater, far, far away from dry land.
The bang of a gavel brings me back. The judge, sitting on high, smiles down at all of us. “I want you to know, Mrs. Baez, that despite what people might think, the goal of family court is family. To protect families. To heal families. To do what is best for each member of the family. Having said that, it is truly rare to get to do what I’m doing today: I approve your request for reunification. You have come before this court a new person. Strong, healthy, putting the needs of your children before your own. You should be proud of yourself, Mrs. Baez. It takes real fortitude and courage to effect this level of change.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Given the advances you’ve made, your adherence to the requirements made by this court, I see no reason why your children can’t go home with you today.”
Another bang of the gavel. Another deep proclamation. Something about a postpermanency hearing, additional follow-up. Then Mrs. Howe is standing, and we follow belatedly behind her.
Some last-minute confusion. Our mom having to huddle with her lawyer. Manny, out in the hallway, automatically heading toward his foster parents. The woman is crying openly now. She takes him in her arms, hugs him as hard as an hour ago our mother had hugged us. Then the man standing beside her is pushing the luggage toward Manny, who clearly doesn’t understand, before the woman grabs him one last time, then turns resolutely and walks away.
I go to Manny. Place my arm around his shoulders. Lola moves to stand on the other side of him.
And that’s how our mother finds us fifteen minutes later, standing in the hallway of family court. One crying son. Two stoic daughters.
She approaches slowly. For a change, her face is not giddy, but serious. Maybe even fearful as she takes in the stony expressions from Lola and me.
“I know,” she says. “I understand. I failed you. But please believe me. I love you all so much. I promise, I swear, cross my heart, hope to die, I will never fail you again.”
It’s not enough. Is there anything that would be? So it’ll have to do.
We walk out of the courthouse together. Mrs. Howe gives us a final concerned glance, a last parting wave. Then my mother loads us, our trash bag, Manny’s suitcases, into her car, driving us out to the burbs and her new apartment.
The two bedrooms are so small, there’s barely room for two twin-sized mattresses. The kitchen is standing room only, the lone bathroom an exercise in elbow control. And yet already this miniscule space with its clean counter and new-carpet smell is a world away from Mother Del’s.
For the first time in a year, I see Lola’s shoulders come down.
“It’s over,” she whispers, standing at the foot of the mattress in our new shared bedroom.
“I guess.”
“We got away. We’ll never have to go back.”
“We’ll never have to see any of them ever again,” I assure her, and do my best not to picture Mike standing all alone, watching me go.
“We’ll never talk about it,” Lola states suddenly, urgently. “Promise me. What happened, happened. We’ll never mention it again.”
“Okay.”
“Promise!”
“I promise never to talk about it again.”
Lola giggles then. A sound that isn’t quite sane, but then, I don’t blame her.
Our mother enters the tiny room. Manny is with her. Without saying a word, we climb onto the first mattress, my mother holding out her arms, Lola and Manny snuggling in close. I remain slightly to the side.
“This is our fresh start,” our mother declares. “Families screw up, make mistakes, have to try again. But if you love each other”—she glances at me—“then it’s always worth it to try again.”
She reaches for my hand. I let her take it, feel her squeezing it tight. Strength. She is trying to show me, not just tell me, that she is strong now. She can do this.
Lola giggles again. While I take a deep breath and slowly let it out.
This is it. One family, once broken, now whole. One mom, three kids, together again.
Our perfect family.
I join them on the bed.
• • •
Do you believe now? Do you understand our story? The lessons we had to learn? Perfect families don’t just happen. But they can be made. Mistakes, regret, repair.
Our mother loves us. Even when she hurts us. And we love her. Even when we hurt her. Mistakes, regret, repair.
This is my family. Except, it turns out, family isn’t a destination. It’s a journey. And ours isn’t over yet.
Chapter 32
ROXANNA BAEZ SAT AT SARAH’S little table, where earlier this morning Sarah and I had pored over the computer and made our plans. Roxy’s head was down, her shoulders slouched. The first thing I noticed was that she looked exhausted, stressed out, and in desperate need of a hot shower. Also, she wasn’t wearing a dark blue hoodie.
