“True.” Molly stooped down and kissed him. “Go, buddy. Mrs. Bower’s waiting for you.”
He waved good-bye, still clutching Mr. Monkey, and in a few short seconds he and the social worker walked through the Jetway and disappeared from sight. Molly felt satisfied. “I’m glad we got it to him.”
“Me, too.”
Jack took her hand and they walked—like normal people—out of the airport and to their car. Their son would sleep in a strange bed that night, in a house they’d never seen, with two people they’d never met. He was the subject of a custody case that could make national news if they chose to call the papers. He was about to be whisked from his South Florida home to a remote beach house in some island in the middle of nowhere. His name was about to go from Joey to Aaron. Aaron Sanders.
But at least for tonight, if nothing else, he’d have Mr. Monkey.
Wendy stood at the bathroom sink.
Her regular foundation should’ve been enough to cover the bruise on her cheek, but it wasn’t working. The mark still shone through, and Joey and the social worker would be there any minute. Rip had given her orders.
“Cover the thing, or don’t show your face. I’ll tell the Bower lady you’re out.”
But that would never do. The agreement was very specific. Both Rip and Wendy had to be at the house to greet Joey, so they could go over any instructions with the social worker. Wendy couldn’t be gone—that would raise red flags for sure.
But so would the bruise.
Wendy felt tears in the corners of her eyes, and she blinked them back. She couldn’t cry, not now. Her tears would ruin what makeup she already had on her face. She sniffed.
Don’t be sad. Joey’ll be here any minute. Then everything will be okay.
She dug through her makeup bag and found a jar of under-eye concealer. It was thick and pasty, but it would cover the bruise. She let out a shaky breath. No matter what she told herself, she wasn’t doing well. Having Joey for a visit wouldn’t solve the other trouble.
The trouble with Rip.
He had been doing so well until Joey’s first visit. But when he didn’t immediately connect with their son, something inside him seemed to change. He had grown short with Wendy, snapping all the time and finding reasons to be mad at her. Even that wouldn’t be so bad, because his rehabilitation in prison had taught him how to handle his feelings.
But no program could teach an angry man how to drink well.
Some people fell asleep when they drank, and others got silly. Rip, well, as long as Wendy had known him, whenever he drank, Rip had gotten full-blown furious. That’s why, when he got out of prison, when he found out they were going to get Joey and have a family, Rip had made her a promise.
He was finished with the bottle.
A few beers now and then, maybe. But no more hard liquor. Not if he was about to be a daddy.
He broke the promise the night Joey left after his first visit. Rip drove out to the liquor store, bought two bottles of Jack Daniels, and came home. The first one was already opened by the time he walked in the door. Wendy didn’t say anything, of course. She knew better than to get in his way when he drank.
Instead, the next morning she brought the bottles to him—one half-empty and the other still unopened—and asked him to make a decision. “They could still change their minds about Joey, you know.” She gave the bottles an angry shake. “They’re watching us like hawks, making sure we don’t take one wrong step to the left or right.”
“I’ll make my own decisions!” Rip talked big, but he hadn’t had any choice really. Later that morning he took the half-empty bottle and dumped what was left down the drain. On Monday afternoon, before he reported in for training at the theater, he took the other bottle back to the store, lied about it being a gift, and got his money back.
She wanted to think that was that.
Since then he’d had a few gentler weeks, working at the theater and feeling good about himself. Most nights he talked nicely to her and told her how important he was at his new job. “They see big things for me, Wendy.”
“Good, Rip. I’m so happy.” She meant every word. “I believe in you, baby. I always have.”
That’s when he began drinking beer. Serious beer—a few more bottles every evening. But no more hard liquor, until two nights ago.
It started with questions from him. “What if the kid doesn’t like me again this time?”
“He will.” She wanted it to work, wanted it with everything inside her. “Just give him time to get used to you, Rip.”
After another hour of that sort of conversation, Rip grabbed his keys. “I need fresh air.”
