Chapter 18
eighteen
. . .
Riley
Fancy galas by night, spit-up by day. The glamour of my life never ceases to amaze me.
Emmy has been miserable for the last week. All she wants is to lie on top of me, and most of the time, she coughs directly into my mouth. It’s lucky I’m not a germaphobe, because it would be enough for me to nope out of this.
But when I glance down at the baby sleeping fitfully on my chest, I know I’ll do anything for her. Even if she gives me her germs.
I run my hand over her back, trying to soothe her in slumber. She shifts, the congestion turning her snuffling into rattling snores. Sometimes I have to pinch myself and remember this is my seven-month-old daughter and not a seventy-year-old man sawing logs.
The doorbell rings, and Emmy startles awake, letting out a blood-curdling scream directly into my ear.
“It’s okay, baby,” I murmur as I force myself to my feet. “You’re okay.”
She continues to shriek as I head downstairs, opening the door to reveal Joanne, the social services worker who haunts my nightmares.
My blood runs cold. This is it. Is she here to take away my baby?
“Can I come in?” It’s not a question.
Hugging Emmy to my chest, I step back to allow her entrance.
“I received a report of an urgent-care visit,” she says, getting right into it. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“She has a cold, but we thought… we were concerned it might be something worse,” I admit. Fire licks at my burning cheeks, remembering the way the nurses talked down to us. “First-time parents, you know? Her doctor’s office was closed and we didn’t know what to do.”
I can laugh at it now, but I don’t think I can forget that initial panic. Emmy’s never been sick like that before. And Al’s anxiety only ramped up mine. Now that she’s doing better, I can look back with a clear head and recognize all the things we’ll do differently next time she’s sick.
Because if one thing’s for certain, she will get sick again. Kids are like human petri dishes, constantly passing germs back and forth.
Joanne nods, making a note on her clipboard. “Better to get it checked out than have it be something more severe. You did the right thing.”
My jaw drops. “Really?”
“Yes. We have to investigate, but this shouldn’t impact Mr. Gonzales’s custody petition.” Her eyes narrow. “That is, if you’d still like to give up custody?”
“I’m not giving up anything. He’s her biological father, and I’m his wife. We’re raising her together—as a family.”
To my surprise, Joanne nods. “Very good.”
Confusion muddies my brain, and I stare at her, slack-jawed. “Are you serious?”
What happened to the hard-ass I met that first day?
“The department’s goal is reunification with the biological parent if safe and healthy. You and Mr. Gonzales seem to have a good balance here.” She glances at Emmy, snuffling fitfully, then back at her clipboard. “I do have a few questions for you.”
“Yes, please, sit.”
Emmy whines as I move to the armchair, but as I situate her on my chest, she falls back asleep.
“You said she has a cold?”
“It’s been about a week, and she refuses to sleep unless it’s a contact nap.” I give a self-deprecating chuckle. “Luckily, I don’t have anything to do today.” Or at all this week.
“And Mr. Gonzales?”
“He’s away on a road trip, but he’ll be back tomorrow night.”
He played Dallas last night, or maybe it was Austin. I know it was one of the Texas teams, followed by the other. And then today he’s over to New Orleans before he finally comes home.
“And until then, you’re alone with the baby?” She raises her eyebrows.
“I have my sister-in-law and a few friends I can contact, and I have her pediatrician on speed dial. I’m nap trapped, but I don’t have anything else I need to do other than take care of her.”
“No dishes, no laundry?” Her tone is sharp with judgment, and it takes everything in me not to snap back at her.
“I have a baby wrap I put her in, so she’s in her carrier as I vacuum or wash dishes, and I do the laundry once she’s in her crib for the night.”
Baby wearing is safe and good for her, helping her with neck control, but it’s also good for me; it strengthens my core, and it gives me my hands back.
I don’t mention the housekeeper, who comes twice a week, or Tyler, the private chef who drops off our dietitian-planned meals.
I don’t want her to think I’m flaunting Al’s money, or that I married him for it.
Even though I still make a few things for myself and some solids for Emmy, most of my meals are prepared.
I didn’t realize how much mental energy meal planning and preparation took until it was suddenly off my plate.
“Socializing?”
“We do playdates once or twice a week, and when she’s not sick, we go to the park almost every day if the weather is nice. In a few weeks, we start swim lessons.”
“Good.” Joanne nods. “Water safety is important for children of all ages.”
My heart beats a little faster. Is she… approving? What the hell kind of Freaky Friday shit is this?
“I didn’t learn to swim until I was an adult, so I want to make sure she’s comfortable with it. And some of our friends go to a baby swim class, so it’s a good way to continue socializing her.”
The social worker nods. “Is she eating?”
“Not so much this week, but generally, yes,” I report.
I’m determined to ace this test. “The doctor says she’s meeting all her milestones, and they’re happy with her growth.
It was touch and go when she cut her first tooth, but the second one was a little easier.
And she’s growing like a champ. We had to go up a size in diapers.
She still hates wearing clothes, though. ”
The heat is on, warming the house against the winter chill, so she’s dressed in only a diaper. Anything more and she screams bloody murder, and given she already feels like crap, I didn’t want to fight her. Not on this. We’re not leaving the house today; she’s fine.
Joanne’s pen scratches across the papers on her clipboard. I have a flashback to every overworked social worker I had to deal with in my childhood, and my resolve deepens. Emmy will not know that life. She has two parents who love her.
And yes, I’m including myself as her parent. Al is right; it’s what I am to her. She doesn’t know anyone else, not anymore.
My grief for my sister is like a tidal wave, ready to crash into me at any moment. But as each day goes by, it recedes ever so slightly. I’m still grieving, but every day it’s a little easier to live without her. To thrive. To accept this is my life now.
Emmy lets out a snore, snuggled on my chest, and my heart squeezes tight. It’s all for this little girl. Everything she needs, anything she wants, I’ll move heaven and earth to give it to her.
Joanne glances up, setting her clipboard aside.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“Mr. Gonzales submitted the DNA sample, and it’s still being processed,” she says.
The quick test we did in the lab at Harvard was enough to convince him, but not legally acceptable. Our lawyer warned us this could take weeks to be finalized.
“You will continue to have custody until a hearing date is set. At that time, the judge will review the paternity test and determine if he is suitable to be a custodial parent.” She pauses. “It helps your case that you are married to the father, that he has been actively involved in her life.”
“He’s definitely involved. He’s devoted to her.”
“DCFS will need to observe him with the child, since he isn’t here today.”
“I can get you a copy of his game schedule. I know your visits are supposed to be unscheduled, but perhaps in this case, you can make a slight exception.” I wince, her words from the first time we met coming back to haunt me. No special treatment.
“Perhaps,” Joanne says with a glint in her eye. Maybe that day was just a fluke. We caught her on a bad day, and she’s not as heartless as she made it appear.
Her phone rings, and she checks the display with a sigh. Standing, she tucks her clipboard under her arm.
“You’re doing a good job, Riley,” she says, as if the words pain her. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”
Emotion clogs my throat, and I swallow down the lump. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that—especially from her.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Take care, now. I’ll be back soon.”
Somehow, this time, it doesn’t feel like a threat so much as a promise.