by Aime Austin
Young shook her head, hesitating before she spoke. “We’re removing Olivia from your custody.”
Sheila went from cordial to livid in a millisecond. “What in the hell are you talking about?” Her heart hammered in her chest. Who would dare to take her baby? Who would dare to accuse her of not doing her job as a parent?
Young fumbled with her pigskin briefcase, pulling papers out. “Ms. Grant, today the prosecutor’s office filed a petition for emergency custody. Based upon information from a credible source, we’ve determined that Olivia is at risk in your home.”
Abruptly, Sheila stood. The chair spun wildly behind her, nearly keeling over. “I’m going to get my daughter at her school, and get to the bottom of this.” She grabbed her coat and bag from the tree by the door.
“But, Ms. Grant. I have to fill out this intake form,” Young said, waving a stack of blank forms in the air.
Sheila’s voice held venom. The young woman shrank back from the mother’s wrath. “Ms. Young, I’m sure you have your job to do. But I have to resolve this mix-up before anything stupid happens.” With that, Sheila stormed from her chambers.
Twelve
Removal of the Child from the Home
October 23, 2001
Olivia’s hand stifled a yawn. Mr. Donaldson should be prescribed by doctors instead of the pills dancing in commercials. The minute his mouth opened, her eyes closed.
“Not only is it important to your understanding of geography, but it will contribute to your knowledge of history as well,” Mr. Donaldson said.
She yawned again, not bothering to hide it this time. She’d already memorized the state capitols from a Schoolhouse Rock CD her dad gave her years ago. The beat caught her imagination and she started drumming her fingers on her desk. She and her dad had fun when he’d played that during one of her last visits. For once, she’d get an easy ‘A.” Maybe her mom would lay off when she brought this good mark home.
The droning stopped abruptly when someone knocked on the closed classroom door. All twenty pairs of eyes zeroed in on Alison Feingold walking into the room. Alison looked unusually nervous as her normally steady eyes glanced around the room while she whispered and gestured to Mr. Donaldson.
Instantly alert, Olivia was dying to know what had happened that would cause Alison to interrupt her class. Did someone’s mom die? Was the school going on lockdown because someone’d brought a gun? After watching Columbine unfold on TV, Olivia was a lot more scared than when she was in elementary school.
The mystery was solved, in part, when Mr. Donaldson nodded in Olivia’s direction. “Olivia Grant. Gather up your books. You need to go with Ms. Feingold now.”
The low murmur in the room rose audibly. Olivia shook with worry. Maybe it was her mom who was hurt. She snatched her backpack from the floor and frantically shoved her stuff into the bag. Throwing it over her shoulder without zipping, she took the long, mortifying walk from the back of the class to where Alison was waiting, wondering how she’d ever live this down. She’d spent weeks trying to fit in, only to be called out in class twice in two weeks.
“Alison, what’s going on?”
The counselor avoided Olivia’s eyes. “Let’s talk in my office.”
“Is my mom okay?” Her mom may not be ideal, but she was the only one Olivia had. Her mind started ping-ponging around. Where would she live if something happened to her mom? With her dad? Could someone find him? Or would she live with Auntie Deidre and all her kids? Both her grandmas had died. Great auntie Cora was too old.
“Your mom is fine—no one’s hurt.” Olivia’s relief came out on a whoosh of breath. “Hurry now.”
They walked swiftly toward the front of the building, finally stepping into Alison’s office in the guidance wing. She was caught up short to find two adults already in the office, a black woman in some kind of shiny ruffled dress, and a white guy with a blue black uniform and a gun. Olivia dropped into a chair, her backpack slipping from her shoulders.
She jumped when the officer slammed the door behind her. Froot Loops from breakfast rose up, threatening to choke her or spill from her mouth. She swallowed back the bitter bile. Her eyes darted from the cop to the black woman to Alison. No one would meet her gaze. Finally, Alison sat down at her own desk.
