LEXIE
“So, what happened?”
Annie is sitting up in bed when I get back to the hospital from Bernie’s office, breathtaking hope and optimism in her eyes.
“It’s not good.”
“Didn’t she take my case?”
I sit on the edge of the bed and take Annie’s hand in mine. She’s watching me closely.
“Annie,” I say carefully, “you’re in a lot of trouble.”
“I know,” she whispers. “Of course I know that. But surely the lawyer can help?”
“She...” Oh God, where do I start? This would be so much easier if Annie didn’t have that blazing hopefulness in her gaze. I take another deep breath. “Well, the lawyer—Bernie—she’s arranged for the hearing tomorrow to be held here at your bedside, so that’s a good start.”
“Okay. Great.” The fear on Annie’s face eases for just a moment, but then she scans my face again and she sighs. “Tell me, Lexie. I can take it.”
“There are a few things you need to know.” It’s like the lump in my throat keeps creeping higher, and it takes a more determined effort to clear my throat this time. My palms are sweaty, as if I’m the one in trouble. “The hearing is actually about the best interests of the baby, Annie. It’s the juvenile court, so it’s a closed session. That means you won’t be allowed to have Bernie here with you.”
“I can’t have a lawyer with me?”
“No, Annie.”
“Okay then—can you come in?”
I shake my head.
“Only the court staff can be in attendance.”
“But...aren’t I the one in trouble?”
“Well, yes...”
“But I can’t even have my own lawyer? Isn’t that in the Miranda rights?”
“This hearing tomorrow isn’t a criminal trial. It’s just about the baby. They...”
I can’t say it. I try several times, but the words stubbornly refuse to leave my mouth. I meet Annie’s gaze, and her face falls.
“They want to take it away from me already, don’t they?”
“The hearing tomorrow is to remove your parental rights.”
“They aren’t even going to give me a chance to try to raise it?” she whispers, and her eyes fill with tears. She squeezes them shut and sinks back onto the pillow. “No, Lexie. Please, no.”
I take her hand firmly in mine and press on.
“If the judge agrees with CPS tomorrow...they’ll appoint a lawyer to the baby, and he will make the decisions about your treatment from here on in.”
Annie’s eyes open. Her brow furrows as she digests this. When she speaks, she’s uncertain.
“Wait—you’re saying I don’t get a lawyer, but the baby does?”
“That’s right.”
“And this lawyer is going to make decisions about my treatment now?”
“Until the birth, yes.”
“But... I’m already doing everything the doctors have said,” Annie says. “Isn’t that enough?”
“The court is just going to try to ensure that the baby is safe.”
“Safe,” Annie repeats, and her voice is no longer in a whisper. Her nostrils flare, and now she’s staring at me, the beginnings of rage simmering just below the surface. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Annie, don’t get defensive,” I say softly.
“Defensive? You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re telling me that some lawyer is going to decide what’s best for my body and my baby—”
I cut her off as her voice begins to rise. There’s more she needs to know, and I need to keep the conversation moving forward—I can’t afford to get distracted by an argument with her now. Particularly not when I actually agree with pretty much everything she’s saying.
“The judge is probably going to send you to rehab and give you a chance to get better set up for the baby...but as long as you do exactly what he wants, there’s a good chance the DA will drop the chemical endangerment charge.”
“Right.” Annie sighs, shaking her head. “So it’s that easy, is it?”
“Well, at least it’s not hopeless, not if you follow through with whatever they ask of you. If you can get and stay clean, this is all going to work out okay—and I know that’s what you want, too.” Annie doesn’t respond. I shake her forearm and say pointedly, “Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.”
“The thing is, Annie...if...and I’m not saying this is going to happen, but...” The damned lump in my throat is back. Annie seems to refocus and fixes her gaze on me again. I exhale and press on. “If you can’t satisfy the judge’s requirements, then it might mean prison time.”
“I know,” she says, and I’m surprised.
“You do?”