When he came back, he didn’t have a bottle, but it was obvious he’d been drinking. That’s when she did what she never should’ve done. She confronted him.
“Where is it?” She met him near the front door, her hands on her hips.
“What?” He reeked of more than beer, and his eyes refused to focus. He waved an angry hand at her. “Get outta my way.”
“This is all about Joey, isn’t it? You’re afraid of your own son, Rip. Don’t you see that?”
His features tightened, the familiar windup that would release only with a flood of rage. “Don’t tell me . . .” He struck at her, but she dodged him.
“This is all your fault!” She was tired of walking on eggshells, tired of hoping he would stay nice, hoping he would stay sober. It was time she told him how she really felt. “What happened the last time Joey was here was because you were mean to him!” She leaned forward, speaking louder than she’d spoken to him since he’d come home from prison. Once more he swung, but his knuckles barely glanced her cheek.
She took a few steps backward. “What are you doing, Rip? It’s the same thing you did to Joey. You think you can intimidate people and that’ll make you bigger and better, is that right?”
“The brat doesn’t have any manners.” His words were slurred, and squished between his angry lips.
But she could make them out all the same. Wendy felt her own anger build. “Don’t talk about Joey like that! He’s a wonderful little boy.” She backed up again. “You might try being kind, not grabbing his arm. Treat him like a father treats a son!” She was shouting, out of control. If Rip wanted to unleash on her, then she would have her turn first.
He took another step toward her. Surprise filled his face, and than an anger that scared her. The sort that meant whatever he did next, he would later claim he wasn’t responsible for it. An anger that told her he’d slipped into one of his bad spells. He reared back and raised his fist at her.
This time when she tried to back up, she bumped into the wall. When Rip’s fist came at her, she had time to turn her face, but not time to get of the way. The blow hit her square on the cheekbone, and the force knocked her to the floor.
The moment she hit the ground, Rip snapped out of his rage. He looked at her, horrified, and took small steps back. “What . . . what have I done?”
Bruised my face real nice, that’s what.
Now, struggling before the mirror, Wendy clucked her tongue, still angry at him. She dabbed the concealer over the spot and then worked another layer of foundation over it. There. She stood back and admired her work. It was impossible to see the bruise now. She brushed a light layer of blush over her cheeks.
Good as new.
Rip had been a perfect gentleman since hitting her. Several times he’d apologized, and until a few hours ago, he hadn’t even been grouchy with her. Now, though, he wanted the bruise covered. No question about that. He was in the living room watching TV, and he’d made his orders clear.
The doorbell rang, and Wendy’s heart danced inside her. Joey was here! The boy had warmed up to her real nice last time. Deep down he must’ve known that she was his mama, his real mother. She flipped off the light switch, ran lightly down the hall, and opened the door.
The first hour went much better this time. Joey didn’t cry, and Rip pretty much kept to himself other than a few polite hellos and one-word answers. The Indians were playing again, and that had his attention. But before she left, Allyson Bower asked Wendy to come out onto the front stoop for a minute.
When they were outside, Allyson squinted suspiciously at her. “How’s everything with Rip?”
“Rip?” Wendy laughed in a way that she hoped sounded more surprised than nervous. “He’s fine. Anxious for Joey to be ours for good, that’s all. This transition time is tough for everyone.”
The social worker stared her straight in the face. “Is he hitting you, Wendy?”
“Of course not!” Without thinking, her hand came to her cheek. She dropped it to her side but it was too late.
“You’re lying to me.” She looked at Wendy’s cheek again. “Under all that makeup, I’d bet money there’s proof that Rip isn’t doing well at all.”
Wendy did her best to look outraged. It was none of the social worker’s business. “Rip and I are getting along just fine. He took anger-management classes. I thought I told you that.”
“Yeah.” She frowned. “He took alcohol-recovery classes, too. I read that on his release papers.” She nodded toward the house. “But I saw a six-pack of beer in the fridge.”
