Chapter 3 #2
“Eli, I want to do everything I can for you now that I know about you. Everything.” I swallow hard.
Ms. Hernandez clears her throat. “Perhaps we should discuss the steps that need to be taken first.” She heads to the door, opens it, and waves someone in.
Stevens appears and approaches Eli, saying, “How about you come with me to get a donut. Sound good?”
Eli nods with his whole body and manages to hold back tears. He jumps up and rushes off with the officer. I whoosh out an exhale, and drop my head into my hands.
Ms. Hernandez shuffles some papers on the table. “Mr. Holt, if you want custody, there are steps to be taken. Eli will be placed with a foster family—”
“Wait, what?” There’s that phrase again. “He’s not coming home with me? Now?”
“No, I’m sorry,” she continues, “We have to establish paternity, and you must demonstrate a willingness and ability to provide a safe and stable home for the child, completing a case plan required by the court in order to—”
“No need. I’m willing. I’m able. Got a house and all that.
And hell, I’m his father—I mean, come on, anyone can see that.
” The protectiveness that erupts inside me is unlike any I’ve ever felt before.
I don’t want Eli placed with anyone who could hurt him or not give him everything he deserves.
No one will give him as much as I can, and I can’t stand that he has to go elsewhere.
“Give me two minutes. I’ll run to the drug store, pick up one of those DNA kits.
They can’t take that long. A few hours maybe?
A day, tops? He can stay with me until then.
He’s mine—he should be coming home with me. ”
“No, Mr. Holt.” Her voice is sharp and just as loud as mine. “Eli will not be going home with you today. And I suggest you calm down and lower your voice, or he won’t be going home with you anytime soon.”
That shuts me up, and I take a minute to catch my breath. I’m being an ass. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I expected him to come with me. I want to bring him to my house, to his home.”
Ms. Hernandez softens. “I’m sorry, too. I know this is difficult, but Eli is in the Social Services system, which means we have very strict guidelines and a process that must be followed. I’ll need your cooperation.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m one hundred percent prepared to do whatever needs to be done.”
“As I was saying, you need to complete a case plan. Meanwhile, we can try to get you a hearing as soon as possible. Maybe even next week.”
“A hearing.” My heart plummets further.
“Yes.” She nods. “Right now, as the guardian designated by Ms. Anders in her will, you’ll need to sign these custody papers.” She taps them. “Then as soon as we leave here, we’ll schedule a home visit, a DNA test, and provide you with the case plan.”
“Okay.” I run a hand through my hair, panic flaring again. I tell myself that this is the process, and I have to follow it and not screw this up.
I could use the time. I mean, on the ride over here, I was flipping out because I don’t have anything set up.
As if reading my mind, Ms. Hernandez says, “You’ll have to start preparations tomorrow.”
Right, tomorrow. The day before I play the Blizzards.
And it’s not just the physical preparations. I’ll need to figure out:
How to be a father by the court hearing date, which is TBD.
How to comfort a grieving child who hates my guts.
How to explain to the Trout that I’m suddenly a single dad and might need to miss practice.
Coach Barrymore’s face flashes in my mind—and I almost laugh at how insignificant his threats seem now.
“Do you have any other questions, Mr. Holt?” Ms. Hernandez slides the custody papers toward me. “I’m going to email you the name of a family law attorney I advise you to get in contact with. And I’ll swing by in a few days to check on you and assess the situation.”
A thousand questions swirl in my mind, but none she can answer. How do I keep from fucking this up? How do I connect with a son who already resents me? How do I grieve for the woman I loved, then couldn’t stand, then became indifferent to, and now, can’t stand again?
“No.” I take the pen she offers. “No other questions. Other than that hearing date.”
“I’ll get on that as soon as this meeting’s over.”
“Thank you.” I sign where she indicates, officially in the fight to become responsible for another human being. When I look up, Stevens is ushering Eli back in the room. The kid steps inside, chocolate on his face, watching me, his expression unreadable.
“Ready to go?” Ms. Hernandez’s voice is gentle.
“Sure.” He shrugs, shifting his beat-up Flash backpack. It’s too heavy for him, making him list to one side, but when I reach to help, he jerks away.
My heart constricts in my chest. “Hey, Eli, you have to go into foster care here in Dickens, but I’m hoping to get custody of you as soon as I absolutely can.”
He scowls. “Maybe I don’t want to live with you.”
Another precise and deep slash to the heart. “Please give me a chance to show you I’ll be there for you before you decide. We’re family—we belong together.”
His face lightens, like he might actually be happy about my offer, but he says, “I’ll decide to go back to foster care, but okay.” There’s no conviction in it.
His independence is pure Rosie, and it makes my heart ache. I’ve taken countless hits on the ice, but nothing has ever hurt like this moment—seeing my son for the first time and realizing he already hates me.
“Okay, we’ll figure it out.” I take a deep breath as the cuts keep coming. Eli’s watching me with a mixture of suspicion and exhaustion when I say, “Ready to go, buddy?”
“Don’t call me buddy.”
“Right. Sorry.” Another misstep. I turn to Ms. Hernandez. “Where are his things?”
“Just this backpack.” She gestures to it. “Ms. Anders’ apartment in Portland was cleared out after her passing, but there are some boxes in storage that you can arrange to have delivered once you’re settled.”
Jesus Christ. His entire life fits in a backpack.
Somehow, I have to find a way to bridge this impossible gap, to become the father he deserves, even if I’m nine years too late.
As we head toward the door, Ms. Hernandez touches my arm. “Mr. Holt? He’s been through a lot. But so have you today. Try to be patient—with him and with yourself.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Eli walks ahead of me, shoulders hunched, steps dragging. Together, we step out into the hallway, two strangers connected by blood and loss, about to begin the most important game of my life.
One I can’t afford to fuck up.