“Olivia, we’re all here to help you.” Gesturing toward the black woman, she said. “This is Bernice Johnson, a social worker with the Department of Children and Family Services. And this is Officer Fitzpatrick.”
The sting of betrayal spread from the backs of her eyes to her fisting fingers. “Alison, you promised!”
Bernice Johnson spoke up. “We don’t think your mom’s capable of taking care of you right now.”
“That’s a lie. My mom’s just fine. Look at me. I’m clean, I eat—a lot.” Olivia grabbed at the tiny roll of fat developing around her waist. “Anything you heard is a lie. Call my mom. She’ll tell you we’re just fine.”
Bernice continued like Olivia hadn’t spoken. “This is only temporary. You’ll be with a good family until she gets better.”
“But I have a good family,” Olivia said, choking on her words. The tears that pricked behind her eyes spilled over. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she hung her head. How did they find out about her mom, if it wasn’t Alison? Had she gone to the same liquor store too many times? Did some detective threaten Mr. Ossman at East Town Eagle until he spilled? Could the landlords have heard her mom yelling at her? She’d never felt good in Shaker. Everyone was staring.
“Oh, Olivia. Don’t cry,” Alison’s hand awkwardly reached across the desk and patted her arm. “We’re going to make sure you’re happy, and most of all, safe.”
Happy without her family? Safe? “Where am I going? Now? Am I going to finish school today?” Olivia asked.
Hesitation and silence from the adults, then Bernice spoke up. “I’m going to place you in an emergency home.” Her voice changed. Olivia didn’t believe a word she said. “There’s a loving foster family who’s ready to provide a home for children like you right now. It’ll be like going home.”
Olivia didn’t care anymore if everyone saw her cry. Maybe they would see that this was all a mistake. Maybe they’d let her go back to class, and take the bus home. She half stood. “Wait. I want to go home—to my house,” she wailed. “Where’s my mom?”
Bernice sighed, her veneer of patience wearing thin. “Olivia,” she snapped. “This is all for your own good.” She walked closer, pushing Olivia down in the seat. “Does your mom drink a lot?”
Olivia looked from Alison, to the officer, to Bernice. It didn’t matter what she said. She shrugged and sniffled all at the same time.
“I have to tell you that most moms aren’t like that. We want your mom to be all better, for you.” Bernice’s head snapped when a commotion started in the hallway.
The guidance officer’s door swung open, bouncing off the doorstop. Thank God, her mom was here, full of authority and anger in her forest green power suit. This was the first time she was happy her mom was a judge. She’d tell all these people what to do. She could put them in jail. She got up, books scattering unnoticed, and threw her arm around her mom’s waist.
“Take me home. These people say I can’t go home with you. Fix it, Mom.”
Thirteen
The Best Interests of the Child
October 23, 2001
Sheila took Olivia into a hug, smoothing her straightened hair, missing the tight spiral curls that had bounced around her daughter’s face most of her childhood. She wiped the tearstained face, looking into the hazel eyes that reminded her of Olivia’s father. How had she let grades or fat matter?
This child was her heart, from the scar on her ear caused by a playground accident, to all but two fingernails bitten to the quick. Setting her daughter aside, she picked up Olivia’s books. It was time to take her home. Maybe they needed counseling. Something had gone woefully wrong here. She turned away from the exasperated look Bernice threw at the officer
.
Like her own bailiff had earlier, the sheriff got between her and Olivia. She started to push him away then thought better of it. She couldn’t mother her child if she was dead. He pulled a thick bundle of paper from his belt.
“Ma’am, here’s the court’s order allowing the county to take emergency custody of the minor child,” the officer said. He shoved the typed pages at Sheila.
She quickly glanced at the pages, her lawyer’s brain absorbing what her mother’s brain couldn’t. Some judge had signed over her daughter to the county. Olivia had wormed her way around the officer, and was clinging to her again. It would only be for a night or two. She couldn’t win this battle, here, now. This was war, and needed to be fought in her domain, the courtroom.
As gently as possible, she pried open Olivia’s grasping fingers. She shook her daughter’s shoulders, gently.
