CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I speed over to the front door, trying not to scream curse words at the top of my lungs.
Whoever Marta sent probably doesn’t think a steady stream of “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” is good for a little girl’s ears. I look over my shoulder to the little girl in question. Her hair is undone, and the braids have made her hair into a mass of crimped-looking curls. It’s all tangled in the back from how she’s been sleeping. In front of her, I have a giant plate of waffles with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.
“Shit,” I mutter. I look over my shoulder to see Skye frantically pulling on the dress she was wearing last night. No panties, no bra—normally I’d like that kind of thing. And her hair—it looks like sex hair. There’s a wild piece of it sticking up in the back. “Skye—” I hiss. “Get into the bathroom—put on a bra—and brush your hair—”
Her mouth hardens into a straight line. My stomach tightens into a knot, but there’s not much I can do about Skye right now. After dodging every question last night and throwing her into bed to get out of actual conversation, yelling at her to look proper is probably the last thing I should be doing this morning. But I have a sneaking suspicion I know who’s at the door.
When I open it, my worst fears are confirmed. I hear the door to the bedroom shut, and the shower turns on. They can’t fault my wife for taking a shower—can they?
“Good morning,” I say. I try to make my voice sound cheerful, and I plaster a fake grin on my face. I’d wager it looks more like a grimace, but it’s the best I’ve got at eight on a Sunday morning. Two women stand in front of me, both of them wearing black pantsuits with white button-down shirts. The older one has dyed red hair and holds a coffee in her hand like it’s a lifeline. The other one looks like she’s maybe twenty years old—and she has no idea what the fuck she’s doing here.
“We’re here to speak with Mr. Liam Dougherty, and his wife, Skye Williams.” The older one digs in her bag and pulls out several sheets of paper, looking through them frantically like she’s searching for something she can’t seem to find. “Looks like Ms. Williams hasn’t gone through the process of changing her name yet.”
“We’ve already found Jesus, if that’s what you’re here for,” I say. I hope for a smile from either one of them, but none is forthcoming.
“Is Ms. Williams planning on changing her name, or is she not?” The older woman is still looking down at her papers. When she looks up at me, her rheumy blue eyes are blank and emotionless.
“It’s up to her,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now, I’m not sure I caught either of your names. Or what you’re doing at my place of residence on a Sunday morning.”
“I’m Donna Gunnis, and this is Amber Peterson. We’re from Child Protective Services, and we’re just here to see how you’re doing with Brie.”
“And you’re working on Sundays now? I didn’t think the state government paid enough for that.” They certainly don’t, I think. But Marta does.
“Yes, we work on Sundays when a little girl is having a first overnight with a known criminal and his brand new wife who apparently appeared from nowhere several weeks ago.”
“We’ve been together for months,” I say, even though my heart is beating slightly faster. It’s a lie, but it’s the best I’ve got, and I’m fairly sure they can’t prove much of anything in that department. “And I’m an honest business proprietor. No longer involved with any criminal activities. My former parole officer can tell you all about it. He’s actually a friend of mine now—and he’s helping me get the record expunged.”
“That’s all good and well,” Donna says, trying to peer into the house over my shoulder. I see her make note of the tattoo beneath my sleeve. She takes out a small notepad filled with pencil markings and jots something down before looking back up at me with a strained smile. “But we’re going to need to come in and take a look around. Just to make sure that Brie is in an appropriate environment. Safe. Tidy. Nurturing. Healthy.”
I nod quickly and step to the side. I know from experience that trying to get these people to go away always fucking backfires. “We’ve just moved in. It’s not perfect—”
Donna and Amber push past me. It seems like Donna almost tries to bump into me with her shoulder, but I step to the side. Fists clenched, I watch as they start walking around and looking through the apartment. Donna keeps her notebook out and jots in it every few seconds. Her expression looks generally displeased, but I’d bet that’s just how her face is.
The younger woman, Amber, comes up to me, looking a bit like a deer in headlights. “Where’s the child, Mr. Dougherty?”
“In the kitchen, eating breakfast.” I say a silent prayer that she’s finished with her ice cream.
Amber pops around the corner, and I hear her voice change instantly to that sickly sweet tone adults often use with children. Brie’s not that kind of kid—she’s smarter than most adults I know, and I cringe when I hear Amber speak.
“What do you have there, honey?” Amber’s voice sounds like a high-pitched squeak.
