Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
It had been a long fucking week.
Vincent was certain that some evil god, somewhere, had slipped in a few extra days.
Not that he’d been idle.
There’d been two emergency callouts at Diver Downeast, both of which he’d been a part.
One had involved a flooded cave at the seashore where a few teenagers had been diving when a rock-slide had trapped two of them underwater.
They’d made it to the pair just in time, as their tanks were running out, and shared their air for the duration of the rescue.
Luckily, only minor leg injuries had been sustained.
The other alert had been for a clogged sewer line that was causing some backup in the system.
Not a job any of them wanted to do, but you didn’t get to pick and choose.
Turns out that the task was even more gruesome than just getting covered in shit.
They’d found the body of a deceased male blocking that particular outflow line.
The dive team had removed the grisly blockage, and the body was currently under scrutiny by the coroner’s office and the FBI.
On a lighter note, at the lumber mill, Vince’s father had received a large, rush order from a firm in Massachusetts.
It had been all hands engaged to get the lumber milled and shipped on time, and that had been a success.
The nice little bonus check Vincent had received for his efforts would go right into his “look for a home” fund, should he ever get motivated.
Not that his coffers needed any boosting. Vince had saved his military pay for years, and had a fine pension on which to draw. But every little bit still helped.
Vincent, gazing into the mirror, carefully applied the adhesive that would affix the red clown nose to his own, then pressed the large sphere into place. He dipped into his pots of multi-colored face paint to add wide eyes and a huge smile before sprinkling the wet surface with glitter.
Standing back from the glass, he admired his handiwork.
Yup. He looked like a clown, alright.
Tugging his wig into place, he finally donned and buttoned up his colorful, striped caftan over the spandex shorts and tank top he wore underneath.
There. Fluffo lives.
As Vince grabbed his keys from his dresser, butterflies began dancing in his stomach. And why shouldn’t they? The two females he’d be seeing soon had pretty much taken over his brain this week.
Inez, because she was so strong and brave, and didn’t have a family to see her through her treatments. And Lace, because she was strong and brave, and…
Huh. Was Vince seeing a pattern here?
Yes. He’d always admired fortitude in his family, friends, and teammates. He supposed that would carry over to new people he might want to incorporate into his life.
He briefly wondered whether he’d be the only one visiting Lace today.
Maybe.
But surely she had relatives who would accompany her to her chemo appointments if she so wished.
Maybe, however, she was a solitary sort, though Vince didn’t feel like that was the case. She’d interacted with him like a pro in the hallway. She’d thrown back his one-liners without hesitation, and hadn’t shied away from eye contact.
Shit. Maybe she would have someone with her today, which would cramp Vincent’s style. On second thought, she had told Bobbie that Vince could visit at a certain time, so maybe he’d be her only drop-in today.
There was no need to borrow trouble.
Vince was nervous enough.
“Morning, Mom,” he chirped upon entering the kitchen that smelled like coffee and things that were so familiar from his childhood, he almost felt like he was twelve again.
“Well, don’t you look adorable,” she chuckled, taking in his clown apparel. “Headed to the hospital again?”
“Yup. I feel like it’s a good thing. I’m reconnecting with my humorous side, and the kids seemed to love me.”
“Only the kids?” his mother asked cannily.
Dammit. Vincent groaned.
“You’ve been talking to Bobbie, haven’t you.”
He should have known. Gossip in this family traveled like wildfire.
“I might have shared a word or two with her this morning. I bet you didn’t know I was friends with Lace’s grandmother?”
Vincent would have slapped his forehead if he didn’t think he’d disturb the paint. “Of course you were,” he snorted. “You know everybody. But…”
It occurred to him that his mother had used the past tense.
“You said you were friends?”
“Yes. Fran passed a number of years back. She and—”
“No. Don’t tell me,” Vince stopped her with a hand in the air. “It’s not that I don’t want to know, but I feel like Lace should be the one sharing her life-details with me, when and if she wants.”
His mother smiled. “I understand.”
