Page 6 of Heart of Stone
"Thanks," I mutter, unable to convey exactly how grateful I am. "Add me for an extra shift or something. I’ll pay you back, I promise."
Duck makes a sound, a cross between amusement and annoyance. "You’ll do no such thing. Be here on Tuesday. If you need a sitter, you let me know. Mags would love to look after your kids."
I swallow hard.
Your kids.
That’s going to be me from now on. The single mom of three kids.
Jesus Christ, what have I signed up for? What am I getting myself into? I can’t do this. Who am I to think I can take over as their parent? I’m no one.
“All right, got to go, girl,” Duck says. “I’ll get one of the boys to drop around the car.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Oh, by the way, let me text you the address. I’m staying at Amanda’s until I can work out what to do about an apartment. Mine isn’t exactly child-friendly.”
“Got it. Text me the address, and we’ll organize the drop-off today.”
“Appreciate it. Thanks, Duck.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He hangs up, and I stare down at my phone as Adam begins to make noises in the back bedroom. What the hell am I doing with my life?
It takes some wrangling, but I manage to get all three kids fed, clean, and out the door. Another bus ride across town takes us to one of those kids' stores, where I get all three of them measured up for car seats. A lot of money later, we’re off, headed to the real goal: lunch. I feed the twins McDonald’s while Adam nurses and I call my landlord.
I moved to a month-to-month lease a few months back, which I never thought I’d need. I guess there’s a lot that I never thought I’d need.
I phone in my notice and ask hopefully if he might have any two- or three-bedroom apartments in my price range. It seems my shitty luck is holding as the answer to this is a resounding no.
After lunch, we troop over to the welfare office, where we sit in a long line in a cold, clinical waiting room with slightly flickering lights, waiting to be seen by a case manager. I don’t begrudge them the wait, but I get frustrated by the other people in the room who don’t seem to understand that juggling three kids while waiting to speak to someone has to be one of the nine circles of hell.
Finally, after three hours, two tantrums, and a ton of snacks, we’re ushered into a room.
“Sorry about the wait,” the woman says, tucking her grey-speckled hair behind her ears. She has a kind face but no-nonsense eyes, and her brisk manner puts me at ease. This is a woman who’s been around the system for a long time, and I can tell with one look that she knows her stuff.
“I’m Robin. How can I help?”
I explain the issue with Amanda and Paul and the filth of the house. Thankfully, last night, I had the foresight to take picturesof the conditions the kids were living in. Robin writes up a report, admitting that, yeah, we’ll have to go through CPS, but since I’m already taking care of them and am happy to take on the responsibilities, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why I can’t continue doing so until the court-ordered mandate is imposed.
“Obviously we’ll have to give Amanda the opportunity to make her own case, but the fact that she’s currently unavailable—and we’ve both try calling her—speaks to her situation as a parent.” Robin taps a few more keys on her keyboard. “It’s not a good situation to be in, but I’m happy to approve you as the temporary guardian until further assessments to the situation can be made.”
She hands me a bunch of paperwork—applications that are required for me to be considered a foster parent, classes, and all that stuff. Time I’ll have to spend away from them and my job. Time I’ll somehow have to find.
“How long will the assessments take?”
She shrugs. “The city is backed up with cases more urgent than yours. Could be a week, could be six months. I’ll do what I can.”
She explains how welfare payments work and what I’m entitled to as a foster parent to support the kids. There are some discounts, like food vouchers and various items, but the most important thing is health care.
“Are they vaccinated?”
God, I have no idea. I don’t even know if they’ve had their hearing or eyes or teeth checked. Do kids need that this young? I have no idea.
“Don’t worry,” Robin says kindly, offering me a warm hug. “I’m here to help when you need it. Just know you’re doing a great job.”
After another long bus ride home, there, sitting in Amanda’s driveway, is a car with a young guy leaning against it. I pause in the driveway, watching him with sharp eyes as he continues to text on his phone.
I peg him at early twenties, his face young but with an already hardened look to it. He wears thick boots, dark jeans, and a faded green shirt. Tattoos decorate one arm, and I get the impression that while he’s lean, the kid knows how to handle himself.