“I told you back at the trailer. My friend was charged last year.” Annie glances at me, then away. “I don’t think you realize what we’re dealing with here, Lexie.”
“Maybe I don’t really understand. Maybe I can’t. But I’ll tell you one thing, it doesn’t really matter whether I understand or not. Whatever is coming, I’ll be right beside you every step of the way.”
“Even though I’ve let you down again and again?” she murmurs. She’s staring at the roof now, dry-eyed but miserable.
“I’ve missed you,” I say simply, and Annie glances at me.
Her gaze searches mine, then she offers me a sad smile and admits, “I’ve missed you, too.”
“We’re going to face this together, okay?”
Annie nods.
“Lexie, all that I want to do is k-keep my baby,” she says, and as her voice breaks, she reaches for me and starts to cry. I wrap my arms around her and hold her close against me.
Tomorrow’s hearing could bring anything, but I know one thing for sure. Two years’ distance from Annie has melted away into nothing in under twenty-four hours—we’re instantly close again, in a way that only sisters can understand. Our history—all of it, the good, the bad, the ugly—it’s built an intimacy between us that’s immune to the ravages of time and distance. This new situation I’m navigating with Annie is stressful and difficult, but on some level, I’m actually relieved that she’s returned. I’ll pay the price of dealing with this mess if it means I can have my sister back.
What Annie is facing is a nightmare—but she is my sister. I’d never want her to face this alone.
* * *
There’s nothing I can do to convince my brain to switch off when I try to go to sleep. Even when I do sleep, my dreams are haunted by shadowy scenarios of Annie in a prison cell while her baby lies screaming, out of her reach on the other side of the bars. When the sun rises, I sit at the kitchen table with Sam, and we nurse strong coffees.
“It’s not too late. If you need me, I’ll take off work today,” he offers.
“Oh, Sam.” I wince a little, then reach across the table and squeeze his wrist. “I love you for suggesting it, I really do. But people are relying on you.”
His gaze is steady on mine.
“You’re the only person who matters to me, Lex. And I have a feeling you’re going to need me.”
“And I’ll have you, but that doesn’t mean your patients can’t, too,” I say gently, and Sam tilts his head toward me.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay today?”
“I can’t even go in to the hearing, so it shouldn’t be too difficult for me,” I mutter, and Sam offers my feeble attempt at humor a laugh it really doesn’t deserve.
“I mean after, Lexie. You’re going to be dealing with the fallout on your own.”
“I’ve been doing that for my entire life, Sam. I can handle it for one more day.”
“Call my office if you need me. I’ll let Cathryn know to get me out of surgery if anything drastic happens.”
“I will,” I promise, and I rise and walk around the table. I stand beside him and rest my hand on his shoulder. Sam turns to stare up at me.
“I mean it, Lexie. I’m here for you, in any way you need me. Okay?”
I bend and kiss him gently. “Thanks, Sam.”
“Will you come in my car to the hospital?”
“No.” I sigh. “I need to pick up a few things on the way.”
I move to walk away, but Sam pulls me gently down onto his lap.
“You look so tired,” he murmurs. There’s a crease in his brow, and his concern is palpable—an open invitation for me to lean on him. I don’t want to burden Sam—but I’m exhausted, and I’m anxious about what the day is going to bring.
“I couldn’t sleep... I had awful dreams about it...about her.”
“You’re a wonderful sister, Lexie.”
I don’t feel like a wonderful sister. I feel powerless and frustrated, and honestly—I’m terrified. And the worst of it is that today is not going to be the end of all of these awful emotions.We’re still right at the beginning of this chapter of Annie’s life, of my life, and it could be decades before she finds her feet, if she ever does.
“Do you think people can change, Sam?” I whisper. For just a moment, he grimaces as if he really doesn’t want to answer my question, and I clarify, “I just mean, do you think there’s any chance she’s going to overcome this?”
“The legal stuff?”
“The addiction.”
Sam’s gaze softens.
