Any Man of Mine (7 page)

And my romantic nature, in spite of my rough and tumble upbringing, yearned for someone who would cherish and pamper me. Who would care that a foster kid had punched me in the face. Who would make appropriately sympathetic noises and give me a hug and stroke my hair when I'd had an especially emotional day.

My brothers didn't always have time to hear my stories or the emotional space to really care. My father used to listen but I could always tell that his mind was elsewhere.

Even Tracy didn't always understand.

Tracy had lived an independent life. Her mother had been an absent parent and Tracy had practically raised herself. When she moved to Preston, we became friends, and after that she was at our house whenever her mother wasn't around, which was fairly often. But Tracy was tough and it had taken David's kindness to wear away that veneer and win her heart.

I grew up with guys who laughed at my tears and still didn't “get” my emotions. Hence my desire for a man. Hardly the goal that suffragettes and the women's movement had made sacrifices for. But I had learned that no matter how tough the woman, no matter how difficult the life, many of them wanted the same thing I did.

Someone who was willing to put her first. Someone who really needed her.

As I drove, I prayed for my father. Prayed that he would regain his health and that he would regain his zest for life. Prayed that he would get healthy enough that I could leave him in the hands of my brothers and not feel guilty.

Casey's directions were erratic, to say the least. It took me seven stops to redefine the parameters of my search and by the time I got there, the sun was drifting toward the horizon. The family was living in a mobile home parked at the end of a graveled road and I was thankful for the lack of neighbors. Usually I got all kinds of good and bad advice on what I could do with myself and my department and my decision to interfere with these poor people's lives.

So helpful.

I knocked on the door and got no answer. The door was open, and all I heard coming from inside was the heart-rending wails of a crying baby and another kid humming over the ubiquitous noise from the television.

The smell inside was sadly familiar. Alcohol, stale carpet and the funky scent of air that had been trapped in one place too long.

The mother of the two children lay sleeping or passed out on the couch. The baby girl was crying in a crib in one corner of the living room. Closer inspection showed me that she was soaked from head to toe and the little boy sat naked on the living room floor eating a cold hot dog. No father or male “partner” was anywhere in sight. Big surprise.

Just another day in paradise.

Thankfully I had an emergency kit with me—disposable diapers, extra clothes and Gummi Bears—and dealt with the kids while Momma snored on. I woke her up and explained what I was doing, who I was.

As I was showing her the paperwork, I saw a shadow out of the corner of my eye. A huge shadow filling the doorway.

Grandpa, I thought with dismay as I looked up.

But it was a large woman, wearing a dress that had the ever popular breaking-up-the-food-fight pattern seen on the runways in Milan this year. What really caught my attention was what she had accessorized her outfit with. A large, wooden baseball bat.

It wasn't fair, I thought, glancing at my soft leather briefcase. All it held was a cell phone, a PDA, some leftover candies, papers and my car keys. Hardly an even match.

“Who are you? Whatcha doin'?” Her voice was surprisingly pleasant. Of course, she could afford to be affable. She had the upper hand, or rather, upper baseball bat.

I put on my sternest voice, hoping to intimidate with attitude where I couldn't with weaponry. “I'm a social worker. My name is Danielle Hemstead and I've been given the authority to remove these children from this woman's care.”

She narrowed her eyes, but thankfully lowered the baseball bat. “You're not the same worker we've been seeing around here.”

“No. That worker couldn't come.” That worker was probably enjoying the usual Saturday night fun—laughing, socializing—all the while his cell phone conveniently turned off.

I needed to get myself more of a life so I could be busy when Casey was trolling the phone lines looking for likely suspects.

I pulled out my paperwork and showed it to her, then flashed her my ID and gave her my card. “You are welcome to call the RCMP and double check.” We always called the local detachment in advance in case we needed backup. Or in situations like this. I was keeping my eye on the baseball bat while she looked over my papers.

“Okay,” she said, handing the whole business back to me. “I'm glad you people are finally doing something. It took you long enough.”

Of course it did, I thought as I folded up a copy of the notice and slipped it in an envelope. If we waited too long to apprehend, we were negligent. If we came too soon we weren't giving the mother a chance. If something really serious happened, it was our fault.

Never mind that Mommy dearest was laying on the couch in a stupor while her kids cried and scrounged for food. She was simply a victim. And Daddy? Well, he was where most of these guys are. Gone.