“Now listen . . .” Wendy crossed her arms. “There’s no law against having a few beers now and then. Everything’s fine with Rip, and everything’s great between the two of us.” She straightened herself, doing her best to look put out. If the social worker suspected trouble, they might not get to keep Joey. She couldn’t let that happen. “I don’t appreciate your asking.”
“Asking is my job, Wendy.” Allyson looked at Wendy’s cheek again. “You can take care of yourself. What you do with Rip is your business.” She pointed at the door. “But that child is my business. If Rip starts acting out again, you need to tell me right away. Understand?”
“Yes. Fine.”
The social worker went back inside and gave Joey the same speech about calling her or calling his parents any time he wanted. This time when she said “parents,” she said it strong. So there wouldn’t be any confusion about who she thought Joey’s parents should be.
When she was gone, Wendy let out a long, heavy breath. That had been close. The social worker was wrong. Rip might hit her once in a while, but he’d never hit Joey. Not a child. Sure, he might grab his arm, but that was normal, right? If a child wasn’t cooperating? But he’d never come unglued at Joey the way he did at her.
Would he?
Wendy took her place at the kitchen table next to Joey. Again she had cookies for him, and again he dipped them into a glass of milk. But something inside her refused to settle down. Allyson Bower’s words haunted her all that afternoon and into the night.
Rip mostly kept his distance, but that didn’t help. Wendy still couldn’t find peace, and as she lay down to sleep that night, she finally figured out why. When she had told herself that Rip would never hit a child, never strike his own son, it wasn’t a statement; it was a question. And the truth was, no matter what she wanted to believe, when it came to Rip, she didn’t have the answer. That left her with another question, one that kept her awake most of the night.
What sort of mother would willingly place her son in danger?
B
eth couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something was wrong with Molly. They were at church, the second time Molly and Jack had come with them, and Beth was thrilled. Yes, the circumstances were dire, but what better place to get help than at church? God certainly did have a plan for Joey, and He would see it through. Beth was praying for that, so was Bill.
They were convinced.
The fact that Molly and Jack had decided to join them in praying for Joey’s custody was a miracle, nothing less. But even with all that was going on in her sister’s life—with the phone calls she’d been making to senators and congressmen and even to the Florida governor’s office—Molly seemed different. Distant, maybe.
Always before, no matter what issue they were facing, Beth and Molly faced it together. That’s why they’d stayed so close over the years.
Beth thought back to when she had suffered three miscarriages between Cammie and Blain. She had wondered if she’d survive. All those babies she would never know, never see until heaven. All those children who wouldn’t grow up with her loving touch or Bill’s kindness.
It would have been more than Beth could handle, except that she had Molly.
Molly had called her every night for a month after each miscarriage. Whatever else was going on for either of them, they would put it aside and make time to talk or laugh or cry together. And over the weeks, Beth found her way to daylight, found her way back to a strong faith and an understanding that God knew the number of their days. Even if the number was painfully short.
But now, in the midst of Molly’s greatest trial, the two of them hardly talked at all. Sure they took the kids to the pool a few days each week, and they still visited the park. But Molly was distant and short. The way she’d been even at church that morning.
They were seated in the pew—Bill and Beth, then Molly and Jack. They’d made some small talk when they first sat down, mostly about the Haiti trip. The Campbells were all signed up, excited about taking Joey on his first work trip.
But Beth could sense something wasn’t right, the rhythm of their conversation nowhere close to natural.
When Molly first got the news about the possibility of losing Joey, she’d been beside herself. She wept and shook and barely found the strength to breathe. Now, though she was still sad—always sad—she seemed less desperate. There was an emptiness in her voice, and her eyes held something Beth hadn’t seen before, something she didn’t know how to work with.
Beth sat back as the music started to play. She loved worship, but today she couldn’t stop thinking of Molly. Was there something else going on? Was she missing something? Was there more trouble than Molly would admit? Maybe her relationship with Jack? She glanced at her sister, inches from her on her right side. Molly was singing, keeping up with the words. It was hard to tell if her heart was in it, but at least she was here. In church. Facing what she was facing, there was no better place to be.