Friday, June 24
RIGHT AFTER WAKING up, Nessa made a quick run to the grocery store. The sky hung oppressively close to the ground, with heavy, dark clouds bearing down like a steam press, threatening thunderstorms and even higher humidity.
By the time she returned home, the rain had blown in.
A blue sedan sat idling in front of the house.
What now?
Nessa parked the Pacifica in the garage and went in the back door. She heard the doorbell ring, missing the old happy Declan MacManus “Friends are here!” bark.
She’d had more strange visitors in the last four weeks than the entire time they’d lived in this house.
Nessa opened the front door to a middle--aged woman in a damp skirt and blouse with a disheveled bun, holding a dripping red umbrella over herself with one hand and a leather briefcase in the other.
“Mrs. Donati?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m Shanae Klerkse from Child Protective Ser-vices.”
“Child . . .”
“Protective Ser-vices,” the woman said.
“How can I help you?” Nessa said. She briefly pretended Shanae Klerkse was here to interview her about Lauren, the mom who refused to use sunscreen and had no air--conditioning. But by now, Nessa knew better. This was about her.
“May I come in?” Shanae said.
“What is this regarding?” Nessa said.
“Well, Mrs. Donati, we received a phone call reporting that your home may be an unsafe environment for your three--year--old son.”
“From whom?” Nessa said.
“It was an anonymous call.”
“Of course it was,” Nessa said.
“We are obligated by law to investigate every report. Is your son at home, Mrs. Donati? I’d like to interview him.”
“Do you know American Sign Language?”
“No,” Shanae said. “Is your son deaf?”
“No. He doesn’t speak.”
“Is he home?”
“Nope,” Nessa said. “He’s in Kansas City with his grandparents.”
“When will he return?”
“In a few days.”
The rain fell heavier, and lightning flashed. The CPS caseworker flinched. “May I come in, Mrs. Donati?”
Nessa debated. It was common courtesy to ask someone in out of the rain, but what would this mean? Was it better to cooperate? Should she call a lawyer?
Another lightning strike followed by a quick explosion of thunder finally made Nessa motion Shanae inside. She had nothing to hide, of course, so she might as well get this over with.
“Thank you,” her guest said, stepping inside and collapsing her umbrella.
“Would you like a bottle of water?” Nessa said. “I’m going to get one for myself.”
“Sure,” Shanae said.
“Why don’t you take a seat in the living room, and I’ll be right back.”
Nessa grabbed two water bottles from the fridge, and wondered if this would be seen as environmentally irresponsible, if this would count against her. Ridiculous thoughts for a ridiculous circumstance.
Back in the living room, Shanae sat on the wingback chair and was holding a clipboard and a pen on her lap. “What are you growing out back there?” She wrote on her clipboard while Nessa explained the hops--for--local--craft--brewers concept.
Nessa sat on the couch, cracked open her water bottle, and took a drink, watching the weather rampage out the window behind Shanae. Even though the sky was gloomy, there was still enough light behind her to make her interrogator’s face hard to read as she was asked all the usual questions. Nessa tried her best not to answer tersely, sarcastically, or defensively.
“So you’ve taken Daltrey to the doctor about his speech delay.”
“Yes,” Nessa said. “Our pediatrician, Dr. Blatter, says it’s nothing to worry about.”
“Does he say what the cause might be?”
“Since she’s not worried about it, we haven’t discussed causes.”
“Do you read to him? Do you work on ABCs with him?”
Nessa thought her head might pop off like a champagne cork. “Yes.”
“You might want to have his hearing tested.”
“We have,” Nessa said. “Several times.”
“And you’ll want to start reading out loud to him on a regular basis.”
Nessa just nodded.
Then came the really fun questions:
“Do you keep pornography in the home?”
“Do you drink? Use drugs?”
“Have many sexual partners?”
“None, since my husband left,” Nessa said.
“How many abortions have you had?”
This one caught her off guard. How was this relevant? How was it anyone’s business? And the wording of it was interesting. Not have you had any but how many? Nessa wondered if the questions were asked in a specific order to rile up the interviewee.
“None,” Nessa said.
She couldn’t see the expression on Shanae’s face as she wrote down the answer, so Nessa impulsively rose and strode toward the window behind her, pulling the curtains closed and switching on the lamp to Shanae’s left. Nessa turned toward the couch and her eyes lit on a lump between two of the magazines on the end table next to her bottle of water. White, oval, an inch wide.