The baby cried the entire two-hour trip back to Preston. The little boy sat in the booster seat I carried
with me in case of emergencies and stared out the window. Sorry as I felt for the little guy, I couldn't leave him where he was. If he were older I might have tried to explain that to him. As it was all I could do was feed him a few Gummi Bears and try to tell him where we were going and what I was doing. If it registered, I don't know.

By the time I dropped the kids off at the receiving home, I had a splitting headache and I was feeling the weight of the world's sorrow. Sometimes I wondered if I felt too deeply. Other times I wondered if I was getting too hardened. Today felt like a combination of both.

I chose to focus on the wonderful family of father, mother and older children who had come running out when I came—arms reaching for the little lost souls I had brought them. They were God's hands and feet on earth, I thought as I handed over the screaming baby and the puzzled toddler. When I drove away, I knew, for now, those little children would be loved and cared for. But I also knew that the mother of the children would be given a chance to get her life back together. If things went really well, the mother would take what was given her and make a change. If they didn't, I'd be seeing those kids again in a year. Maybe less.

Which made me think of Juanita. Kent's foster parents had been a guiding force in her life. They had given Kent a safe place while Juanita learned to make better decisions.

And now my brother was dating her. I really
wanted to sit down with him and make it crystal clear what the implications of dating this fragile woman could be. Not to mention the real possibility that Steve, Kent's biological father, could come after him with a gun.

Oh, the glamorous life of a child welfare worker, I thought as I pulled into the driveway. As I passed the old house, I noticed that a light was on in James's room.

Probably reading poetry, I thought, parking my little car beside Chip's monstrously large tow truck. Or listening to Schubert.

I turned off the engine and blasted out a few sighs, releasing all the stale air, letting myself wind down. I was bone weary and wanted to have a shower, but didn't think I would have the energy.

I opened the door and slowly got out of the car, taking a moment to stretch out my stiff muscles.

A voice broke out of the darkness. “Bad day?”

I screamed.

M
y heart leapt into my throat as I whirled to face this new menace, wondering what I could use as a weapon.

James stood by the back fender of my car, his hands up in a gesture of surrender, his features cast into shadows by the watery light of the moon. In spite of that, I still saw the glint of his eyes and the faint smile of his mouth. “I'm sorry. I thought you saw me coming.”

Stop heart. Slow down. But it wouldn't obey. Of course it didn't help that in spite of the nasty trick he and my brothers had played on me I still found him moderately attractive. Okay, very attractive.

I was not a credit to my species. “I was in my car,” I retorted, taking refuge in some semblance of anger. “How could I have seen you?”

“Rearview mirror?” he suggested, lowering his hands.

“You give me too much credit for being observant.” I dragged in a long breath, as my heart down-shifted. One heart patient in the family was one too many. “Why are you sneaking around?”

“I heard your car drive up. I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“You were checking up on me?”

He nodded, slipped his hands in his back pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Did everything go okay?” he continued, his deep voice going soft. “I mean with the kids and all?”

I thought of the concern he showed before I left. Was he really good at this kind of thing or was he for real?

“It wasn't my best moment. I don't enjoy taking kids away from their parents.” I thought of my run-in with the fashion maven, but that was par for the course. At least she wasn't a relative threatening to sue.

“I imagine it can be difficult.” He shifted his weight, moving closer to me. He raised his hand, then lowered it as if he had planned on touching me but changed his mind. “You look like you've been crying.”

His concern sent me into a tailspin. Any of the men I had dated didn't want to talk about my job. My brothers assumed anyone who could stop pucks (I always played goal when they played pick up games of hockey) ride bareback (never enough saddles to go around) and jump-start a car (cheaper than fixing
a wonky starter) could hold her own against drunk and/or cranky parents. So they never asked. “It's a regular thing in this job,” I said casually, trying to shrug off his concern.

“But still, it's gotta be hard.”

I was too tired to puzzle out intentions and read between potential pickup lines. So I chose the direct route. “It is hard. The kids, in spite of how lousy they are being taken care of and how poor the conditions, never want to leave their parents. In spite of how horrible the situation, it's the only life they've known. And what bothers me even more is their mother was probably raised the same way. Her kids are probably going back to her as soon as she finds a good legal aid lawyer and a counselor and tells them both that she's turning her life around. Again. So the kids will go back and we know that unless she has a good support system in place, she's going to fall back into the same bad behavior and on a good day the kids will be eating cold wieners and on a bad day, rooting through the garbage.”

