Charlotte’s social work department is understaffed and underfunded, which I don’t like for my clients, but appreciate for myself. My workday passes by just as quickly as every other has since I finished up my training period. It’s filled with urgent paperwork, filings, and a ton of delegation for anything that involves next month when I won’t be here.
Unfortunately, I have a check-in scheduled with one of my most heartbreaking clients tonight. A homeless college student, living in her car, now that she’s been kicked out of the foster care system. I feel tired just thinking about meeting with her.
Not because I don’t want to help her, but because I’m not sure I can.
Nonetheless at exactly 5:45, I step into our meeting/conference room where Cami Marino is already waiting for me. Pacing back and forth in front of the conference table, instead of sitting at it, like most of my clients do.
“Cami, why don’t you sit down,” I say, steeling my heart against the twenty-year old’s huge brown eyes.
She reminds me a little of Amber, because she’s the secret daughter of an Italian father, and also has light brown skin. But other than that, Cami’s nothing like Amber. She’s normal twenty-year-old cute as opposed to arrestingly beautiful. And right now, her eyes are crazed and frightened, as opposed to crackling with determination.
But like Amber, she’s a hard worker who’s overcome enormous obstacles to excel at college. Despite having lost her mother to an overdose and being forced to live out of her car, Cami just made the Chancellor’s list after finishing her junior year at UNC Charlotte. She’s also nearing the same age Amber was when we went from being a social worker and her client to true friends.
I have to remind myself of how well that turned out as I place her case file down on the table. Don’t get too close, the new Not Nice Naima warns me.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “But I can’t sit down. I’ve got to know what’s going on with my sister. Did the other social worker get the proof she needs to get her away from our dad?”
I regard her with a sympathetic tilt of my head. “Cami, even if the other social worker found something, I couldn’t tell you about it,” I remind her. “That’s not how this works.”
“I just need to know if she’s alright. I need to make sure he’s not doing to her what he did to me,” Cami mumbles into her scuffed tennis shoes. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a thin t-shirt over an ill-fitting bra, and she’s let her hair grow into a wild, super dry fro, in desperate need of a deep conditioning and a long detangling session.
Observing how bad she looks—even for a college student, makes my heart hurt. I’ve read that poor grooming is a classic symptom of sexual abuse. On a subconscious level, victims transform themselves to be less appealing, so as not to suffer the so-called attraction they think they might have invited upon themselves.
Looking at her hunched shoulders, I hate that the system has now pitted me against the girl who came into our office six months ago to report her formerly secret father for sexual abuse, in the hopes of adopting her little sister. Cami feared her sister might be in danger, now that the girl’s mother had died.
Carlos Marino was a prominent member of the community, the executive director of a top accounting firm. And the head of the agency had seemed more concerned with investigating quietly than Cami’s story about having endured a sexual relationship with her father when she was a little girl around Talia’s age.
Now here we were in this meeting room with Cami asking me for answers I wasn’t allowed to give.
“How are you doing at college?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation back to our check-in. “Are you able to keep up with classes, considering everything.”
“I’m fine,” she answers, balling her fist. “All that matters is my sister. Can you just maybe nod if she looks okay.”
“I’ve got a box of supplies for you. Razors, maxi pads, stuff like that,” I say, instead of answering her question. “Right at my desk. It was a little too heavy for me to lift right now, but if you want to come with me—”
She slams a hand against the table. “Fuck your supplies. I keep on telling you, the only reason I’m here is because of my sister!”
I can’t tell her the truth. That the case file on her sister reads more like an indictment of Cami than her father.
I think of one excerpt from the interview with her dad: Camille is a very bitter and disturbed girl. She threatened to do something like this if I didn’t give her money…
Carlos Marino’s condemnations of his estranged daughter’s motivations took up more space on the report than the short interview the social worker did with her half-sister, Talia.
But I believe Cami. I believe her story, even if that other social worker doesn’t. And that just makes it worse as my purposefully neutral gaze connects with her angry one.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her truthfully. “I wish I could tell you more. I wish I could do more.”
Compassion can be a soul breaker for some of these kids. And Cami starts sobbing on the other side of the table. I heave myself out of my seat and go to her. Wrap my arms around her and try to take on some of the pain radiating off of her in waves.
Not surprisingly, I feel tired, bordering on weary, when I get out of my Lyft that night. I’d been thinking of making myself dinner and taking a long hot shower when I first left work. But over the course of my Lyft ride, that plan has morphed into a microwave Amy’s Dinner and falling face down into my bed without so much as brushing my teeth or washing my face.
I bemoan the alcohol-free state of my apartment, as I climb the stairs to my one-bedroom. What I wouldn’t give for a nice, huge glass of—
I stop, my tiredness slipping away when I see the hulking figure standing outside my door.
Every nerve ending surges to life with such speed my head spins. I’m fully awake now, just like I was when I walked into my kitchen on that fateful day last year.
Because Stone is here. Standing in front of my apartment door. His eyes glued to my belly.
Which is about eight months pregnant with his brother’s baby.