“People beat addiction every day, Lex. It’s hard and messy, but you wouldn’t have fought like you have for her over the years if you didn’t see glimpses of a person worth saving among all of the chaos. Right?”
That’s definitely true. I think of Annie reacting to the news of the legal complexities of her case, and how that beautifully optimistic spirit just kept trying to rise to the surface, even as I delivered the news that pushed it back down again and again.
“Right.”
“So it’s not a case of needing to change who she is. It’s a question of healing.”
“That’s the thing... I’m a doctor. I get that. Healing people is what I do for a living. Why haven’t I ever been able to help her?” I ask, and my voice sounds small even to my own ears.
“Have you ever had one of those diabetic patients who just doesn’t want to take their biguanides? They constantly insist they’re just going to lose some weight, exercise some more...”
I think of two current patients. It’s not an uncommon scenario at all.
“Of course I have.”
“I get it, too. I get patients referred to me for gastric bypass or even gallbladder surgery. They come for the consult and get all of the information and when I tell them they can book in with Cathryn on the way out, they hesitate and say they’ll call instead, and that usually means they won’t. All you can do is keep giving the advice, keep educating, keep waiting. All you can do is offer them the treatment and hope they’ll reach the point that they can face it. Addiction is the same principle, even if it works in reverse. Annie has been self-medicating for how long? Seven years? And she’s getting sicker and sicker, and you’ve given her the advice and you keep passing her the treatment on a silver platter, but until she’s ready to own her healing...”
“That’s what’s so frustrating about this. What if she’s still not ready for that? How can they set healing as a legal requirement for a person?”
“I really don’t know, honey. I guess we just hope we catch a break and this legal stuff just happens to coincide with her being genuinely ready to embrace it.”
I sigh and glance at the clock.
“You really need to go, and so do I.”
“I love you, Lex.”
“I love you, too.”
We share a gentle kiss before we part, then I slip into my car and turn toward the hospital. I stop at the mall on the way and race through the corridors to several stores—picking up some clothes and toiletries for Annie. On my way back to the car, I see the children’s wear store, and I glance at my watch to check the time before I dart inside. I’m in the store for only a few minutes, but I leave with a huge bag of tiny clothing—once I start dropping white and yellow beanies and booties and jumpsuits into my arms, I find that I just can’t stop. Somehow, I feel like I need to keep Annie focused on the baby—on the goal at the end of all of the hard work that lies ahead of her. Maybe the judge is about to ask the impossible of her, but don’t parents do the impossible for their children? Annie loves this baby already; I can see it. Maybe this is the equivalent of those awful situations where a child’s life is in danger and a mother somehow finds the strength to lift a car or run through a fire. Maybe if she just keeps her eyes on the prize of a better life for her child, Annie can find a way to get well.
When I finally make it to Annie’s room, I’m carrying several bags from the babywear store, and she raises an eyebrow at me, then says stiffly, “You do realize a judge is coming here in a few hours to tell me I’m not allowed to keep my baby?”
“No, he’s coming here in a few hours to probably tell you that there are some hurdles you need to leap before you can keep your baby,” I correct her. “And you and I both need to believe you can clear those hurdles, so we need to start planning for when you do.”
Annie hesitates, then offers me a strange little smile.
“Even so, you didn’t have to rob the Babies ’R’ Us. You’ve gone a bit overboard there.”
“We can sort through it later and anything you don’t need, I can return,” I say firmly as I place the bags on a table in the corner of the room where I know she’ll be able to see them during the court session.
Then I place the other bag onto the end of her bed, and I withdraw the maternity dress. It’s corporate wear—a modest, long-sleeved dress, charcoal gray with a pink trim, designed to draw attention away from a pregnant belly in the workplace. Annie would never wear this dress ordinarily—not just because she hasn’t held a professional job for seven years, but because she always had such a striking sense of style, and this dress is just about as dull as they come. I wasn’t sure at all what Annie should wear for this hearing, but I figured she should probably dress up, to show her respect for the proceedings.
“Thank you,” she says as she surveys the dress, but she seems unconvinced.