She changed the subject. “Do you want coffee? Eggs?” she asked. “The coffee is ready, and the eggs will only take me a few minutes to make.”
“Thanks, Mom, but coffee only,” he replied, heading over to the machine and pouring himself a travel mug. “I want to get on the road.”
Ellen grinned again. “Lace is pretty special, isn’t she,” she mentioned conversationally.
“Again, I don’t know much about her,” Vince admitted. “But even after I heard of her cancer diagnosis… No, that’s not right. Despite her cancer diagnosis, she intrigues me.”
He thought for a few seconds over whether to mention Inez, and decided to go for it. The change of subject might get his mother’s mind off Lace. He was sure that—in Ellen’s head—she already had them married with children.
“There’s also this little girl I want to see,” he admitted.
“Oh?” His mother didn’t push, she just waited patiently for Vince to give over information. She would have made one hell of an investigations officer.
Vince cleared his throat. “In the peds chemo unit at the hospital yesterday, there were six kids of various ages getting their infusions. Five of them had adults with them, and one was all alone.”
Now his mother was all ears.
“All alone?”
“Uh, huh. Her name is Inez. She’s a foster kid, and her current foster parents told her they have too much on their plate to accompany her to the hospital,” he growled.
“It seems,” he continued somewhat bitterly, “that her social worker is also too busy to stay, because the lady drops her off, then picks her up once her treatment is over.”
“Well, that’s just sad,” Ellen stated, sitting down and giving Vincent all her attention. “Is there anything we can do?”
Here’s where the rubber hit the road. What would his mother think of him becoming a foster parent?
“I, uh, might have had a little chat with one of the nurses, and they might have given me not only Inez’s infusion schedule, but a little more information about her.”
Ellen chuckled. “You always were my charmer.”
Vincent didn’t disagree.
“Inez is six years old, and lost her parents three years ago. Scuttlebutt has it, it was a murder/suicide thing.”
“Oh my,” Ellen exclaimed, her hands going to her cheeks. “The poor child.”
“Yeah. And apparently Inez witnessed it, and has some trauma from the event that the nurses are hoping is being addressed.”
Yes. He’d used all the charisma he could muster with the empathetic nurses, amazed that they’d had so much to impart. But apparently the social worker who dropped Inez off wasn’t exactly circumspect, and very chatty.
That seemed like a huge breach of confidentiality to Vincent, but the lapse in protocol had helped him gain enough intel that it had cemented his course of action.
“Can kids her age experience PTSD?” his mother asked.
Right. Here was something with which he was very familiar.
“They can. I’ve been reading up. Witnessing traumatic events at ages as early as one, can lead to not only nightmares, but thumb-sucking, bed-wetting, violent play…”
It had been a lot to take in, but it hadn’t discouraged Vincent.
Not that he’d talked about it much with his parents, but they knew he’d been dealing with some shit of his own after a particularly gnarly operation overseas had labeled him “unreliable”.
He’d had to explain it to them a bit—not in detail—when they’d noticed his lifelong sense of humor wasn’t what it once was.
They, of course, had supported him one hundred percent. And after keeping things inside since he’d parted ways with the Navy it had felt good to let a little of it out. And he was considering therapy as a civilian; if just to get back his joie de vivre.
“So you feel a connection to her,” his mother put in, astutely.
“I do. And… I know this might sound crazy, but I’ve been looking into becoming a foster parent. I’ve, um, actually put in an application.”
His mother beamed, clapping her hands together.
“That’s wonderful Vincent.” She eyed him astutely. “What are the chances that you can take Inez in if you’re approved?”
Again, Vince held up a hand. “Nope. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, the powers that be have to run a background check on me.”
“Which will come back perfect,” his mother interjected with a scoff.
“True. But after that, I’ll have to take thirty hours’ worth of courses, and have a home inspection.”
“A home inspection? Here?” Ellen’s face lit up again.
Vincent could see his mother’s wheels turning, and he attempted to let her down gently. “Well, I have thought about looking for a place of my own.”
Thoughts were exactly as far as he’d progressed.
