“I … didn’t take nothin’ until … until after the baby was b-b-born.” She was shaking now, her limbs lurching beneath the sheets. “Don’t let me d-d-die … I didn’t mean to do it. Please! Don’t let me die.”
A doctor moved, and Hannah got a better look at the woman’s face. What she saw made her breath catch in her throat. It wasn’t a woman at all, but a girl. A young girl no more than sixteen, seventeen years old. She was so frail and damaged by whatever drugs she’d been taking that her posture, her eyes looked forty years old. But there was no mistaking the youthful skin and hair.
The doctor leaned over her and yelled near her face. “Ma’am, we need to know what you took! Tell us what you took this morning.” The girl’s eyes were still open, but she didn’t respond. Gradually her legs and arms lay still.
“We’ve lost her pulse!” A doctor on the other side of the bed tore back the sheet and began performing CPR.
Hannah’s eyes filled, and the infant in her arms began to squirm and cry. Soundlessly Hannah swayed the baby back and forth and cuddled her face against his.
Meanwhile, another doctor slapped paddles on the girl’s chest and gave a signal. Her body convulsed grotesquely up and off the bed and then settled back down in what looked like a heap of brittle bones. “It’s not working!” The doctor’s voice was grim. “Again!”
Hannah’s heart raced and she shook her head, backing away from the room with quick steps. The baby’s mother was dying before her eyes. She had to get out of there before she was sick to her stomach. She hurried to the nurses station, and the woman behind the desk handed Hannah a bottle. “Poor little guy,” the woman whispered.
There was nothing Hannah could say. She took the bottle, carried the baby down the hall into a private examination room, and closed the door. In the quiet of the small room, for the first time, Hannah studied the baby’s face. He was beautiful. Big blue eyes, and lips that formed a perfect rosebud mouth. He sucked his fingers, hungry and threatening to cry again.
“There, baby, it’s okay.” Hannah put the bottle near his mouth and he found it, latching on with practiced skill. “You’re all right, honey. You’re safe now.”
He stretched his baby hand out and Hannah placed her finger against one of his palms. With a strength that took her by surprise, the baby gripped her finger and held on.
In all her days volunteering at the hospital, she’d never done this, never held a baby while his mother clung to life in the next room. Her pulse quickened, her thoughts anxious and scattered. How should I pray for him, God? He made it here safe this time, but if his mother lives.
Hannah knew only too well the risks the baby would face if his mother took drugs and drove with him again.
Be still, and know that I am God …
The verse filled her heart, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. She breathed out and kissed the baby’s velvety cheek.
Be still, and know that I am God.
It was the Scripture Jade had given Tanner for their first anniversary. Hannah had been with her when they picked it out. “When life gets tough,” Jade had said, “that verse is a hiding place.”
It was always true at the CPRR law firm, and it was true now. Hannah brought the baby’s face against hers again and prayed for his mother. She prayed the girl would live and find help in recovering from her drug problems. And she prayed the girl would never again drive intoxicated.
Then she placed her hand on the baby’s head, his finger still gripping hers. Sweet baby, if only I could protect you from everything happening down the hall. Hannah took a slow breath, her heart breaking for the child in her arms. “Jesus, I bring You this little one, this nameless boy who You created, and I ask You to bless him. Make his home a safe one and let his mother love him all the days of her life. Let him know the touch of a father’s hand and the peace of Your salvation. And bless him to be the young man You would have him be. Keep your Spirit on him, Lord …” Hannah hesitated. “Even now, when his future seems so uncertain. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
It was the same type of blessing she had prayed over Jenny and Alicia when they were born.
The baby’s eyes had grown heavy, and his milk was almost gone. When he stopped sucking, Hannah set the bottle on the floor. Then in a way that felt as familiar as it had eighteen years ago with her own children, she held the baby up against her shoulder and patted his back, cooing at him the whole time. “It’s okay, sweetie, Jesus loves you. It’s okay.”
When she was sure he had no air bubbles in his tummy, Hannah cradled him again. The chair she sat in was rigid and hard, but she rocked him gently, singing songs she’d sung to her own babies.
Including Grace’s favorite.
“Jesus loves you! This I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong; they are weak but He is strong.” Hannah nuzzled her face against his, her voice soft and low. “Yes, Jesus loves you … Yes, Jesus loves you … Yes, Jesus loves you.… the Bible tells me so.”
He fell asleep in her arms, but still she sang, studying him, mesmerized by his beauty. After nearly an hour there was a knock at the door. She answered as quietly as she could so the baby wouldn’t wake. “Come in.”
It was one of the doctors who’d been working on the baby’s mother. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Then he studied the baby with heavy eyes. As he did, he breathed out, discouragement written across his face. “There was nothing we could do.”
Fresh tears stung Hannah’s eyes and her heart filled with a sudden, overwhelming sense of protection for the infant. “She’s dead?”
The doctor nodded. “Traced her to a women’s shelter. Seventeen-year-old runaway, clean her entire pregnancy. Got hooked up with one wrong guy and overdosed in a single hour.” He ran his thumb over the baby’s forehead. “It’s a miracle they got here alive. The baby rode in on his mother’s lap.” He lifted his eyes to Hannah’s. “If she’d had even a fender bender he could have been killed.”