“It’s just for the hearing, Annie. You can burn it after if you want.” I pass her another bag, and she peers inside. “Toiletries. Some nice shampoo and some makeup. Take a shower and I’ll blow-dry your hair.”
Later, she sits in the visitor’s chair by the window and I run the brush through her long blond hair. It feels soft now after a wash, but it’s thin and patchy in places. I let it fall through my fingers as I work the hair dryer, and I can’t help but think back to all of the other times I’ve done my sister’s hair. In the community, we had to wear our hair long—it was considered a terrible sin for a woman to cut her hair. The fashion in the sect was to wear our hair down beneath the inevitable head scarf—but the style wasn’t actually enforced, and so Annie and I had one small, shared and tolerable act of rebellion—instead of wearing our hair down, we liked to braid it. It set us apart without forcing us out.
I used to braid Annie’s hair before school most days—it was thicker then, and so shiny and soft. I’d twist the hair around itself until the braid was tight and perfect, and then sometimes, just to prolong the peaceful moments when it was just Annie and me before we faced the day, I’d pretend I made a mistake and start all over again.
Before I know it now, I’ve braided her hair—out of some lingering habit that has resurfaced while I was daydreaming. Annie reaches up to touch her hair, and then we share a sad smile. There are echoes of those days in her eyes, and I know she can see the same in mine.
“I didn’t even mean to braid it,” I admit. “Muscle memory in my fingers I think.”
“Do you think about Winterton, Lexie?” she asks me quietly, and I straighten and shake my head firmly.
“Nope. I don’t.”
The truth is, I can’t think about that period of my life. I have put a wall around it in my mind—sometimes I even imagine it like that. If I think back over my life, I remember the great years of Dad’s life, and then I hit the wall. It’s twenty feet tall and there’s barbed wire at the top and there is no gate to get inside it. The wall keeps the detail in. I remember the basics—Mom’s depression, we moved into the sect, I left and I left Annie behind—but the wall keeps the rest contained, except in moments of weakness like the one that just passed.
It’s a self-preservation thing. Sometimes, when I look at Annie’s life and I look at mine and I wonder just how they could have worked out so damned differently, I wonder if that wall is the only thing that’s saved me.
“I think about it,” she whispers, and her hand falls from her hair to her lap. “And I think about Dad.”
“You need to keep your spirits up for this hearing,” I say, and I open the makeup I bought her at the drugstore. There’s nothing I can do to hide the sores around her mouth, but I can at least add some color to her cheeks with the blush and frame her eyes with some mascara.
When I’m finished, I survey my handiwork, and then I smile.
“You look beautiful.”
“I look haggard.”
Annie climbs back into bed and I reattach the monitoring leads to her belly and chest, and we sit and wait for Bernie. It’s not long before she breezes through the door, and after an introduction and pleasantries, she gives Annie a five-minute boot camp on surviving the hearing.
“The important thing at this hearing is that you show remorse, and that you show them that you’re determined to turn things around,” Bernie tells her. “No excuses, and no matter what happens—you keep your cool. You need to convince that judge that you know you have a problem but that you’re determined to turn it around and you’re willing to do whatever it takes. Got it?”
“Okay,” Annie says, but she’s visibly nervous now, and when I take her hand her gaze locks with mine. We both know that this is exactly where it all goes wrong. She has every intention of staying put here in this hospital for the time being—but once a judge tells her she has to? That will change everything for Annie. Assuming the outcome of that hearing is a court order that dictates what Annie can do with her life in the next few weeks, it will be like waving a red flag in front of a bull.
No one tells Annie what to do. Not Robert, not Mom, not me, not rehab clinic directors, not boyfriends. Giving her a directive is the fastest way to make her rebel.
But this time will be different, it has to be. This time, she has the baby, and she’s going to make this work.
