“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, withdrawing my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t...” My voice wanders off. I gather myself, and try again with, “We should take a look at that. A little Neosporin might do the trick,” knowing that between Ruby’s ever-present fever and this, we may need to see a doctor before long.
After some time Willow asks, apprehensively, to borrow my copy of Anne of Green Gables, and I, of course, say yes, watching as she retires to Chris’s office to read. I watch as she carries the worn copy pressed close to her heart, and I wonder what significance the novel holds for her, its narrative committed to her memory like biblical text. I could ask her, I could ask Willow about the book, but I imagine her curling into a ball like an armadillo—or a woodlouse—at my interrogation, and hiding inside her armor shell.
I slip from the leather armchair and settle down at the kitchen table with my laptop and a mug of coffee, Ruby swaddled in a blanket and set on my lap. I pull up a search engine and type into the box: child abuse.
I come to learn that over a thousand children die each year in our country due to abuse or neglect on the part of their caregivers. Over three million child abuse reports are made each year, by teachers, local authorities, friends of the family, neighbors or the ubiquitous anonymous calls that child services receives. Child abuse can result in physical injuries: bruises and bone fractures, the need for sutures, damage to the spinal cord, the brain, the neck, second-and third-degree burns, and so on and so forth. Emotionally, the abuse is damaging, as well, leading to depression in even the youngest of victims, withdrawal, antisocial behavior, eating disorders, attempts at suicide, illicit sexual activities. And—as my eyes drift over the words, my mind forms an image of Willow, pregnant with a fetal Ruby growing inside her womb—teenage pregnancy. Victims of abuse are more likely to use alcohol and drugs, to participate in criminal activity, to fare poorer in school than the comparable child who has not been abused.
Who is the father of that child? I wonder as I get a second cup of coffee, dribbling creamer along the countertop as I do.
A lover? A boyfriend? A sadistic school teacher, one who took advantage of his position of power to seduce a student or maybe tempt her with an easygoing smile and an approachable manner? Or perhaps her own father? A neighbor? A sibling?
And then I remember: Matthew. Her brother Matthew. Who reads Anne of Green Gables.
Is Matthew the father of that child?
The sound of Willow’s feet pitches me across the room, and I slam the laptop shut so she doesn’t see the words scattered at random across the screen: assault and molest and sexual abuse. I stand, breathing hard, with hands on hips in an overdone impression of relaxation, as she asks permission to turn on the TV and I say, yes, of course, so long as she keeps the volume low. I watch as she settles on the leather chair and turns the TV to Sesame Street, the kind of kids’ show Zoe hasn’t watched since she was four or five. I find it odd, odd indeed; I’m not quite sure what to make of it.
But then, somehow or other, my concern for Willow starts to wane and I find my attention focusing on Ruby instead, the online child-abuse investigation morphing into a shopping expedition for rocking chairs, thinking less about that ochre bruise atop Willow’s head and more about a baby’s need to rock, about nestling before the big bay window with Ruby in my arms and watching for hours as raindrops fall from the sky.
CHRIS
One night turns into two.
Then two nights turn into three.
I’m not quite sure how it happens. I come home from work, ready and motivated to tell Heidi it is time for her to leave. I make a plan in my head, how I will give the girl fifty dollars—no a hundred bucks—enough for her to make due for a while.
I’ll map out the homeless shelters within the city limits, so Heidi can see I’m trying.
I’ll get her there myself. In a cab. Make sure she gets inside the shelter. Make sure they accept babies.
I go through the words in my head, what I will say to Heidi. I jot down a numbered list in my notes on the way home from work, the writing like chicken scratches from the motion of the train. As I walk from the Fullerton Station, I polish the words in my head. We’ll be generous, I’ll say. Give her plenty. Make sure she has everything she needs.
I’ll gaze into Heidi’s bewitching brown eyes and make her understand that this is the way it has to be. I’ll be tactful and delicate, I’ll use Zoe as justification.
Zoe might think you care more about Willow’s needs than you do her own.
Then she’ll see. If I pit Zoe against Willow, Heidi will see.
But as they say, the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.