Prologue
Maren
FIVE YEARS AGO
Who in the hell is calling me at six in the morning? And why don’t they have more respect for their personal safety? Because I’m going to reach through the phone and strangle them.
As soon as I can find the fucking thing.
I passed out last night watching a YouTube video on formatting a spreadsheet and now my phone is MIA. I know it’s in the vicinity, because it won’t fucking stop ringing, but no matter how many pillows I fling or blankets I toss, I can’t locate it.
Peering over the edge of my bed, I find it illuminating the wedge of space between the box spring and the frame. I dig it out and rush to connect the call before it goes to voicemail, just in case they’re calling me back about the job I interviewed for three days ago.
The job that had me trying to figure out how the fuck a spreadsheet works.
“Hello?” The possibility I might finally be working at something that’s more than entry-level and minimum wage has my brain waking up at a record pace. “This is Maren Lucas.”
“Hi, Maren. I’m calling from Christ Mercy Hospital. Is Janine Lucas your mother?”
All the excitement and anticipation bleeds out of me as I go from eager anticipation to crushing dread in the blink of an eye.
I’ve gotten this call more times than I can count.
At first I felt obligated by genetics to rush to wherever my mother has found herself this time.
To listen to her empty promises and well-intentioned lies before handing over whatever spare cash I had, knowing it wouldn’t go toward food or a place to stay like she claimed.
After too many years of playing the game, I don’t do that anymore. It doesn’t help either of us.
“I’m not coming to get her. She’ll have to call someone else.” I feel less guilty saying it than I used to, but it’s still not easy. My mom isn’t a bad person, she’s just never going to change. She’s never going to be the kind of mom everyone else gets to have.
And that’s as okay as I can figure out how to make it. At least I’m an adult now and not reliant on her for food or housing. I might not have much, but I’m warm and safe and fed.
Which is more than I can say for the life she provided me.
“Your mother has already left the hospital.” The woman on the other end of the line has a weird pitch to her voice. Is it pity?
Did my mom die?
“We’re actually calling because we need you to come get the baby.”
Okay… maybe I’m not as awake as I thought. Did this chick just say I need to come get a…
“Baby?” I pinch my leg, just to make sure I’m not still passed out.
Nope. Hurt like fuck.
“Right. The baby your mother delivered. She said you would be adopting it.”
I laugh, loudly, because this can’t be real. “Are you telling me my mom had a baby?”
“Were you not aware?” The woman clearly doesn’t know how very unaware I prefer to be when it comes to my mother’s dealings. “Because she was very specific that you were the one responsible for the baby.”
How in the hell does she think I’m going to be responsible for a baby?
Actually, I know the answer to that. My mother doesn’t really care if I’m responsible enough to handle a baby.
As long as she doesn’t have to do it, that’s all that matters to her.
Taking care of me was a giant pain in her ass and really cramped her choice of lifestyles, so it’s not surprising she doesn’t have any interest in doing that with another kid.
To be fair, I don’t have any interest in her doing it with another kid either. That’s got to be why I find myself asking, “What happens if I don’t come get the baby?”
“She would be placed in foster care until your mother is in a position to care for her. Or she could simply choose to place her up for adoption.” The woman sounds hesitant.
Like she doesn’t necessarily want to tell me the rest. “But I will be honest with you, babies like your sister generally aren’t as easy to place. ”
“What does that mean?” I always thought infants were the easiest to find adoptive parents for. People want something tiny and cute and relatively trauma free.
“Frequently, there is some caution around children who were exposed to drugs during development. They tend to be more difficult as babies and can frequently have physical disorders and developmental delays.”
I stare across my tiny studio apartment. The one I chose because it was the most inexpensive place I could find, hoping it might help me save money for the future. The future I was determined would look very, very different from my past.
But this baby—my sister—could face the same sort of childhood I had. One marred by neglect and abandonment. Our mother wasn’t capable of taking care of me. She’s certainly not capable of taking care of a child who needs more.
The same thing could happen if the baby goes into foster care. She could get passed around from house to house as people get tired of making sure she has what she needs.
I know what it’s like when someone is tired of making sure you have what you need. How confusing it is when the person who’s supposed to protect and nurture you is gone for days, leaving you with half a jar of expired peanut butter and a loaf of molding bread.
I don’t know the first thing about being a parent—or even a sister—but I do know I’m not the kind of person who walks away when shit gets tough. I might not be able to keep this baby in the lap of luxury, but I would never abandon her or pass her off because she’s too much effort.
And I sure as heck won’t risk our mother ruining her life the way she ruined mine.
Taking a deep breath, I silently curse my mother for fucking me over yet again, then say, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”