Ashlee leans forward, putting her elbows on the desk. “Is there any chance your sister has legitimately changed? Could Rachel have turned things around? Could she be a good parent to Jo?”
If I had a dollar for every time I asked myself that kind of question about Rachel when we were growing up, I’d have a nice, cushy savings account. But Rachel only ever managed to pull herself together for brief periods. She would show up drunk to school, get arrested, or not come home at night. When she ran away, she took any cash she could get her hands on, plus Mama’s credit and debit cards too.
I wish I could unsee the tears rolling down Mama’s cheeks as she called hospitals and police stations, searching for a selfish girl who didn’t want to be found. I picture Rachel’s cold, green eyes again.
“I know change is possible,” I say carefully. “But I gave up hope a long time ago. Rachel has done this too many times. She had the best reason ever to get help when Jo was born. A daughter. Not even Jo was enough. Now?” I shake my head. “I have a very hard time believing it. Especially considering she still hasn’t ever tried to contact me or Jo. It’s not like she doesn’t know where we live. I know it sounds awful, but I can’t allow myself to hope.”
“It doesn’t sound awful. I have people in my life who suffered from addiction. It’s a hard cycle to step out of.”
That’s true, but Rachel had issues long before the substance abuse. Mama said my little sister came out of the womb fighting like a cat stuffed in a burlap sack. She railed against everyone but especially me. It’s like she was jealous I was born first, as though it gave me some unfair advantage. Rachel spent most of her energy trying to beat me in a race I was never running.
This whole thing with Jo doesn’t feel like a healthy woman trying to reunify with her child. It’s more like a power grab. If Rachel really had changed, she could have come to me. She had years to reach out, to do anything. I can only imagine what this will do to Jo.
My stomach feels like it’s been shoved inside a trash compactor. “What can I expect with this hearing?”
Ashlee stares at me for a moment, as though measuring me up. I try to sit a little straighter, wondering suddenly when the last time I washed my bra was. Ashlee seems like the kind of woman who would wash her bras regularly. She probably never wears them until the armpit area turns a weird gray color and the underwire pokes out.
“It’s unlikely they’ll make a decision at this first hearing. They will probably do evaluations on both you and Rachel. We’ll present the best possible case for you being the best fit for Jo.”
Desperation is rising like a starving hyena, all wild-eyed and panting, searching for any scrap of meat on a bone. “What can I do? I need specifics. What do they look for?”
This is how I operate. Give me a task, and I’ll get it done. This is how I’ve survived the past five years essentially as a single parent. I’ve held it together so far, and I’ll keep holding my little world together at the seams.
“I know you’re working, but it would be good to be involved in Jo’s school. Maybe volunteering or helping the PTO?”
A shudder passes through me. As much as I can, I avoid what I call the PTO Mafia, a tiny legion of women in athleisure-wear who coordinate—aka emotionally manipulate and browbeat—parent volunteers.
“I can do that.” I’ll hate it, but I can do it.
“The court will want to see a stable home life,” Ashlee says.
“I’m stable. Super stable.” My awkward, high-pitched laugh does anything but bolster this claim.
She continues, ignoring my weird laughter. For this, I am grateful.
“They’ll look at your living situation.”
“I have a house.”