Читать книгу A Daughter's Trust / For the Love of Family - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 12

RICK’S APPOINTMENT with his attorney early Wednesday morning went only moderately better than his meeting with social services the day before. He had a chance, but success was not guaranteed. At least his lawyer was going to file a motion for a hearing and for DNA testing.

Until then, WeCare Services wasn’t even going to grant him visitation rights.

And in the meantime, unless and until they got a stay with the court, someone else could get custody of the baby.

Cell phone in hand before he’d even reached his Nitro, Rick punched in the speed dial number he’d programmed the day before.

Maybe she hadn’t received his message. Or had lost his number. Maybe she didn’t want to talk to him. At this point he didn’t much care.

She was to be at every meeting pertaining to Carrie’s welfare. To give her opinion. An opinion that, apparently, carried as much or more weight as that of the social worker WeCare had assigned to the case.

“Hello?” She answered before the first ring was complete. She sounded breathless.

Young and breathless.

“Ms. Bookman?”

“Yes. This is Rick Kraynick, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I recognized your number on caller ID,” she said, her voice uneven, as though she was still doing whatever had her so breathless to begin with. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back with you. I’ve been a little…distracted.”

The words came in disjointed spurts. Was she jogging?

“No problem,” he said, when in fact he’d spent the better part of the night before watching his phone—with mounting frustration. “Did I get you at a bad time?”

“No worse than usual,” she said, “better than some. So, how can I help?”

God, if only this could be that easy. He’d ask; she’d help. And he could officially pull off the road to hell.

HURRY, PLEASE, Sue silently urged the man on the other end of the line. No matter how vigorously she bobbed, Camden wouldn’t go back to sleep. There’d been a mix-up with his paperwork the day before, so she’d had him one more night.

But they’d be here within the hour to take him away from her. One hour. Sixty minutes of which, to Sue, every second counted.

The baby was going to be calm, happy, in a good mood to begin his new life. It was the only way she could rest assured that he’d have a smooth transition.

Or at least any hope of one.

Besides, Carrie was due to wake up, and one thing Sue had discovered over the years was that talking on the phone was a tad difficult with a squalling infant nearby.

“Mr. Kraynick?”

“Yes. Sorry. I was…are you sure there isn’t a better time to call? Are you jogging or something?”

“I’m bouncing a baby, Mr. Kraynick. It’s what I do.”

“Is it Carrie?”

Just that quickly Sue’s mood went from self-pitying to defensive. “How do you know Carrie?”

“I’m her uncle, her mother’s older brother, and I know you have her.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny your allegations, Mr. Kraynick. Please call social services.” She rattled off the government number. If he was legitimate, the city would send him to WeCare. And Sonia, Carrie’s social worker.

Sue was already walking back to check on Carrie, about to hang up.

“Wait!” The urgency in his voice stopped her. “Please,” he said more calmly. “Just hear me out.”

He didn’t sound like a crackpot. Weary, maybe. Desperate, perhaps. But not nuts.

“How did you find me?”

“A friend of Christy’s. Apparently Christy talked about you all the time. She said Christy had visitation rights.”

That was true.

Christy had never missed a visit.

And maybe that was why Carrie was so special. Because Sue had spent a lot of time with the baby’s sixteen-year-old mother. Had seen how hard the girl was working to get her baby back. How determined she was.

“Why are you calling?”

“Because you have a say in Carrie’s welfare and I’m concerned. I…”

She was invited to all meetings pertaining to the baby’s welfare. She gave input for Carrie’s sake. And only regarding what she’d seen with her own eyes. Only regarding what she knew, not what she heard.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Kraynick. Maybe if you talk to your sister—”

“What do you know about Christy?”

“Uh-uh, Mr. Kraynick,” she said softly, laying a sleeping Camden in his crib. Carrie was sound asleep, on her right side, just as Sue had left her. “This conversation is over.”

“I grew up in foster care,” he said, as though that gave him privilege. Some insider’s edge.

“Then you know you shouldn’t be calling me.”

“I know that, right now, you’re my best shot.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m no shot at all.”

“My mother was a user,” he said out of the blue, reminding her of Joe when he spoke about his father—Sue’s uncle now. With seemingly no emotion, as if he didn’t care. She wasn’t convinced.

Joe, her cousin. Uncle Adam. Uncle Daniel. Grandma lying to her all her life. Grandpa being unfaithful. Her maternal grandmother giving away her mother, but raising two sons and a grandson. Grandma Sarah’s diamond shockingly going to her mother instead of to Uncle Sam.

Even after twenty-four hours Sue still couldn’t quiet the cacophony.

