Closer Than You Know

by Brad Parks

  “What’s his name?”

  Hasper took one last deep breath, then said, “Warren Plotz.”

  ELEVEN

  Time seemed to suspend itself for a moment. My mouth just hung open.

  The words floated out there—sell your baby on the black market—like they were encapsulated in a quote bubble that belonged in some ghastly comic book.

  Ben whipped his head in my direction as if he actually believed it. Or at least, in that first fraction of a second, he considered it a possibility.

  I finally understood why I was in the director’s office, and why they weren’t treating this as a routine case. It also explained why they hadn’t visited me before taking Alex, why they wouldn’t open the door last night, why we waited an hour and a half today. As far as they were concerned, they had to keep Alex as far away from me as possible. I was the mother they’d tell stories about long after they all retired: You remember that woman who tried to sell her baby?

  “That’s . . . that’s completely . . . that’s not true,” I stammered. “I mean, that’s preposterous. I would never . . .”

  Words were failing me. I felt hot. My too-full breasts ached. Tears were leaking out of my eyes. Snot ran from my nose. It all made me look that much more guilty.

  I wanted to deny this absurd accusation with full force and a steady gaze. But I couldn’t compose myself, much less form a coherent sentence.

  Tina Anderson was staring me down. Nancy Dement’s face was a mask.

  “Under the circumstances, I felt I had no choice but to order no contact between you and the child,” the director said. “We also can’t consider placing the child with a relative or putting him in any kind of setting where you might have access to the child.

  “We will be presenting our emergency removal order to a judge at about one o’clock this afternoon. You have the right to attend, but I should warn you the emergency removal hearing is ex parte. That means the Department of Social Services is the only one allowed to present evidence. You’ll have more of a chance to talk to the judge at the preliminary removal hearing on Tuesday.”

  Right. Sure. Come Tuesday, I’d talk to a judge who would look at me like I had four heads and a forked tail. And then in thirty days, I’d talk to him again and nothing would have changed. And on. And on.

  The whole time, someone else would have my baby. In the year since his conception, Alex had gone from being a part of my body to being a part of my soul. The connection between us was more than just flesh. I would sooner lose an arm than lose him.

  Yet he was being torn away from me by these bloodless women.

  “Wait, just wait,” I said. “This . . . this allegation about selling the baby. I mean, that’s . . . It’s completely . . . Where did that even come from?”

  “To be honest, Ms. Barrick, I’m not sure how much that even matters at the moment. If I were you, I’d start worrying about those drug charges. If you are convicted, you are looking at a lengthy prison sentence and your parental rights will be terminated. That’s the larger issue here. Do you understand that?”

  “No. No, I do not understand,” I said, way too loudly. “Who told you I was selling my baby?”

  “Ms. Barrick, keep your voice down or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  I glared at her, hating her more with every second. She was this robot of a bureaucrat who would forget about all of this unpleasantness and go home to her family at precisely four thirty this afternoon, at which point my life would still be shattered.

  I gritted my teeth and repeated, “Who told you I was selling my baby?”

  “That’s not really something I can share with you right now.”

  “That’s not something you can share?” I said, really losing it now. “Lady, this isn’t playtime. We’re not talking about sharing our blocks. We’re talking about someone making the most horrible accusation I can imagine, and you’re not letting me see my baby because of it, and I don’t even get to know who said it or where it came from? That’s—”

  “I think it’s time for you to go,” Nancy Dement said, pushing away from the table and standing.

  “I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

  “Please lower your voice.”

  “I’m not lowering anything!” I yelled.

  “Okay, you have to leave now.”

  Tina Anderson had retreated into a corner—as far as she could get from the mother who was losing her mind—and had pulled out her cell phone and was talking softly into it.

  Ben was still trying to be reasonable. “Ms. Dement,” he began. “I think it’s only fair if you—”

  But I didn’t have the patience for his levelheadedness.

  “Who told you I was selling my baby?” I demanded.

  “Ms. Barrick, this conversation is over,” Nancy Dement said.

  “It’s not over until you answer me. Was it an anonymous phone call? Was it something the Sheriff’s Office told you? How can I begin to convince you it’s completely untrue when you won’t even tell me where it’s coming from?”

  “You’re going to have to talk to your lawyer.”

  “I don’t have a lawyer. I have twelve cents in my bank account and a mortgage. I don’t have money for a lawyer.”

  “Then one will be appointed for you this afternoon. You’re going to have to leave now.”

  “Why? Because I’m a poor white trash drug dealer who wants to sell my baby? Is that what you think I am?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” Nancy Dement said. “That’s the part you don’t get.”

  “Oh, I get it. Believe me, I get everything that’s going on here. I’ve been dealing with people like you since I was two years old. The only thing you really care about is keeping your job until you get your pension. You’ll talk about doing what’s in the best interest of the child, and it’s just your lips moving. You people don’t have even the faintest idea of what those words mean. Because if you did—”

  There was a quick knock, then the door to her office opened. Two beefy Augusta County Sheriff’s deputies, their chests puffed to superhero proportions by Kevlar vests, their belts jangling with weaponry, crossed the room toward me with long strides. One was at least six foot four. The other was probably six two. They were both more than two hundred and fifty pounds.