“Poppet, a judge has said that you have to go today—”
“But Mommy, you’re a judge. Can’t you cancel that out?”
The question was like a blow to the solar plexus. She could send grown men to jail and fine multi-million dollar corporations, but she couldn’t keep her daughter from the county’s clutches. If it were only as easy as Olivia thought. It wasn’t going to be like fixing a playground squabble where the moms were on even turf. “Stop crying and listen to me.” Olivia wiped away the tears, and nodded at her. “You have to go with them. But I’ll be able to pick you up in a couple of days when I get this misunderstanding cleared up, okay?”
Her daughter’s movements were lethargic, but she took the backpack from Sheila anyway.
“Olivia, let’s get your jacket from your locker. Then we’ll be ready to go,” Bernice said. Sheila had to turn her back when Bernice led her daughter from her room with the sheriff picking up the rear.
Alone in the counseling office with some young woman, Sheila raised an impertinent eyebrow. “And you are?”
The school employee rose from her desk unsteadily. Who had populated the world with unsure young people out to do her harm? “I’m Alison. I run the ‘For Girls Only!’ peer group that Olivia belongs to.”
Sheila rose to her full height, and using all the confidence she could muster, postured like she was on the bench.
“I hope you’re not behind this fiasco. There’s absolutely no problem in my house, and I resent your involvement and the county’s hand in our lives. When I get to the bottom of this, no one and I mean no one from the school better be involved. As a judge, I promise you that I have all the tools and resources at my disposal to prosecute any misconduct to the fullest extent of the law.”
Sheila stalked from the office, through the hallway now thick with pre-teen hormones, and strode to her car. Unlocking the door, the new car smell mocked her. She threw the court papers on the passenger seat, leaning her head against the steering wheel. The horn blared, but Sheila didn’t give a shit what people thought. How had this happened, just when she’d fixed it all? Just when her personal and professional lives were finally coming together.
Fourteen
The Blue Wall
October 23, 2001
Olivia’s down vest hissed like it was blowing off steam when she leaned against the plastic bucket chair. Officer Fitzpatrick had left her there in a police station, her only company, a stressed out receptionist. When she asked where she was going, Fitzpatrick had said it wasn’t his territory, signed some papers, handed them over the counter and walked out the door.
Her new babysitter said it was one-thirty. Normally, she’d be in art class right now. Sadness spread through her body when she realized that she’d be missing ceramics, the unit they were starting this quarter. Olivia had been looking forward to making a mug that would be glazed and fired in the kiln, coming out shiny and crackly like the demonstration models along the windowsill.
At two-thirty, she scooted her chair back on the shiny linoleum floor to get out of the hot sun streaking through the window. The receptionist threw her a look at the scraping sound. She pulled the geography book from her backpack. Maybe she’d read the next chapter. Her mom had always told her that she’d do better in school if she got a head start on the other kids.
By three-thirty, Olivia’s brain but was numb. What had happened to Bernice Johnson? The social worker had taken her own car, while she’d been escorted in the back of the police car. Her sadness was turning to anger. Why had it been such an emergency to get her out of school? Here she was, just sitting and waiting with nowhere to go.
When the big hand on the large wall clock struck four, her stomach growled. She’d have been home by now, watching something good on TV and eating cookies. She couldn’t remember what they had at home. Peering into her pocket, Olivia pulled out and tore open the Velcro purple wallet. Except for a picture of her mom and aunt from a few summers ago, it was empty.
“Excuse me,” Olivia said, knocking on the bulletproof glass separating her from everyone else. When a heavyset woman rolled her stool to the shiny metal microphone, a speaker cracked to life. “Do you know when I’m leaving?” After she spoke, Olivia realized the woman at the front desk had changed. The overworked, frowning woman was long gone and this one was in her place.
“Who are you, young lady?”
Olivia put her hand on her chest to still her beating heart. “I’m Olivia Grant. A social worker is supposed to take me somewhere, but I haven’t seen her in hours, and I’m kinda hungry.”