Her powder-blue backpack sat at her feet.
Sarah held open her door as D.D. walked in. Her eyes widened at the sight of the lean curly-blond detective, D.D.’s gaze already zeroing in on Roxy like a lioness spotting prey. She didn’t even acknowledge Sarah’s existence, but headed straight for the table.
I followed in D.D.’s wake, guiding Blaze and Rosie into the unfamiliar space. The dogs were probably thirty, forty pounds apiece. Not huge Brittany spaniels. But then, Sarah had a tiny city studio. Poor Blaze walked straight into the sofa table, then the tiny sofa, then the lamp.
Roxy’s head came up at the sight of her dogs. “Blaze! Rosie!”
Shaggy heads turned, tails thumped. Then Roxy was out of her seat, on her knees, throwing her arms around her dogs. More tail wagging.
D.D. didn’t interrupt, but placed a small black box on the kitchen table. It reminded me of a fishing tackle box. She popped it open, started playing with its contents. A field kit, I realized, for forensic tests.
“Please don’t pet the dogs,” D.D. said calmly.
Roxy stilled, glanced over her shoulder at her.
“My name is Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren, Boston PD. I’m assuming your friend Sarah”—D.D. paused, flicked a glance in Sarah’s direction—“explained to you I’d be coming.”
On her knees next to the dogs, Roxy nodded.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” D.D. murmured, her voice surprisingly gentle.
Roxy nodded again.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
“I don’t know what happened,” Roxy said. Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn’t talked much in the past twenty-four hours, or had spent too much of it crying. “I took the dogs for a walk. I was just returning home when I saw all the police cars racing by. They headed down my street. All of them. I knew . . . I knew something terrible had happened. I found a coffee shop with a TV and waited for a report.”
“Do you always grab your backpack when you take your dogs out?” D.D. asked calmly.
Roxy flushed. “It never hurts to be prepared.”
D.D. stopped playing with the contents of the field kit long enough to pin Roxy with a hard stare. “After news of the shooting, you didn’t make yourself known to the police.”
“I couldn’t. I was scared.”
“Why?”
“If something like that happened to your family, wouldn’t you be scared, too?”
“Do you know who killed your family, Roxanna?”
<
br /> “No.”
“Do you believe you’re in danger, too?”
“Yeah.”
“So why not come forward? We can keep you safe. We can help you. I promise.”
Roxy glanced at Sarah, then me. “I don’t know about that,” she said at last. “I just don’t know.”
This time, D.D. nodded. I could tell that statement didn’t surprise her. But then maybe that was the life of a homicide detective, trying to help people who didn’t trust the police to save them. People like me.
“There’s been two more shootings since the murder of your family,” D.D. said now. “Both times, a female matching your description was seen in the area. It’s in your own best interest if we can eliminate you as a suspect. To that end, I’d like you to come over to the table, where I’m going to test your hands for GSR.”
“But I told Flora”—Sarah spoke up—“Roxy was with me during this morning’s incident. It couldn’t have been her.”
D.D. ignored Sarah completely, staring at Roxy instead. The girl climbed reluctantly to her feet, went on over.
Roxy was wearing a long-sleeve thin red T-shirt with a pair of faded jeans. There was a stain on the left arm of her shirt, more dirt along her torso, as if she’d recently been crawling. Maybe scuttling around the vacant office space, or shimmying along the catwalks above the theater. Or pulling herself through a tight window to hide her comings and goings.
Her face was pale and too square, like her cheeks and chin were still sorting themselves out. Instead of jet-black hair, she’d inherited flat, dull brown locks. I remember what Anya had said—that Roxy was ugly. I thought that was harsh. But compared to her mother’s and sister’s exotic beauty, Roxy looked plain. You wouldn’t notice her in a crowded room, which, for the past twenty-four hours, had probably come in handy.
She did have pretty eyes. Hazel with deep green flecks. I wondered if she appreciated this feature, or if every time she looked in the mirror, she just saw what wasn’t there. Personally, I didn’t look in mirrors anymore. I was too intimated by the harsh gaze I found staring back at me.