I was tired, stressed about my day, my dad, about my life. That was the only explanation I had for the way everything spilled out in my wobbly voice and how I was now seeing James through a shimmery curtain of unshed tears. I had done this countless times and though it made me sad, it didn't often make me cry.

I looked down and blinked, embarrassed to feel the warm slide of tears down my cheeks. “Sorry,” I
mumbled, trying to figure out how to wipe them away without looking like I was wiping them away. Guys hated the tears. “I've been too busy lately. Working too much.”

Then James was beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his fingers gently kneading my skin. “It's okay. It's a hard job. But it's important and significant. I really admire what you do.”

A pep talk now complete with a brotherly slap on the back?

But even as I tried to flippantly dismiss his touch, I was too aware of the warmth of his hand that felt anything but brotherly, and the faint scent of fresh cut wood that lingered on his clothes. For a split second I wanted to move a little closer. To lean against him and let his arms surround me and be strong for me.

You are such a sucker,
mocked the voice of my cynical alter ego.
He tried the same thing on you a few days ago and you fell for it like a blind roofer.

I pulled away. I palmed my tears off my cheek and gave him a curt nod. “I better go.”

I turned and trudged up the stairs to the house. He was still standing by my car when I shut the porch light off and in the half light of the moon I saw him walk back to his little house.

As I got ready for bed I still couldn't figure out what to make of his nocturnal visit and hoped I wouldn't have to put up with many more. I didn't need him wandering in and out of my everyday life.

I switched on my beside lamp, slipped into bed
and I was about to turn off my light when I caught sight of my Bible. I hadn't been reading as regularly as I should have. I had worked my way through the Old Testament and had finished Song of Solomon, which had only spurred on my romantic dreams. To imagine someone loving me as the writer had loved his “beloved.” I knew God did and that the book was an allegory of God's love for us, but I still yearned for a love like that between me and a man. Did I mention that I was a romantic?

Now I was starting Isaiah, but I didn't know if I was in the mood for Old Testament justice, so I flipped to the New Testament. I found the marked passage of 1 Thessalonians 5:14 and started reading.
“And we urge you, brothers, warn those who are idle, encourage the timid, help the weak, be patient with everyone.”
I stopped there a moment, thinking of the work I had done today. Like James had said, what I did was important work. But as for being patient with everyone, that was harder. Did Dad and my brothers fall into the “everyone” category?

My mother always said she understood my brothers more than me. Mom was the type of wife who pitched in and helped around the farm, assuming that most women felt the same, though she always said she felt more comfortable around men than women. When the boys drew mustaches and beards on my posters of Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp, my mother smiled and assured me they were
just having fun. When they laughed at me for crying each time we watched my dad's favorite movies,
Old Yeller
or
Where the Red Fern Grows,
she would ruffle my hair and tell me they were just being boys.

Somehow, I was never just being a girl.

I read on.

“…encourage the timid, help the weak be patient with everyone. Make sure that nobody pays back wrong for wrong, but always try to be kind to each other and to everyone else. Be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.”

Give thanks in all circumstances. Not so easy when circumstances seemed to be arrayed against me. I wanted my brothers to be more mature now so that I could leave Dad in their care and not worry that he would end up living off chips and pop and never leaving his recliner.

I hardly dared project too far into the future because if I did, all I saw was my ghostly figure in an old worn housedress, wearing a hair net and sagging support hose, dusting around three brothers who were watching television and burping.

I really needed to get out of here. But for now, I had prayed about it and I had let it go. It was in God's hands now.

I closed the worn Bible, turned off the light and stared out the window. Moonlight bathed my room in a light glow casting faint shadows. As I stared out the night, I heard the muffled noise of a truck door
slamming. It came from the other house. James must still be loitering about.

Did I have a right to be angry with him?

He had raised hopes in me and dashed them and did it for some silly bet with my brothers. I knew I had to forgive him for my sake as much as his, but at the same time I would be foolish to trust him again.

 

“Could you come in for an interview next week?” the very nice man on the other end of my cell phone was asking me.

I was filling my cart in the grocery store with provisions for my supper company and had selected a luscious looking head of broccoli when the call came.

It wasn't my brothers, and it wasn't Casey, all of whom I would have ignored in favor of the delicate job of choosing the perfect vegetable, so I answered it taking a chance that it would be some deranged client demanding that I come over. Now.

But to my surprise, delight and fear, it was the “Attention-Of” man I had sent my resume to. Dan Crittenden.