“Have a seat,” the receptionist said without irony, gesturing to the blue plastic seats Olivia had only vacated a moment ago. The receptionist opened and closed a few drawers, then squeezed her hand into the tight pocket of her blue polyester uniform pants, pulling out a few quarters. “Here,” she said, dropping the coins in the metal tray near the window opening. She rolled out of Olivia’s sight.
Taking the change, Olivia walked over to the vending machines. She quickly calculated that a drink and food were out of the question. Looking around, she saw an ancient water fountain. All three quarters jingled through the machine and a bag of Funyuns dropped into the dispenser. The sound of the bag, the smell of the artificial flavors calmed her almost as much as the first crunch. She hadn’t eaten an orange stack since she’d been back in Glenville last spring.
Her mom had been late. It had been Shawn’s birthday. Shawn Upchurch had been her very best friend for as long as she could remember. They’d always lived on that same block, six houses between theirs.
The birthday party had been fun, catching up with the kids she’d known forever. Shawn’s mom had finally allowed cupcakes now that the five girls were too old for the icky rectangular supermarket cake. The other three girls had been picked up or walked home, but Olivia was still there because walking to Shaker Heights was out of the question.
“Olivia,” Mrs. Upchurch said, “what do you think happened to your mom?”
“She probably got caught in traffic,” Olivia said, though there was never any traffic to speak of on Cleveland’s east side—especially on a Saturday afternoon.
Olivia made herself useful, balling up cupcake foils, wiping cake crumbs from their pink and gold speckled Formica kitchen table. Despite her helpfulness, Olivia still felt like a third wheel on a bicycle.
Mrs. Upchurch, who liked her dad, but never much liked her mom, handed her the cordless phone. “Why don’t you try your mother’s cell phone again? Make sure she’s on her way.”
She dropped the green sponge into the nicked sink, black iron showing through the white enamel, and took the proffered phone. Walking to the darkly wallpapered dining room, she dialed her mom’s phone. Voice mail. The cell was off. Pressing flash, she dialed home. Four rings, then the answering machine.
Olivia hung up without leaving a message. Sinking into a heavy dining room chair, she avoided the bustling in the kitchen. A good excuse as to why her mom wasn’t here was what she needed.
Shawn sidled into the room, her newly changed starched dress rustling against the heavy, velvet dining room
curtains. “Liv?” Maybe you could come to dinner with us,” Shawn said. “It’s just going to be my mom, pop, and crazy cousins from Hough. I know my parents are making a big deal about having reservations, but I’m sure Charley’s Crab could fit one more in.”
“No thanks,” Olivia said. Everyone knew Charley’s Crab was expensive. Would she have to pay for her own dinner? Would she break their budget? Would they let her in wearing jeans and a sweater? “I’m sure my mom’s going to be here any second. Besides, you’re all dressed up.”
Shawn, summoned by her parents, walked Olivia to the vestibule. Pulling the opaque fabric aside, she looked at the empty street through the front door’s glass panel. Shifting from foot to foot, she waited. Shawn’s parents whispered to their daughter, then Olivia heard more clattering in the bedrooms upstairs. The cupcakes in her stomach turned to stone. When Mr. Upchurch came downstairs, adjusting his unfashionably narrow tie, her mom’s Lexus finally pulled up, its tires banging against the curb. Grabbing her jacket from the coat closet, Olivia waved to Shawn’s father, opened the door and ran to the car.
“Sorry. Sorry. Time got away from me,” Sheila said, hugging Olivia with one arm, and steering from the curb with the other. Two wheels were on, then off, the sidewalk. Olivia closed the door before she fell out of the car. Her mom was in one of those moods. She remained quiet, but her mom was garrulous.
“How’s Shawn?”
“Fine.”
“The Upchurches were always a nice family. Have they put your friend in private school like they said?”
“No.” Shawn’s family never had private school aspirations, but had said so under her mom’s cross-examination.