Shaking her head, she tuned back in to the conversation at hand. And wondered why it was still taking place. The man should never have called. His life, his mother’s life, had nothing to do with her.

Was he some kind of crackpot, after all?

He was still talking.

“The point is,” he said, “that while I was in and out of her life growing up, I didn’t know her that well. Which is why I was not even aware she’d had another child, that I had a sister, until last week,” he continued, almost as though he was reading to her from a storybook.

A sad one. As an infant, Rick Kraynick could have been any number of her babies.

In a quiet moment, with Camden’s few things packed, his long, furry snake rattle on top of the bag, ready to hand to him as he was carried out the door, Sue sank down on the couch in her family room.

“All the more reason you should talk to her,” she said, though she still wasn’t going to get involved. “Christy’s very sweet. And frankly, could use your help. She’d probably be overjoyed to know she has a brother, that you care about Carrie…”

“I…you haven’t been told yet.”

“Told what?”

“Christy’s dead.”

She couldn’t have heard him right.

“What?” Sue covered her face.

“She committed suicide last week. Her funeral was Friday.”

No! First Grandma. Now this? What was happening? “I…last week was a bit crazy here…”

Sonia knew that. And since Christy wasn’t due for another visit until the following week, her social worker likely figured there’d been no reason to further burden Sue yet.

“I can’t believe it. I just saw her…”

“I got a call from the police.” He sounded weary. And as confused as she felt. “They were trying to locate next of kin. She had my mom’s name on her to notify in case of emergency, but the number was disconnected. That happens a lot with my mother. My mother’s last name is the same as mine, and Kraynick isn’t common. When they did a search, my number came up and…”

Oh, God. Christy? Dead? She’d been doing so well. Was so excited about getting Carrie back. “She was only sixteen! It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m struggling with it all myself.”

Sue’s mind raced, and her heart felt painful jabs at every thought. A child having a child before she had a chance to grow up. But struggling so hard to make it, anyway. Carrie, an orphan. Grandma gone. Joe, her cousin. Jenny having been lied to by her own father her whole life. Never knowing her mother. Sue, never knowing Grandma Jo. And now this stranger, this man, losing a sister before he ever knew her. A young sister.

“Carrie is my niece,” Rick Kraynick said, breaking the silence. “I intend to adopt her. But right now I need to meet her. To make sure she’s okay. To connect with her. Let her get a sense of my presence.”

“You’ll have to go through social services to arrange that.”

“I’m sure you realize that’s not as easy as it sounds. I’m a single male who never knew her mother and without enough proof that I’m family. They aren’t real eager to give me the time of day. For all intents and purposes, the mother we have in common didn’t raise either one of us. All I have going for me is half a set of genes, which has yet to be proven. My lawyer’s on it, but it could be weeks before this is sorted out. We’re filing for a hearing that will stay any adoption proceedings already in process, but there’s no guarantee we’ll be granted the hearing. And it’s not the state that we have to be concerned with at this point, as I’m sure you’re aware. It’s WeCare. And their red tape is worse than the state’s.”

Stacking blocks were strewn around the quilt on the floor, residuals from this morning’s after-breakfast, pre-bath playtime. Both Camden and Carrie could roll over now. She’d be sitting up soon.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kraynick, but—”

“Please,” he interrupted before Sue was even sure what she’d been about to tell him. She had guidelines. Her status as a foster mother rested on them. Because the rules were in place to protect the children.

To protect Carrie.

“I have to see her.” All coolness, or hint of composure, sure, left the man’s voice. “She’s a part of the sister I just saw buried.”

Sue said nothing.

“Family is not something I can take for granted, Ms. Bookman. I grew up without one. I know how it feels to wonder what’s wrong with you, why you weren’t wanted enough to have a mother and father who loved you. What it’s like to be caught in the system. I survived. My little sister did not. I can’t let the same thing happen to her daughter.”

“You’re already doing what you can. You’re applying to adopt her.”

Jenny had been adopted. And lied to.

“I’ve started the paperwork.” Frustration seeped from the man’s voice on the other end of the line. “But I’ve been led to believe that someone else is there before me. A possible family member. From what I gleaned from my attorney, the process was already in the works before Christy’s death, just in case she didn’t meet minimum standards to get Carrie back. If I can’t get a stay, the adoption could be granted before I’m able to prove my rights to the child.”

Christy hadn’t told her about someone applying to adopt her baby.

