Two weeks out from the video’s release and the frenzy has only died down a fraction. All outings are still limited and heavily guarded.
Can’t some socialite do something stupid to gain attention to help me out?
“Do you have the scanner?” Haddie pours herself a glass of wine that calls to my cravings on every single level, but I avert my gaze to the bowl of Hershey Kisses she put on the table for me. Gotta love having a best friend who knows all your quirks.
“No. I think you left it in the office,” she says. I motion for her to stay seated, and that I’ll get the scanner that allows us to listen to Colton and Becks’s radio interaction while he’s on the track.
I grab the radio sitting beside my cell and just as I pick it up, my phone rings. The House’s number flashes on the screen and happiness surges through me because the calls have been way too far and few between the boys and me since I’ve had to take my leave of absence. And of course I’ve battled feeling like I’m not needed in their lives since when we do talk, our conversations are filled with generic niceties from boys who’d much rather be playing outside or on the PlayStation.
And I won’t lie that it stings a little. Not being the one they go to. Who am I kidding? It stings a whole helluva lot.
So when I see the familiar phone number I grab it and answer immediately, the connection I crave with the other part of my life just within reach.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Rylee.”
“Hey, Zander. How’s it go—what’s wrong?” I’m so thrilled to hear from him that it takes me a second to hear the tinge of distress in his voice.
“I . . .” he begins and stops, his sigh heavy through the connection.
“What, buddy? I’m here. Talk to me.” Concern washes over me as I listen as closely as I can to hear whatever it is he’s not saying.
“I’m going to get in trouble for telling you but I know you’ll make it better,” he says in a rush of words that has so many parts of me startle to attention.
“What do you mean?” I ask but don’t have to because it all clicks into place the second the last word is out. The basic conversations, the sense the boys don’t want to talk to me, the constant run around when I ask anything too detailed about their cases. Someone has told them they’re not supposed to give me any information. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own warped world that I’ve taken everything at face value, taken it all personally, and didn’t delve deeper to see behind the mask of vagueness.
How stupid could I be?
The knife of absolute disbelief twists deeply between my shoulder blades as various emotions flame to life. I focus on the most important: Zander is upset and I need to help him. I can seethe later, call Teddy and express my displeasure after, but right now one of my boys needs me when I didn’t think they needed me anymore.
“Never mind,” I correct myself, not wanting to put him in a position he should never be in and get to what matters. “Tell me what you need, Zand.”
“These people . . . they want to foster me,” he says in the slightest of whispers with a tremor to his voice.
And the selfish part of me immediately wants to yell no, reject the idea, because Zander is mine in a sense, and yet at the same time this is exactly what I’m supposed to hope for. So I’m left in that catch-all of being way too attached to a little boy that came to me damaged and broken and is now turning into a damn fine young man.
“That’s good news,” I say, infusing enthusiasm into my voice when I don’t feel it whatsoever.
“No, it’s not.”
“I know it’s scary—”
“It’s my uncle.” All encouragement is eradicated as memories of way back when flicker to the surface. His case file comes to the forefront of my mind, and I contemplate Zander’s only remaining family member.
How is this possible? My mind reels with this new piece of the puzzle, my abdomen clenching in a Braxton Hicks contraction that knocks the air out of my lungs momentarily. But I try to focus on Zander and not the flash of pain.
I stutter, trying to find the appropriate response and cringe because I don’t have one other than to say no way in hell and that’s not exactly something I can promise him. “Tell me what’s happening,” I say, needing to get a clearer picture of everything I’ve been shut out from.
“He . . . he saw my picture with yours in a magazine and on the news.” My whole world drops out because that means I’m the cause of this. My job is to protect my boys, not hurt them, and that goddamn video has done just that. A picture of Zander and me taken at some event was in a national publication and now someone wants to claim him.
Or use him.
I swallow down the bile threatening to rise as my stomach twists in the knots it deserves to be tied in.
“Jax told me they—”
“Who are they?” I ask immediately as I pace the office and try to push away the last image in my mind of the uncle. The one I have of the man so strung out he couldn’t even make it to his sister’s funeral: track marks on his arms, greasy hair, dirt under his fingernails, and uncontrollable fidgeting as he tried to claim Zander for one and only one reason—the monthly subsidy for fostering a child. While it may not be much, it’s still a treasure trove to a junkie. Because let’s face it, the communal druggie house in the ghetto’s Willow Court is the perfect place to take a traumatized seven-year-old boy and nurture him back to his new normal. Not.
My skin crawls, knowing he would even have the gall to come forward again and yet here we are, six years later, and Zander’s new normal is having the foundation shaken out from beneath his feet.