I saw it in her eyes when she agreed to take the methadone, and I see it even stronger in there now. Brighter than the fear, brighter even than the marked sense of desperation that she wears around herself like a shawl these days, there’s a sense of determination in my sister for the first time in years. I see it in the steely way she holds my gaze, and in the stiffness of her shoulders and the steady, tightly controlled rhythm of her deep breaths.
There’s movement at the door, and I see a man in a suit through the window. He peers in at us, and even at this first glance, there’s no mistaking the clear judgment in his eyes.
Oh God, please don’t let that be the judge.
“I’m going to be right outside.” I modulate my voice—keeping the words low and steady, and as I rise I keep a firm grip on her hand. “The whole time, I’ll be right outside. As soon as it’s over, I’ll come in and we’ll talk about it. Would that be good?”
“Yes. Okay.”
“And we’ll look at the baby clothes. The baby, Annie. Whatever happens in here, just think about the baby. Okay?”
Eliza steps through the door and offers Annie a smile. She closes the door behind her, and she says quietly, “I’ve asked the judge if I can be present for your hearing so I can keep an eye on your BP, Annie. I hope that’s okay.”
Eliza and I exchange a glance, and relief hits me like a wave from my head to my toes. She doesn’t need to be in the room to monitor Annie’s BP—the staff can do it from the ward office, via the electronic monitoring system. The only reason Eliza needs to be in this room is to give Annie some moral support, and I’m so grateful that I could hug her. Maybe I will, later.
Bernie and I wait outside as the officials file into Annie’s room. Four men enter, followed closely by another woman, and Mary Rafferty comes in last. She directs a polite smile to me as she enters, and I force myself to return it. Bernie greets each of them, and once they are inside, she explains, “So, Judge Brown is the man with the beard, the assistant DA was the guy with the purple tie and the young guy with him is his paralegal. The fourth man is Bill Weston—the attorney nominated to be the baby’s guardian ad litem. The first woman was a stenographer to record the proceedings, and I’m guessing that last one was your CPS social worker?”
I nod, then we fall into a terse silence. It quickly becomes too much, and I need to do something to burn off the nervous energy I feel, so I pace the hallway while the hearing takes place. I walk up and down outside Annie’s room, and I stand on my tiptoes as I pass her door, trying to peer through the window. The angles aren’t right, and it’s hard to see what’s going on, but I do manage a glimpse of Annie at one point—and immediately wish I hadn’t. In that momentary glimpse I see only her pale, tear-streaked face, and that means I spend the remaining ten minutes of the hearing with my fists clenched, wondering what the hell they are saying to her.
When the door finally opens, the men file out, but the assistant DA stops to speak quietly with Bernie. I’m torn between staying to listen in on that conversation and racing in to comfort my sister. The second impulse wins, and when I enter the room, I find Eliza sitting on Annie’s bed holding her hand.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“The first part went just like Bernie said,” Annie whispers, but then she is simply overcome. She looks up at me—her blue eyes swimming in tears, her lips thin and her brow furrowed—and then she shakes her head and closes her eyes. I look to Eliza.
“The judge has appointed the guardian ad litem to make decisions about Annie’s care until the birth,” Eliza clarifies quietly.
“That fucking judge hates me,” Annie chokes. “He said if I want to get the baby back, I have to go into rehab as soon as it’s born.”
“Not immediately,” Eliza corrects her carefully. “You’ll have a week to recover.”
“A week?” I gasp, and Annie starts to cry again. I try to imagine how that will work. Seven days to get to know her newborn. Saying goodbye seven days into her newborn’s withdrawal. God, that would mean that Annie would likely be around just long enough to see the baby start to really suffer before she has to drag herself away.
“The judge was concerned that Annie has had so many attempts to get clean,” Eliza explains softly. “He ruled that the baby should go into foster or kinship care until Annie has successfully completed a rehabilitation program. If she can graduate from the ninety-day program at the new facility at Auburn, they’ll review the situation.”
I look to Annie again. She’s a mess, completely distraught. We should have prepared her better for this. I just assumed there’d be more time, and there should be more time. The baby will probably be in the hospital for weeks after the birth. Surely the judge could give Annie at least that long to find her feet and see her child get well before they tear her away.