“Sure. That would be fine,” I said in a bright voice, trying to absorb the reality of what one little click of a mouse button could set in motion.

“That's good. I look forward to seeing you then.” He told me he would be e-mailing the address and time.

When the nice man hung up, I snapped my phone
shut, feeling quavery and brave and concerned all rolled into one.

I had to trust that God would bring me where He wanted me, but I had to confess I was a little nervous at how quickly things were happening. I hadn't expected to hear from this place for another week.

Nor did I expect my phone to ring again before I could properly map out any possible scenario for my future. Neil, this time.

“Hey, what can I do for you?” I asked as I pushed my buggy a little farther down the produce aisle, stopping at an artistically arranged assortment of peppers. I wanted to buy one of each, because they would look so pretty in my vegetable drawer.

“Are David and Tracy still coming for supper tonight?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I was quiet, wondering if he was going to make the connection. I had marked the day on my calendar in bright pen and circled it a couple of times, but so far none of my brothers had clued in to the fact that it was my birthday we would be celebrating tonight.

“And that Juanita girl and her kid?”

“Juanita and Kent will be there, too.”

When Chip had found out I was having company, he had asked if Juanita could come, as well. I wasn't crazy about the idea.

Tracy had been involved with Kent when he started hanging around the vet clinic before school. Juanita had initially been distrustful of Tracy's
concern for Kent. Though she had since come to realize that Tracy wasn't trying to take Kent away from her and, in fact, hoped that Kent could be reunited with his mother once Juanita got her act together, I still had my reservations about the mix.

When I consulted Tracy she told me she was fine with it and that it was my birthday party and that I could do whatever I want. So I reluctantly had said yes. Now, from the wheedling tone in my brother's voice, he wanted a favor from me and I suspected it required setting an extra plate. “Why do you need to know?”

“Well, could we have another person come?”

I knew it. I dropped a bunch of green onions in a bag and twined a tie around it with a vicious twist of my wrist and decided to beat my brother to the punch. “Yes, James can come.”

The silence was worth it. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.” I couldn't fight this anymore. Encouraged by my brothers, this guy was encroaching on every corner of my life, so I may as well embrace the chaos and find a way to be in charge of it. Besides, it would only be until I moved away. I hugged the information to myself, gaining strength and comfort from it.

“Great. I'll let him know.” He paused. “What is for supper?”

“Barbecued steak, baked potatoes, broccoli salad, rhubarb compote, mandarin salad and Tracy is bringing cake for dessert.”

“Wow.” The single word was spoken with hushed
reverence usually reserved for an eight-second ride on a wild rogue bronc completed with a full dismount.

I waited a beat, wondering if the reason for all this bounty would sink in yet. But, nothing.

“It'll be good,” I continued, hope flickering and dying. “Make sure you aren't late.”

I hung up, finished my grocery shopping, and for once picked exactly the right checkout line to wait in and was out the door and back at home in record time. Dad was sitting at the table, reading the paper, and he looked up with a smile when I arrived. It had been a long time since I had seen my father out of his recliner or out of bed and the sight gave me hope. My world was slowly returning to its regular orbit, I thought as I unpacked the groceries.

As I washed and wrapped the potatoes I chatted with my dad and caught up on the events of the day. I didn't tell him about the interview, unsure of how he would take it. One step at a time, I thought as I put the potatoes on the barbecue.

I didn't expect him to remember my birthday. Dad always counted on Mom to do those honors. But maybe one of my brothers would.

Such are the dreams of the everyday sister.

 

“Who would have thought that a knock-kneed, cross-eyed, skinny girl could have turned into such a beautiful cook?” Jace said, licking the last of the icing off his fork. “Great cake, Tracy.”

“Now don't praise her too much,” David said,
leaning back in his chair. “Remember beauty is only skin deep.”

Tracy patted her cheek. “I have very thick skin.”

“I can attest to that,” David said resting his arm across the back of Tracy's chair. He glanced at me, his mouth quirked in the half smile that had, at one time, broken hearts all over Preston. “And I want to drink a toast to Dani.” He picked up his glass and glanced around the table. “With hopes that we can share her delightful presence for many, many more years. Happy birthday.”

Jace looked puzzled, Chip confused. Neil took another piece of cake. My father looked over his shoulder at the calendar. “Today?”

“It's today. The seventeenth. Same day it's been since I was born.” I shrugged away the faint hurt I felt at their lack. I was their only sister for goodness sakes.