“Waffles.” Brie’s voice is caged and hesitant. I follow Amber into the kitchen and nod at Brie. Her eyes lock on mine. “Dad made bacon too. And we had fruit—fresh fruit.”
“Is that ice cream on those waffles, though, sweetheart? Looks like it’s melted a little. That’s a lot of sugar so early in the morning, don’t you think?” Amber turns to me, and Donna joins us in the small room, noting something in the small book, perhaps that I’ve given my child an inappropriate amount of sugar.
I crack my knuckles and feel my face growing flushed. It’s impossible not to think about the millions of kids out there who have parents smoking meth or locking them in closets. Or smoking meth while locking them in closets. All I have is a felony on my record, and a mother-in-law who has some kind of narcissistic grudge and wallets deep enough to get CPS out to Queens on a Sunday morning.
I cross my arms, and shift from side to side.
I have to bite my tongue. Marta wants me to fuck up. She wants me to fail.
If I stay in this room with them talking to my daughter for one more second, I might scream. Just when I think I’m going to reach my breaking point, I feel a cool hand on my shoulder. I turn, and I see Brie standing next to me.
“Hi there,” she says. The two women from CPS turn to see Brie, her hair dried and styled, wearing her green dress from the day before. She even has on flat shoes with little bows on them. “Would you like to see Brie’s room here? Liam worked on it with her last night. And then we read some books from the library.” She quickly catches Brie’s eye and winks at her. The women don’t catch it, but I do.
“Yeah, we read books in there,” Brie says. “Let me show you. It’s like a castle. I helped make a healthy dinner too.”
This kid. She catches on fast.
Brie skips out of the room and runs down the hall, making the women follow behind her. “This is a pretty nice place,” Amber says.
“There’s no central heating unit, it doesn’t look like. I’d imagine they got it like that because it’s cheaper. Remember what the grandmother told us—”
Not missing a beat, Skye turns to them as we reach the bedroom. “There’s actually baseboard heat. It’s oil-based, but it’s provided by the landlord and included in rent.” She looks over at me. “And Liam is making enough to pay for the whole thing himself. It’s an up and coming neighborhood. Pretty expensive since it’s so close to Brie’s school. He’s worked really hard with his brother at the bar. He co-owns it, you know? He’s been saving every penny he’s earned. So even if Marta has you on the hook, give us a chance here. We’re not the enemy.”
Amber and Donna look between each other but don’t say anything. They follow Brie into her room, and Skye and I listen as Brie gives them the grand tour. It’s a sad thing that Brie knows well enough by now that her grandmother sends people—lawyers and PIs and now CPS—all to make sure that she doesn’t live with me. Hell, that she doesn’t even see me. That’s why Brie fell into line so quickly this morning. She knows exactly what this is about, and the poor kid is only six.
They stay in the room for a solid fifteen minutes with Brie, while Skye and I stand outside. The voices inside are low, and we can only hear scraps of conversation.
Neither of us say a word. Instead, we stand against the wall. When the time starts to stretch, and the churning in my stomach grows almost too intense, Skye reaches over and puts my hand into hers. I look over at her and see that her face reflects the same worry that I feel.
“I wonder what Marta’s done to get them out here on a Sunday morning,” she whispers, leaning into me. “Whatever it is, it’s not good.”
“No, it’s not.” My body grows tight, and I close my eyes. I imagine myself slamming my fist into the wall, what it would feel like to crush the drywall beneath my knuckles. But that isn’t me anymore.
It might be. But Skye is here. And she feels like a life raft in a storm, while my daughter talks to two women who will help decide the fate of my family—of my entire world.
When I open my eyes, I see the ladies shuffling out of Brie’s room. There’s a stern look on Donna’s face, but Amber still retains that slightly stunned look that doesn’t seem either negative or positive.
“Can we speak in the front room, Mr. Dougherty? Your wife can stay back here with Brie and Amber. If she knows Brie well enough, that is.”
Skye’s eyes grow wide in surprise, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she walks silently into Brie’s room, looking back at me for a brief moment. I nod to her and walk with Donna to the living room.
“What’s this about?” I try not to growl the words, but it’s hard after the intrusion.
“I think you know, Mr. Dougherty.” Donna looks at me expectantly, like I’m a particularly slow student who she’s sure will catch onto her assignment.