“What’s the rush?” I say. “Surely they could leave it until the baby has finished withdrawals.”
“Annie isn’t actually the baby’s legal guardian,” Eliza murmurs a little awkwardly. “The CPS lady recommended she be allowed access here in the hospital until we discharge her, but to be honest, I think she’s lucky the judge even granted her that. He was pretty tough on her.”
“Lucky?” I repeat weakly, and I look at Annie again. She’s drawing in heaving breaths, trying to calm herself down.
I spin toward the door and move to follow the judge. I’m on autopilot—each step fueled only by mindless rage, and a towering sense of injustice that I can’t even begin to make sense of. Annie has made mistakes. Yes, Annie has made monstrously bad decisions over the course of her adult lifetime—but this? What good does that idiot think he’s going to do in forcing her away from her baby straight after its birth? Those early weeks are so crucial for bonding. And if the goal is for Annie to be an effective parent, surely allowing her time to bond with her son or daughter should be crucial. I’m cataloging all the points to this argument as I storm toward the door, ready to confront this judge as soon as I catch up to him, but Bernie steps in front of me as I leave Annie’s room and she says flatly, “Whatever you’re about to do—don’t even think about it.”
“But if they just give her some more time—”
“However bad this is, speaking out of session to that judge is going to make it worse.”
“But this is all bullshit! It’s not right. We have to appeal.”
“This isn’t Law and Order, Alexis. There is no appeal—I told you, this is a juvenile court hearing. Judge Brown has made his decision and we need to find a way to make it work now.”
“Make it work?” I repeat, but I’m outraged and my voice is too loud and other staff members are starting to stare at me in the corridor. Bernie pushes me into Annie’s room and closes the door behind us. She leans against it, as if I might physically burst past her into the corridor, and I close my arms over my chest and glare at her, and suddenly I’m angry with Bernie, too. She should have warned me that this might all happen quickly. I should have known to prepare Annie for this.
“Okay, so they’ve thrown the book at you, Annie,” Bernie concedes. “But rehab is actually a good idea, right? Annie? You want to get clean, don’t you? Well, maybe the timing isn’t ideal, but this will give you a chance to complete a rehab program and be clean and ready to get your life together before the baby is old enough to notice you’re even gone.”
“I can’t let my one-week-old baby go into fucking foster care,” Annie says, and she’s snarling at Bernie, who raises her eyebrows and says quite calmly, “Foster care or kinship care, Annie.”
“What the fuck is kinship care?” Annie demands, and suddenly everyone is staring at me. I feel the flush creeping up my face.
I should have thought about this, too. I should have run the idea by Sam. I should have been better prepared. I stare at Bernie, and my vision goes blurry, and then I turn back to Annie and I whisper, “It means the baby would go to a family member until you’re ready to care for it.”
A family member; we both know what that means. Annie would never allow the baby to go to the community, even if Mom wanted it to—and even if Mom did, Robert would never allow that.
Which leaves only one possible person if kinship care really is the way to go.
“You?” Annie whispers, and the tears are rolling down her face and she wraps her arms around her belly as she chokes, “Would you do that for me? I can’t ask that of you.”
“The baby will probably be in the hospital for some time as we manage the NAS symptoms,” Eliza points out, but I hear her only from a distance, because I’m staring into my sister’s eyes. She said she couldn’t ask this of me, but her gaze is pleading, and without a single word that’s exactly what she’s doing.
“How long did you say the rehab program will be?” I ask, as the buzzing in my ears grows louder. Maybe...maybe if it’s only a month, the baby will be in the NICU the whole time.
“Ninety days.”
Three months. There’s no way the baby will be in the NICU that long. That means the baby would need to come home with me, probably for several months.
“Could you, Lexie? Would you? Please?”
I should check with Sam. I know I should check with Sam. But Annie is breathless with desperate hope, so I rush to the bed and I take her hands in mine and I whisper, “Of course I will.”