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?”
“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.”