“No, I don’t think I do. I have a legal right to have my daughter for overnights now that I have an apartment and a stable relationship. And I know enough about CPS to know that this isn’t an ordinary visit.”
“Mr. Dougherty,” Donna says, sighing, “Brie thinks she’s going to live here from now on. And it seems that you and Ms. Williams didn’t let her know that’s not even a possibility.”
“It is a possibility. We’re going to court on the 28th, and we have plenty of evidence that this is a better living situation than she’s in right now.”
“With her grandmother, who loves her and sends her to private school. Can you afford the Catholic school she attends?”
I groan. “Yeah, I can. But since when is private school a concern of CPS? Is there anything here that would endanger Brie? No, I didn’t think so.” I sigh quickly and go to the door, opening it for Donna. “Unless there’s something here I don’t know about it, I’m going to kindly ask you to get the fuck out of here.” I give her my best charming smile.
“See—that right there. The anger. The attitude. And don’t get me started on this relationship you have with that young woman. Marta informed us about your history. It’s clear you picked this one up somewhere and convinced her to marry you. Give me a break, Mr. Dougherty. This is all confusing for Brie, and furthermore, it’s clearly not a good place for her to be. She has no place to put her clothing. She was given highly unhealthy food for breakfast, and I saw several empty packs of candy in the trash. That’s not how you treat a child you want to raise and support.”
“Come the fuck on,” I snarl. “This is all bullshit, and you know it. How much is Marta paying you? There, I said it. The big goddamn elephant in the room. I have plenty of experience with that sad excuse for a woman, and I know that’s what she does to get her way.”
Skye steps around the corner and comes to my side, touching my arm. “Please forgive my husband, Donna. He’s very protective of his daughter. And Brie brought to our attention that Marta isn’t providing adequate food for her. I couldn’t help but overhear your observations about her diet here. But it seems she doesn’t even get a full dinner at Marta’s house. We made tacos last night with a salad, and then we allowed her a treat. She also had fruit with her waffles this morning.” Skye squeezes my arm as she talks. “She says that Marta allows her only bread for dinner. Her grandmother takes away food as a punishment. Isn’t that the kind of thing CPS might be interested in? Write that down in your book.”
“I can hardly see how that’s true,” Donna says, unmoving. The breeze rolls into the apartment. It’s sunny and smells like spring outside, which doesn’t match the scene in here at all.
Amber joins us in the room, stepping up to Donna. “That is what Brie told me. Without Ms. Williams in the room. She also told me that when we visited her at the grandmother’s—”
“Hush, Amber,” Donna says. “We’re not here to discuss Brie’s current living situation. I do think it’s time we left. We need to type up notes for this visit so we can’t them to the judge that’s seeing their case. And we both need to get on with the day.” Donna smiles, full of fake sweetness. “And Ms. Williams and Mr. Dougherty here—they might want to enjoy the time they have remaining with Brie. It doesn’t appear this is a place fit for a child. Not in my book.”
“Skye steps forward, inches from Donna. “What was the first reason you started working for Child Protective Services? Was it actually to protect children? Or was it to take on outside clients like Marta and run your own rogue business on the weekends?”
Donna’s face grows pale. “I don’t see your point, Ms. Williams. We’re here working for the city, making sure that a child is where she ought to be.”
“I don’t think so,” Skye says. “I just checked with my friend, Rhiannon. She says there are plenty of people at CPS who will do anything for a few extra dollars. It’s not the most high-paying job, is it? And the city is expensive. I understand. But that isn’t the reason you started working for CPS, is it?”
“I think we’d better go, Amber,” Donna says, completely ignoring Skye.
“I think we ought to listen to what Mr. Dougherty has to say about Brie’s living situation,” Amber says. “He’s the biological parent—and the child seems quite happy here.”
“I said we need to go. Now,” Donna replies. “Fall in line, Amber. Your job is quite new. Please remember that.”
Amber looks like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she follows Donna out the door, and Skye and I are left there, watching her.
“Farewell, Mr. Dougherty,” Donna yells back at us. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing our report when you get to the courthouse. Just a few days now.”
My heart sinks down into the pit of my stomach.
I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know if there is anywhere to go.
But Skye is beside me, and that makes me feel like we might be able to fight. Her head is far cooler than mine, and maybe some of her words will get through to those women.
We can only hope.