The Wishing Game(11)
“I’m tired. My head hurts.”
Lucy turned on her heel, went into the kitchen, and returned carrying a bottle from the fridge. “Try it. I dare you.”
He opened the bottle, took a sip. His eyes widened. “Oh my God, what is this?”
“It’s called…water.”
“Wow.”
“Feel better?”
“Amazing,” Beck said. “You’re so wise, like a sexy wizard.”
“Can the sexy wizard have your keys now?”
“Fine.” He dug his car keys out of his jeans pocket. Lucy took them with a smile.
“Thank you. Now please take a shower.”
* * *
—
Outside the glass double doors of the Children’s Service Center, Lucy rechecked her outfit, took a deep breath, and willed herself to be calm and in control. The woman she was meeting was Mrs. Costa, the social worker in charge of Christopher’s foster placement and care. There had to be something Lucy could do to speed up the process. The look on his face when he’d done the math and realized he’d be nine years old before they’d be together haunted her.
In the waiting room outside Mrs. Costa’s office, Lucy stared at her phone. She hated being here. It reminded her too much of a hospital waiting room—institutional tile, garish paint, brightly colored laminated signs—First Aid, Children’s Aid, Financial Aid. Financial aid for adoptive families and foster families, for kids with parents in prison, for kids with parents on drugs. But nothing for a broke twenty-six-year-old single woman trying to be one little boy’s mother.
The largest poster on the wall said in big black letters, You don’t have to be perfect to be a foster parent. Great. Fabulous news considering how not perfect she was.
Of course the family pictured on the poster looked happy, smiling, and absolutely perfect.
There were no picture-perfect families here in the waiting area. Women with crying babies. Women with screaming toddlers. Women—and a few men—sitting next to quiet, distant teenagers who had likely experienced the sort of horrors most people only read about in books and newspapers. Would Christopher be one of these traumatized teenagers someday? She felt like the window of opportunity to save him from that fate was closing fast.
On the table next to her were information packets and brochures. Lucy found one titled Foster Facts. The first fact said that the average time a child spends in foster care is twenty months, just shy of two years. Christopher was in his twentieth month already. Another foster fact, far more troubling—children in foster care are twice as likely as veterans to develop post-traumatic stress disorder.
“Lucy Hart?” Mrs. Costa stood in her office doorway. She smiled but not broadly. A polite smile. Lucy already felt like she was wasting the woman’s time.
Lucy went in and sat down in the chair opposite Mrs. Costa’s cluttered desk. Files teetered on the edge, ready to drop at any minute.
“So, Lucy,” Mrs. Costa said with obviously feigned enthusiasm. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to talk to you again about fostering to adopt Christopher. No relatives have come forward?”
Mrs. Costa looked at her. She was an older woman, sun-weathered face, gray-brown hair, eyes that had seen things no one should ever have to see.
“Obviously, family reunification is always the best-case scenario,” Mrs. Costa said, “but no, no family at all except a great-uncle in prison and another in a nursing home. So yes, he qualifies for foster-to-adopt. It would be a long process, but Lucy—”
“To Christopher, I’m his new mother in everything but paperwork.”
“I know he wants to live with you. I know you want to be his mother—”
Lucy didn’t let her finish. “Christopher’s getting older. He’s asking more questions. He can tell his foster mother isn’t crazy about dealing with him and the twin babies she’s also fostering.”
“Catherine Bailey and her husband are one of our best families. He’s lucky to have them.”
“I would be better for him. He has a strong attachment to me,” she said. Childhood attachment was important. She knew that. Mrs. Costa knew that.
“They feed him, clothe him, put a roof over his head, keep him safe, make sure he does his schoolwork, and Mrs. Bailey shows up prepared to every court hearing, every team meeting…What more do you want?”
“I want him to be loved. They don’t love him. Not like I do.”
Mrs. Costa exhaled heavily. “That isn’t a crime.”
Lucy interrupted. Her voice was so sharp even she was surprised by her vehemence. “It should be.”
“Listen to me,” Mrs. Costa said. There was a gentleness to her voice that forced Lucy to meet her eyes. “I would give that boy to you this minute if I could. If love were enough, you’d be the perfect person to adopt him.”
Lucy waited. Her stomach knotted up. She knew what was coming because she’d heard it all before. “But—”
“Right. But. You will never pass the home study. Not with things as they are right now. You’re in a lot of credit-card debt, Lucy. You don’t have access to reliable transportation. You live with three roommates in a house that’s one grease fire away from going up in smoke. Oh, and one of those roommates has a recent DUI conviction. Even if we got you enrolled in all the public assistance available to you, you still wouldn’t be able to afford appropriate housing and a car. I mean, Lucy, think about it—if I sent Christopher home with you today, where would he sleep? On the floor of your bedroom?”