  The larger one briefly inclined his head toward Nancy Dement. The smaller one focused on me.

  “Ma’am, why don’t you step outside with us?” he said.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I declared petulantly.

  “Please just come with us, ma’am,” he said.

  “Officer, this really isn’t necessary,” Ben said, standing now, trying to put his body between the cop and me.

  “Sir, this doesn’t concern you,” he snarled.

  “I’m her husband. This most certainly does concern me.”

  With a forearm, the cop easily shunted aside Ben, who was giving up at least eighty pounds to the guy, and reached for my arm.

  “Don’t touch me,” I said, shrugging away from him and ducking low.

  He moved toward me more aggressively, seeming to fill all the space above me. “Come on, now,” he said, trying to grab me by the shoulders.

  I flailed upward at him, backhanded, just to stop him from manhandling me. My hand bounced off his arm and, purely by accident, connected with his cheek.

  “Dammit,” he said.

  His hand flew to his face, and he staggered back a step or two. My engagement ring—a cheap, half carat, nothing little bit of occluded rock—had grazed his jaw, opening a small cut.

  “Ma’am, that’s assaulting an officer,” the larger one said. “Now we’re going to have to arrest you.”

  “That’s not assault! That was . . . that was an accident.”

  “Officer, please, I’ve got this
,” Ben said, again trying to get himself between me and the smaller guy. “Honey, let’s just—”

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stand over there,” the larger deputy said, agitated.

  “Officer,” Ben said, still moving forward, “it would really be better if—”

  “Sir! Stand back! Now!” the larger one ordered, reaching menacingly toward his Taser.

  Ben, who had suffered from some bad run-ins with law enforcement as a teenager, threw up his hands and stopped in his tracks. The smaller deputy pressed forward.

  “Ma’am, are you on drugs?” he asked.

  “I’m not . . . No, of course I’m not on drugs. Jesus, what’s wrong with you people? I just want my baby. That’s not an irrational thing.”

  They were backing me toward the corner. It was like a wall of uniforms, closing in on me.

  “Ma’am, we’ve received a report about you disturbing the peace and now you’ve assaulted an officer. Do you really want to add resisting arrest?” the smaller one said. “You’re going to have to come with us. Do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

  “I’m not coming with you. Not until I get some answers out of this woman.”

  “All right. Let’s do this,” the smaller one said. But not to me.

  They moved with precision, each locking down a side of my body. They seemed to have more than just four arms between them, and they were strong. Gorilla strong. I bucked and thrashed and growled at them like a wounded animal, with very little impact. I could hear Ben protesting, but the threat of the Taser was keeping him at a distance.

  Nancy Dement’s face had this look of smug triumph as I was hauled out of her office, one officer holding each arm, my toes dragging along the carpeted floor.

  “Let go of me. Let go of me. You’re hurting me!” I yelled repeatedly, to no avail, as they hauled me back through the waiting room, where other Social Services clients recoiled from me.

  They hauled me out the door, into the main hallway. I kept trying to get my legs pointed forward so I could dig my heels in. I heard the seam of my dress tearing as I struggled.

  The smaller one was tiring. It gave me more energy. As we reached the front door, I was still putting up a hell of a fight, making it as difficult on them as I could. I couldn’t even say why. I was well beyond exercising that kind of logic.

  Once we were outside the building, the smaller one—the one who had a small rivulet of blood dripping from his jawline—said, “All right, I’ve had enough of this. Put her over there.”

  His partner seemed to understand. They steered me to the rock bed that fronted the building, then dumped me down on the stones.

  I didn’t really understand why they had let me go. I was just kneeling there, breathing heavily. One of the cap sleeves on my dress had been mostly ripped off. A chunk of my hair had been pulled out of the barrette.

  The smaller one reached toward his belt and pulled out a black canister. Without a wasted movement, he aimed it in my direction, then depressed a button on top, sending a small burst of whitish fluid hurtling at my face.

  My eyes, nose, and mouth instantly felt like they were on fire. I howled and dropped, completely incapacitated, trying vainly to wipe away this terrible singeing hell.

  Pepper spray. The small part of me still capable of corresponding with my senses understood I had been hit with pepper spray.

  The rest of me—body and spirit—was in total agony. They let me writhe on the ground for a little while, choking on my own snot and spit, allowing the pepper spray to dissipate so they didn’t have to taste it themselves.

  Once they felt it was safe enough, they moved in, pinned my wrists behind my back, then fastened them together with handcuffs. I couldn’t have resisted if I wanted to. I was incapacitated by the pain, not to mention blind from the torrent of tears that had flooded my eyes.

  I was dimly aware Ben was lurking somewhere nearby, aiming his cell phone at them, recording their actions in silent protest. The deputies ignored him as they hauled me to their patrol car and locked me in the back.