“And I can’t do anything about that.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Rick said, enunciating clearly. “My sixteen-year-old sister is dead, Ms. Bookman. Right now, I just want to see her daughter while I still know where she’s living.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kraynick. I really am. Get permission from WeCare and I’ll happily facilitate a visitation at your convenience. Think about it. If foster parents were able to make these kinds of decisions, they’d be at risk of intimidation from every abusive parent who wanted access to his or her child.”

“That’s your final word?”

“It has to be. I’m sorry.”

Feeling uneasy, Sue hung up.

And wished she could call Grandma.

HE SHOULDN’T BE DOING this. He was assistant superintendent of a fairly large school district. Had ethical and moral standards to uphold. Examples to set.

Yet Rick drove slowly down the street, anyway, searching for the address Chenille Langston had given him at the cemetery. They’d only had one brief conversation but the young girl had told him that Christy had driven her friend by the place many times, when she’d been lonely for her baby. She’d said she wanted Chenille to know where Carrie was in case of an emergency. Christie wanted to be sure Carrie was cared for. Loved. But Chenille was only a kid herself. No one listened to her, she’d said. They certainly wouldn’t give her a baby.

Chenille’s words to Rick at the cemetery had been “It doesn’t get any more emergency than this.” She’d trusted him to make certain that Christy’s baby didn’t get lost in the system.

So he was using the statement of a confused young woman as justification for circumventing the system?

Maybe Mark and Darla Samson were right. Maybe he did need to talk to somebody. They’d been after him to do so ever since Hannah died the year before.

Maybe he really was nuts.

Not thath is friends had said as much. But he suspected, by the wariness in their eyes, the shared glances when they thought he wasn’t looking, that they thought so.

He’d known Mark, and through him, Darla, for years. Had hired him, in fact, to be the high school basketball coach when he’d been principal of Globe High.

Rick stopped the Nitro in front of a large yard with a smallish house set far back on the property, about ten miles south of San Francisco. It was just after four on Wednesday afternoon. The Samsons would absolutely not approve of this visit.

He could hear a baby crying as he approached the front door, and his heart lurched. Carrie? His flesh and blood?

She sounded hungry.

Rick knocked. And then, seeing the button beside the handle, rang the bell.

The crying stopped. Footsteps approached, on what sounded like a wood floor.

Wood floors were drafty. And…

The door opened.

“Oh. You’re not Barb.”

Rick stood there, taking in the sight before him.

Gorgeous, feminine—untouched by the trappings of accessories—the woman had a pure beauty. And babies. Three of them. One strapped to her front in a baby sack. The other two on either hip.

He wondered which of them was his niece.

He met the woman’s dark brown eyes, taking in her impatience, the blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, the T-shirt and jeans and bare feet. “Can I help?” he asked over the crying, motioning to the babies in her arms.

“No,” she said. She was bouncing her babies. One of whom, the crying one, needed its nose wiped. His nose wiped, if the blue sleeper was anything to go by. “But as you can see, I’m busy, so—”

“I’m Rick Kraynick.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Kraynick,” she said, backing up enough to be able to close the door.

“Wait! Which one is Carrie? I’m standing here. What would it hurt to point her out to me?”

“If you don’t leave this instant, I’m going to call the police.”

Obviously his suit and tie and shined shoes had done nothing to reassure her that he was a good guy. He’d left the jacket on, just in case, in spite of the almost seventy degree temperature.

“I’m going.” But he couldn’t take a step back. Not yet. All three babies were adorable. But one…she reminded him of…“Just tell me which—”

Her foot shot to the door. And just as she was kicking it shut in his face, the crying infant in blue spewed what had to be a full bottle of formula, as though shooting a ball from a cannon. The sour burst hit the face of the baby in the carrier, who promptly started to cry. It covered Ms. Bookman’s arm and chest, her floor, her door and Rick’s shoulder.

The shooter, once he was done, let out the most piercing wail Rick had ever heard.

He was one sick puppy.

Without further thought, Rick stepped inside the still partially open door. Relieving Ms. Bookman of the boy, he placed the smelly baby against his chest so he could rub his back. Soothe the ache.

Some skills, once learned, never left you.

“Go ahead, tend to them and yourself,” he said, loudly enough to be heard over the crying. “There’s no cure for colic but patience. And soft pressure on the stomach. I’ll follow you so you can keep me and shooter here in your sight at all times.”

“I can’t—” The baby still in her arms started to cry.

Reaching for his wallet while juggling the messy baby, Rick threw it on the table. “My license is in there,” he called out over the noise. “My school ID is as well. And all my credit cards. They’re yours while I’m here,” he added. “And I can’t kidnap Carrie while you’ve got her…Go!” he called, sending her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

With another worried look in his direction, she went. Rick followed, making sure to stay in view at all times.