Page 29 of Nothing Left To Lose But You

I plowed through as many emails, to-do items, and client phone calls as possible before looking up and noticing I’ve worked through lunch. Four hours to go before I’m reunited with Rainey. I’ve moaned about having a kid following my every move for weeks, but her absence takes up my whole heart.

Logan: Hey Noah. Happy first day back to work. I wanted to see when you’d be up for a playdate?

Logan: P.S. Don’t worry about responding to this if you’re busy.

The two texts come in quick succession. Relief carries me when I see Logan mentioned nothing about last night’s text. His ‘p.s.’ charms me far more than it should. I want to get the girls together again for a playdate, but I worry Logan’s playing it cool over text, and it will just be weird when I see him again. I shove my phone into a drawer and return to my computer.

The rest of the week runs together in a haze. I emerge on the other side Friday evening with my radio cranked high as I belt along with the music, looking forward to the open weekend ahead. I’m two verses deep in a song made popular by TikTok when my phone rings, pausing the music and causing my car’s console display to flash. It’s Chase from social services.

I smash my fingers against the display to answer. “Hi! Hello?”

“Hey, Noah. It’s Chase. Is this a good time to talk?”

His voice causes a bead of sweat to break loose from my forehead. A person calling with good news rarely asks if now’s a good time to talk. I brace myself for the worst—the judge reviewed my merits, decided I can’t provide the environment Rainey deserves, and someone will be at my house waiting to take her away when I get home.

“Uh–yeah, now’s fine.” I gulp.

“Judge Sosa reviewed your application, along with my recommendation, and he’s approved us to move forward.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. We need to get your home visit scheduled. What’s your schedule look like next Thursday?”

I let Chase know my Thursday afternoon is wide open and he suggests meeting at 4 p.m.

“Ok. I’ll leave the office early and pick up Rainey before I meet you at home.”

“The other caseworker who sat in on your interview will join us as well.” Chase mercifully adds, “You really don’t need to do anything special. We’ll look your place over for safety concerns and check on how Rainey’s settling in. It’s an important step, but it’s more of a formality at this point.”

“If it goes well . . .” I shakily ask.

“You’ll be Rainey’s official guardian until they release your brother from jail and the state determines he’s capable of caring for her.”

I better settle in then, because that may never happen. My hope fades a little each time something happens with Dunbar. The first time he called from jail with a sob story of why he’d been arrested and needed help, I’d believed him fully. I cared for Rainey at his home while he waited for bail to be set. There were ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘it won’t happen again’ promises after I bailed him out. I honestly believed he’d had a bad run of luck and my sole focus became getting him back on his feet. And I did. A completed daytime rehab program sobered him up, and the brother I loved as a kid returned to me.

We enjoyed a few wonderful months together with dinner at his place a few times a week. I enjoyed spending time with him and Rainey—now caught between a baby and a toddler—while I helped him apply for jobs and rehearse interview questions. He landed a job at a local restaurant in Newport working as a dishwasher. It wasn’t what he had in mind, but he seemed pleased to be in a routine again and making money.

An unsettling feeling that things were amiss began with Dunbar occasionally canceling our dinner plans. About nine weeks after his release from outpatient rehab, I sat at my desk overlooking the Cincinnati skyline, and realized he’d not called in over a week and a half. When I reached out, he apologized for not being available but explained he’d started picking up as many shifts as he could. The state was paying for Rainey’s childcare and he wanted to make as much money as he could while help was in place. His logic seemed sound.

He proposed a movie night at my place the following Friday evening, but he didn’t show. Instead, I received a call from a woman I didn’t know asking if Dunbar was my brother. The lady—whom I later came to know as Georgia—explained my brother was arrested for selling drugs in the back of the restaurant where he worked. So much for all the ‘extra shifts’ he worked.

I believe in my heart people can change and a few poor decisions don’t make anyone a bad person. I’ve learned better than most that people are complicated. No two people react to trauma or neglect the same way. Both are challenges Dunbar and I were intimately acquainted with after being tossed back and forth between foster homes. My response to the now scarred-over wounds was to dig in—do more at work and do it well so no one can ever criticize you—and hold on tight to keep my brother and myself together. Dunbar’s response was to run like hell, and since he had nowhere to go, he checked out of his own life.

My second attempt at putting Dunbar back together failed miserably. With this second drug charge being for trafficking, the judge sentenced him to a fine of $1,000 and six months in jail. The public defender did an excellent job and worked out a deal where Dunbar would pay the fine and serve his six months through an intensive rehab program. His attorney argued my brother was a single dad with no felonies—there was no merit in disturbing his young daughter’s life. The judge agreed under the condition that he also took part in one hundred hours of community service. He’d lucked out to only be selling weed.

Dunbar didn’t pay the fine—I did. I didn’t know what he’d done with the cash he made from selling weed, but he didn’t have a penny to his name. He promised to pay me back, but I told him that staying clean and taking care of his daughter was all the payback I wanted. His return to sobriety lasted six weeks.

One afternoon I pulled up to the rehab facility to pick him up, but he wasn’t there. I learned he’d failed his drug screening and been arrested for violating the terms of his release. Ugly sobs carried me the entire drive from the rehab facility to the police station. When the cops let me see him, the brother I knew was gone and replaced by a bitter man in an orange jumpsuit. He yelled and accused me of conspiring with the rehab facility to set him up. It wasn’t even a test day for him, he reasoned, but I’d ruined everything and insisted they test him anyway. None of it was true, and I assured him I’d not even spoken to anyone at the facility in days, but his mind was made up. This arrest changed everything between us.

He swore to never forgive me. On my way out, I passed Georgia in the hall and asked when I could pick Rainey up from daycare. Georgia’s face dropped when she told me Dunbar elected to place Rainey in foster care instead of kinship care placement at my home. I collapsed on the floor hearing the news, as some of my own nightmarish experiences escaped their chains and ran loose in my mind.

Every subsequent incident widened the chasm Dunbar firmly dug between us. I questioned if he cared about Rainey at all. The thought felt traitorous, but the seed had been planted. I continued to offer him my support; whatever he needed I’d find a way. This was my brother, my ally for most of our lives, and the only blood relative I knew. I vowed to never give up on him, even when he intentionally put me through hell, stole from me, and threatened my life. I stuck by him because I hoped he’d do the same for me.

Nights became cycles of hopelessness and sobbing, followed by resolutions—I’d figure something out because my brother was a good man, and I just hadn’t found the right answer yet. This cycle continued for four years. Rainey was the one thing that kept me from giving up. Dunbar and I were products of the system, but my niece didn’t have to be.

Before his current arrest, Dunbar managed four months on the straight and narrow. It was the most hope I’d allowed myself to feel in a long time. I remained cautious, but felt there was nothing to lose in pursuing optimism. All signs pointed in the right direction, and community-based services had come through and provided subsidized housing for Dunbar and Rainey. He soon after landed a job with a construction company and shared with me he found manual labor rewarding. Rainey was on her way to finishing kindergarten with perfect attendance—an outright miracle all things considered. Dunbar had even started seeing someone and introduced her to me. This time was it—I felt it.

Georgia’s call in August hurt for many reasons, but largely because I knew deep down I wasn’t just at the end of my rope. The rope was ablaze, and the flames were nearing the last thread I had been hanging onto for dear life.

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