Vincent continued. “I, uh, only had the briefest of notions that it might not be a bad idea to base myself here where everyone knows you and Pop as salt-of-the-earth citizens.”
His mother tsked, giving a crooked smile.
“But you decided against it. As much as I’d like to have a little girl in the house, and you, of course, long term, it will be better for you to establish your own, permanent residence.
I don’t know how social services would view a grown man still living with his parents, anyway. ”
“Exactly.” Vincent hadn’t wanted to disappoint his mother, but he knew she’d come around to the same conclusion he had.
Still, he could include her in his plans in other ways that would be extremely beneficial to his cause.
“Which means I need to enlist your help immediately, looking at local, viable real estate,” he proposed.
Property perusal and analysis wasn’t something he felt confident doing by himself. Having always lived on Uncle Sam’s dime in base housing, he knew very little about owning a home.
“Oh. I’d love that,” Ellen responded with enthusiasm. “We’ll talk tonight over dinner, and you can tell me what you think will work. How many bedrooms? How many baths? In town? In the suburbs? Or perhaps something more rural…” She tapped her lip.
Vince laughed. He could see his mother’s mind going a million miles an hour, and she’d probably keep him all morning if he didn’t nip that in the bud.
“Yes, Mom. We’ll talk tonight. But right now, I’ve got to get going.”
He was already leaving half an hour later than he’d planned.
He kissed Ellen on top of her graying head, then snagging his coffee on the way out, made his escape.
Vincent chuckled as he walked to his truck.
His sort-of news would be all over the family within the hour; that he was thinking of becoming a foster father. He had no doubt that everyone would support him wholeheartedly, but they were sure to give him shit, as well. It’s how his brothers rolled.
Vince has halfway to the hospital, not paying too much attention to anything around him, when he heard a siren on his tail.
Crap.
His heart beat a little harder.
Vince hated authority of any kind these days, and reprimands in particular. Censure tended to bring him back to a dark chapter in his life.
But this wasn’t the Navy. It was Maine. He could deal with whatever was coming.
Vince looked down at his speedometer, and noted that he’d been going seven miles over the posted limit.
Seriously? They were going to pull him over for that?
Vincent put on his blinker and turned onto the shoulder. Once he dropped his truck into park, he grabbed his license from his wallet before leaning over the clown horn in the seat next to him, scrabbling in his glove compartment for his registration.
He took a deep breath once they were both in hand, and lowered his window.
A voice barked out.
“Do you know you were doing seven miles an hour over the speed limit?”
What? Vince knew that tone.
“Asshole,” he snapped at the cop.
His brother Kyle lowered the citation tablet from in front of his face and grinned. “Hey, dickhead.”
“Geezus Kyle. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Just a little joke,” Kyle snickered. “I learned from the best, after all.”
“You learned shit,” Vincent dished it right back. “You do practical jokes. I do actual humor.”
“I can see that. Nice make-up, bro,” he quipped.
“Eat me,” Vincent sighed. “Listen. You’re holding me up. I gotta go.”
“Why? You got a date with a circus performer?”
“Cut the crap, Kyle. I’m headed to the hospital.”
“So I understand,” Kyle replied, smirking. “Word on the street is that there’s a lady at the medical center who’s caught your eye.”
“Word on the street is going to get a talking to,” Vince snarked. “Buck needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”
“What? And have the rest of us miss out on all the fun?”
Vincent dropped his head forward and rapped it gently on the steering wheel so as not to smudge his makeup.
This interaction was taking far too long.
“Are we done here? Between you and Mom, I’m almost an hour behind where I wanted to be.”
These days, Vincent had a visceral need to control his timetable.
“Yeah, dude. We’re finished. I actually just wanted to wish you luck.”
Vincent raised his head and met his brother’s eyes, amazed when he saw that no joke was coming.
“Thanks Kyle,” he said sincerely, but he couldn’t help himself.
“You know…” He reached down and squeezed the clown-horn.
Honk, honk.
“…you look really hot in that uniform.”