  * * *

  • • •

  At that point, I thought the sum total of what had happened to me—having my baby taken, having my house torn apart, being accused of wanting to sell my child, then being pepper-sprayed for wanting to know who had made that accusation—was punishment enough.

  But there were more ignominies waiting for me over the next few hours. The sheriff’s deputies took me to their headquarters, a short drive away.

  There, I was put in front of a magistrate. With my eyes stinging and my nose still running like a faucet, I can’t imagine I made much of an impression on the man. He charged me with assault, disturbing the peace, and resisting arrest. To him, the fact that I caused the good people at Social Services to call the sheriff on me—then forced those nice hulking officers to use pepper spray on bad little me—indicated I was enough of a menace to society that I needed to have some prison bars around me.

  His exact words, after he ordered for me to be held without bond, were: “I think we’re going to give you a little time to cool off, Ms. Barrick.”

  He said I’d get a bail hearing in front of a judge the next day. In the meantime, I was permitted one phone call. I used it to inform Diamond Trucking I wasn’t going to be at work the next day.

  I was then processed, fingerprinted, and transported to the Middle River Regional Jail, where things only got worse. I’ve read stories about challenges to the constitutionality of the strip searches they do at jails to make sure new inmates aren’t smuggling in drugs and whatnot. But until you actually experience one, there’s no understanding the humiliation of stripping stark naked and being made to squat and cough, all the while having your anus and genitalia inspected by a stranger.

  Eventually, I was outfitted in a loose-fitting orange jumper and deposited into the general population. It was not unlike entering a new group home for the first time: I was the new kid, and the other women were now appraising me for signs of weakness.

  I felt myself trying to engage that survival technique I had long ago taught myself. Except it wasn’t working anymore. I couldn’t take the most important part of myself and lock it away when that part—Alex—was somewhere else.

  And didn’t I know that already? That being a mother had changed everything?

  Not long ago, I read a story in the newspaper about how researchers at a university in the Netherlands performed a series of MRI scans on a group of women’s brains. Some of the women went on to get pregnant, others didn’t. Follow-up scans showed significant differences in the gray matter of the pregnant women as compared to the non-pregnant women. Becoming a mother had triggered physical alterations in their brain’s structure in at least eleven different areas.

  I could have told them that without all the fancy gadgetry. My twenties had felt like a kind of extended adolescence. I could make bad choices—go out and get drunk on a Friday night, eat nothing but ice cream for dinner, whatever—and it felt like the consequences were fairly limited. I wasn’t hurting anyone but myself.

  Even when I ended up living in my car, I had this sense that it wasn’t that big a deal, because the only person suffering was me.

  Pregnancy ended that, along with so much else. Even if I didn’t know Alex yet, I felt a powerful sense of responsibility, a charge that went to the core of who I was. What happened to me was now happening to someone else. I wasn’t merely Melanie Barrick anymore. I was someone’s mother.

  Except now, at least in the legal sense, I wasn’t anymore.

  While I was being poked and prodded and pushed from one station to the next, Alex was being formally removed from my care. A few miles away from the jail, at the courthouse in downtown Staunton, Social Services had submitted its emergency removal order.

  Then a judge, who had been endowed by the Commonwealth of Virgini
a with the authority to take people’s babies from them, had decided that Alexander Barrick, by dint of being in my care, had been subject to abuse and neglect.

  Shenandoah Valley Social Services now had legal custody of my child. Just as it had once had legal custody of me.

  A vicious circle that began long ago, when my mother first met my father, was now coming around for a second lap.

  TWELVE

  She couldn’t believe it. The baby was crying. Again.

  No, not just crying. She had always thought of a baby’s calls as a pleasant sort of noise—the gentle yawl of neonate human life, announcing itself to the world.

  This was something more than crying. This kid had a set of lungs on him that would shame an opera singer, and his protests came out not only at an earsplitting volume but at a frequency that seemed to have been perfectly tuned to make her lose her mind.

  What’s more, he had been doing it practically nonstop since he arrived the previous afternoon. If he wasn’t sleeping or eating, he was making this . . . this cacophony.

  The latest eruption began when he woke from his nap and quickly worked himself into a red-faced fury. She had been trying to sneak in a little shut-eye herself, after a long and mostly sleepless evening, and now was just praying someone else would deal with it.

  Then she remembered there was no one else home.

  “Okay, okay,” she muttered, rising from her bed. “I’m coming.”

  She staggered into the nursery, which was already descending into disarray. The diaper pile, once so neatly aligned, had been knocked over. The box of baby wipes had been left open, turning the top wipe into sandpaper. There was a smudge of poop on the changing-pad cover, which she hadn’t subbed out because the other changing-pad cover was in the wash, having previously been pooped on.

  As she leaned over the crib, the baby was really ramping up.

  “Would you please just . . . shut . . . up?” she moaned.

  She bent down and took the baby out of his crib. For a moment, she had the child grasped in both hands and all she wanted to do was shake the damn thing until he quieted.