Hannah’s throat was thick with sadness. She stared at the baby, ignoring the tears that fell on his blanket. “What happens now?”
“Police will be here any minute. They’ll take the baby to a short-term foster home until Social Services can determine the next of kin.”
Hannah nodded and swallowed hard so she could speak. “Poor baby.”
And poor family who would care for him over the next few weeks. She couldn’t imagine having this precious boy for even a day and then letting him go. Even now, after their short hour together, there was no question about it. Hannah had bonded with him. It made sense. In his mother’s dying hour, Hannah had been the one to love him, feed him. Pray for him. Of course she was connected to the baby.
The doctor studied him once more. “He looks like an angel.”
Hannah nodded and smiled through her tears. “I hope he gets to live like one.”
Edna Parsons got the call just after noon that a healthy baby boy needed short-term foster care. Her job was to find next of kin—a task she took far more seriously since the incident with the Bronzans. If there was a grandparent or aunt or uncle or father somewhere in the world capable of raising the child, Edna would find out.
She met the police at the house where the baby would live for the next few days. Once he was safely placed, Edna visited St. Anne’s Shelter, where the baby’s mother had been living until her drug overdose.
Edna met with a pleasant woman who ran the shelter. There were Scripture verses stuck to various places on her office wall.
“Milly Wheeler was the mother’s name.” The woman bit her lip and brushed at the corners of her eyes. “She was seventeen, a runaway.”
“I see.” Edna scribbled the details on her notepad.
“We do drug testing here.” The woman lifted one shoulder. “Milly was clean through her pregnancy. She attended Bible studies twice a day.” The woman’s voice caught. “I … I really thought she was going to make it.”
The woman explained that in the co
urse of their Bible studies, Milly had shared much about her life and background.
“I’ve got it all right here.” The woman handed a folder to Edna. “It’s Milly’s file.”
Edna opened it and the story began to unfold. Milly’s mother was a drug addict, a street person in San Francisco, who died three years ago from an overdose. At first Milly tried to live on her own, scrounging food from other street people and digging through trash bins behind restaurants when all else failed.
“She was determined not to follow her mother’s footsteps, to stay away from drugs.” The woman frowned. “She kept that determination until she turned fifteen.”
At that point, Milly apparently assessed her options and decided there was only one way she could make enough money to survive: prostitution.
“The trouble was, with every trick she turned, Milly saw another piece of her soul fade away.” The woman crossed her arms. “Finally she could only describe herself as dead. Breathing, moving, existing … but dead all the same.”
Edna glanced at the notations in the file. “And that’s when she took her first hit of speed.”
“Right.”
Edna shook her head, her heart heavy for the girl whose story was so familiar, so like that of dozens of girls she’d worked with or taken children from over the years. Drugs were a wicked, evil prison, and once a person willingly walked through the doors, there was seldom any easy way out. “And then …?” Edna scanned the file once more.
“She stayed in San Francisco, turning tricks and taking speed until she got pregnant. The minute she knew for sure, she took a bus to Los Angeles and came here. Her withdrawals were so bad we thought she’d lose the baby. But we got her help and she never took another hit.” The woman paused. “Until last night, I guess.”
“Yes. She had enough crack in her blood to kill a horse.”
Edna closed Milly’s file. Across from her, the woman’s eyes grew wet again. “She wanted her baby to be a preacher or a writer, someone who would help people be strong in God.” She lifted her hands off the desk and let them fall again. “I don’t know what happened. She didn’t come home last night. I guess she went with one of the guys who hang around here. Even with her faith, Milly was very lonely.”
“So you think the baby’s clean?”
The woman nodded. “Definitely. Milly was clean through her pregnancy right up until two days ago. Clean and determined to give her baby a life different from that of hers and her mother’s.”
Edna made several notations on her clipboard. “What about the father?”
“Milly was a prostitute, Mrs. Parsons. The baby’s father lived in San Francisco and could be any one of a hundred different men.”
“What about AIDS?”
“She tested negative for HIV. Almost a miracle really, coming from San Francisco.”
Edna had all the information she needed. She’d still run a name check in the San Francisco area, but Milly’s story—the way she’d told it to the people at the shelter, anyway—seemed very plausible.
The women stood and shook hands. Before she left, Edna hesitated. “Is there any way we can prove that her mother’s really dead?”
The woman reached for Milly’s file once more and thumbed through it. Seconds later she handed Edna a photograph. “This is pretty good proof if you ask me.”
Edna took it. “You’re right.” It was a picture of a small gravestone carved with the name Henrietta Mae Wheeler. The dates of birth and death made the buried woman the right age to be Milly’s mother.
The photo was worn on the edges and peeling at the corner. Edna gave it back to the woman, her heart heavy for the tragedy young Milly had suffered. “Why would she keep a photo like this?”
“As a reminder to stay away from drugs.” The woman reached for a tissue and held it beneath her right eye. “She didn’t want to leave her baby orphaned, the way her mother left her.”
