And I won’t lie that it stings a little. Not being the one they go to. Who am I kidding? It stings a whole helluva lot.
So when I see the familiar phone number I grab it and answer immediately, the connection I crave with the other part of my life just within reach.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Rylee.”
“Hey, Zander. How’s it go—what’s wrong?” I’m so thrilled to hear from him that it takes me a second to hear the tinge of distress in his voice.
“I . . .” he begins and stops, his sigh heavy through the connection.
“What, buddy? I’m here. Talk to me.” Concern washes over me as I listen as closely as I can to hear whatever it is he’s not saying.
“I’m going to get in trouble for telling you but I know you’ll make it better,” he says in a rush of words that has so many parts of me startle to attention.
“What do you mean?” I ask but don’t have to because it all clicks into place the second the last word is out. The basic conversations, the sense the boys don’t want to talk to me, the constant run around when I ask anything too detailed about their cases. Someone has told them they’re not supposed to give me any information. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own warped world that I’ve taken everything at face value, taken it all personally, and didn’t delve deeper to see behind the mask of vagueness.
How stupid could I be?
The knife of absolute disbelief twists deeply between my shoulder blades as various emotions flame to life. I focus on the most important: Zander is upset and I need to help him. I can seethe later, call Teddy and express my displeasure after, but right now one of my boys needs me when I didn’t think they needed me anymore.
“Never mind,” I correct myself, not wanting to put him in a position he should never be in and get to what matters. “Tell me what you need, Zand.”
“These people . . . they want to foster me,” he says in the slightest of whispers with a tremor to his voice.
And the selfish part of me immediately wants to yell no, reject the idea, because Zander is mine in a sense, and yet at the same time this is exactly what I’m supposed to hope for. So I’m left in that catch-all of being way too attached to a little boy that came to me damaged and broken and is now turning into a damn fine young man.
“That’s good news,” I say, infusing enthusiasm into my voice when I don’t feel it whatsoever.
“No, it’s not.”
“I know it’s scary—”
“It’s my uncle.” All encouragement is eradicated as memories of way back when flicker to the surface. His case file comes to the forefront of my mind, and I contemplate Zander’s only remaining family member.
How is this possible? My mind reels with this new piece of the puzzle, my abdomen clenching in a Braxton Hicks contraction that knocks the air out of my lungs momentarily. But I try to focus on Zander and not the flash of pain.
I stutter, trying to find the appropriate response and cringe because I don’t have one other than to say no way in hell and that’s not exactly something I can promise him. “Tell me what’s happening,” I say, needing to get a clearer picture of everything I’ve been shut out from.
“He . . . he saw my picture with yours in a magazine and on the news.” My whole world drops out because that means I’m the cause of this. My job is to protect my boys, not hurt them, and that goddamn video has done just that. A picture of Zander and me taken at some event was in a national publication and now someone wants to claim him.
Or use him.
I swallow down the bile threatening to rise as my stomach twists in the knots it deserves to be tied in.
“Jax told me they—”
“Who are they?” I ask immediately as I pace the office and try to push away the last image in my mind of the uncle. The one I have of the man so strung out he couldn’t even make it to his sister’s funeraclass="underline" track marks on his arms, greasy hair, dirt under his fingernails, and uncontrollable fidgeting as he tried to claim Zander for one and only one reason—the monthly subsidy for fostering a child. While it may not be much, it’s still a treasure trove to a junkie. Because let’s face it, the communal druggie house in the ghetto’s Willow Court is the perfect place to take a traumatized seven-year-old boy and nurture him back to his new normal. Not.
My skin crawls, knowing he would even have the gall to come forward again and yet here we are, six years later, and Zander’s new normal is having the foundation shaken out from beneath his feet.
“I guess he’s married now and they saw a picture of me in People Magazine and decided they want to foster me because I’m the only family they have.” His comment is followed by an incomprehensible sound that tugs at my heartstrings. I know he has to be freaked out, ready to run and at the same time too scared to stay. “My caseworker called Jax, told him they’re going to give them some supervised visits to see how it goes.” And even though he doesn’t say it, I can hear the plea in his voice to help him and not make him go.
“I’ll make some calls. See what’s going on, okay?” I try to sound hopeful, but fear I have no control over what the machine does. All I can do is assert my one, hopefully still powerful and relevant, voice since I was his caretaker for longer than anyone.
“Please, Rylee. I can’t . . .” The damaged little boy’s voice rings through loud and clear, a sound I thought I was never going to have to hear again. One I worked so hard to overcome and get rid of.
“I know,” I tell him as tears burn in the back of my throat. “I know.”
“I couldn’t not tell you,” he says, and I smile at the double negative he’s fond of using. It’s comforting in an odd sense.
“You did the right thing. Now go watch the race, try not to worry about it, and I’ll see what I can do on my end, okay?”
“I’m scared.”
And there they are. Two simple words that weasel their way into my heart and create fissures.
“Don’t let them take me.”
“I will do everything in my power to stop them,” I say. Just what that is, I’m not sure yet besides raising hell. “I promise. I soccer you, Z,” I add to reinforce his place in my life and heart.
“Yeah. Me too.” And the phone clicks without him saying what he always says back to me.
I stare out the window and fear this may be one promise I might not be able to uphold. Visions fill my head of the first time Zander came to me—a broken boy, lost and afraid. Of the sleepless nights I spent beside his bed, building his trust, creating that bond, and now in one fell swoop I’ve let him down by not being there when he needs me.
And yet someone, somewhere, has handcuffed me so I couldn’t know.
I tap my cell against my chin, my mind lost in thought as I try to figure out why after all this time his uncle would actually step forward and why social services would even entertain the idea. Because there are just too many kids, not enough caseworkers, and when the unwanted become wanted, it’s so damn easy to dust your hands of one and get them off your caseload.
I hate my bitterness. Know that not all caseworkers are this way but right now I have the voice of a scared boy ringing in my ears and doubt niggling in my psyche.