If nothing showed up on the name check, Milly’s baby boy would be a ward of the court, legally free for adoption. Suddenly a flashlight of hope shone on the day’s dismal events. “Do you mind if I take Milly’s file?”
“Not at all.” The woman handed it to Edna. “Is Kody okay?”
“Kody?” Edna’s heart beat faster as a plan took shape.
“Kody Matthew. That’s what Milly named him.”
Kody Matthew? Edna nodded. The irony was almost too much. “Kody’s fine. He’s a beautiful baby.”
The woman nodded. “I hope you find him a good home.”
“Yes.” Edna smiled and realized it was the first time she’d done so since hearing about Milly’s death. “I think I know just the place for him.”
Twenty-Four
Leslie Landers hated prison.
A door slammed in the cell next to hers, and the sound echoed through the unit. There was no way to escape the stench of body odor and bacon grease that filled the air. Leslie huffed in disgust. Even her senses were behind bars.
In prison, every single sound echoed. Every scream and cry and loud burst of laughter. Every slamming door and slamming fist. Twenty-four-seven, the place was a madhouse of animalistic behavior, loud voices, and violent actions. A place where the outside world all but ceased to exist.
Prison proved that at least one thing her mother said was true. Hell was real. No question about it, because she was now a resident. Wore her residency numbers on the pocket of her shirt.
But at least her residency was temporary.
None of this lifer stuff for Leslie, no sir. Not like the women on either side of her, women who had killed parents or husbands or strangers and didn’t mind saying so. Leslie was different from them. She would bide her time, put in her hours and days and weeks, and one day—before a year was up, if her attorney was right—she’d walk out of here and never go back again.
Even if it meant dying instead.
The minute she was out, she knew just what she’d do. She’d take the pittance of money they give to parolees and buy a bus ticket to Bartlesville, Oklahoma. Then she would take Grace, and this time the two of them would disappear for good.
Leslie grabbed hold of two bars and pressed her nose in the space between. She’d never been claustrophobic before, but now … There were times when the urge to break free of her cell was so strong she thought she could bend the bars in two. Times when she tried, even. But never when the guards were looking.
Good behavior was the only way she’d get out again, the only way she’d save Grace from a lifetime of preaching and Bible verses and suffocating control by Leslie’s mother.
Leslie remembered hearing from her attorney that Grace’s adoption had fallen through. She spun around and threw herself on her bunk. Good thing. Strangers shouldn’t be raising her kid.
Still, Leslie had been confused until the attorney mentioned her mother. “Apparently Social Services thought your mother was dead.” Her attorney shrugged. “Once they found out about her existence and her desire to adopt Grace, they pulled her from the foster-adopt home immediately.”
There was no information about which foster home or who was going to adopt Grace before her mother intervened. Not that it mattered. Those people were out of the picture. And now that Grace was in Bartlesville, she’d be easy to find. Probably being spoiled rotten, poisoned with lies about the mistakes her terrible mother had made.
The whole situation made Leslie want to puke. Grace was already spoiled enough. Imagine what living with her mother for a year would do to her?
No, Leslie couldn’t let Grace stay in Bartlesville. That wasn’t the type of life she should have. She wasn’t a Bible kid, a Christian kid. Grace was her kid. Leslie Landers’s kid. And that meant that, yes, sometimes she’d have to hang around while Leslie made a little money in the sack. And sometimes the kid would have to sit loose while Leslie partied with the guys in Santa Maria, guys who would want to see her when she returned.
But that was no reason to take Grace away and put her up for adoption. The street lif
e that Leslie could give Grace was a good thing. It toughened kids, made them wise to the world and ready for whatever the future held.
Whatever Grace’s future held, it didn’t involve Leslie’s mother or some family of strangers taking over as Grace’s parents. Leslie was doing just fine, thank you. The problem was, they needed more money. Which meant Grace needed to pull her weight.
The idea hadn’t occurred to her until that last night, the night the cops busted her. The guy she’d been with that night roughed her up pretty good, and in the process he knelt on the seat and spotted Grace on the floor.
She could still hear his words, still feel the way they spawned the idea that just might save them. “You didn’t tell me you had a little beauty hiding in the back.”
Leslie had been angry with the man. Angry and high. At first she didn’t understand what he meant. Before they could talk about it, the police showed up. And only in the days since she’d been in prison had she considered exactly what he was saying. Grace was pretty. Pretty enough that if their money started running low, Leslie could put her to work. Films or short projects. Whatever. Nothing dangerous, just something to help them survive.
Besides, it was time Grace made herself useful. Leslie had catered to her long enough, busting her own tail to make sure their cooler was full of milk and cookies and sometimes bananas. It was only fair. Grace needed to make money, too.
And if they worked together, maybe … just maybe, they’d find a way to survive. Then they could set up an apartment somewhere and go about the business of living. Of course, Leslie shared none of this with her attorney. But she did tell him one of her intentions.
“I want Grace back. The minute I’m out of here.”
The attorney, an older man who worked for the state, looked concerned by Leslie’s request. “It’s possible. With good behavior and a series of letters, maybe.”
“Letters?”
“To your mother, sent to my office. I’ll make copies and send them on. That’s the only way you’ll be able to prove how much you miss your daughter.”