Page 49 of The Cost of Love

“I’m not.” She cuts me off, her mouth twisting into a frown.

“If you are, please let me help.”

“We’ll be okay.” She says it with such surety and confidence, like no matter what, she is going to find a way to make this happen.

I finally drop my hands from her arms, stepping back to give her the space she asked for.

“I’ll let you get back to him.”

“Thank you again.” She starts to walk away, stopping to look back once over her shoulder.

The wave she gives makes me feel like she thinks this is the last time she will see me. Is it? With so many questions unanswered and so much to unpack, at the very least we should have a conversation before I make any decisions. After all, if we are just friends with benefits, then none of this matters. But I know with my true intentions it does. I look around once more, like I can find everything I need to know in this room, then I turn and leave.

Chapter 20

Chanice

He looks like he’s in no pain when he sleeps. When he is awake, the tears are constant, the searing pain from the burn only slightly dulled by the medication.

His fro is pressed flat against the pillow, squished into the shape by his constant laying. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his mouth hangs open. He looks so young like this. Too young to have gone through so much. Too young to have scars that will mar his skin for the rest of his life. This shouldn’t have happened.

I press my hand to my head, a heavy sigh coming out for the tenth time in the last hour. It’s like I keep trying to exhale all the guilt and regret that’s been festering inside of me since I got that call. Two days later, and it hasn’t lessened. I know that I probably would’ve let him cook on his own even if I were home. I know that I’ve told him time and time again to turn the pot handle to the middle of the stove. But none of that means the kids should have had to manage this situation on their own.

Imani never should have had to make that call, or ride in the ambulance with him, his cries echoing in her ears. She shouldn’t have had to be the one to explain the situation to the doctors. I should’ve been there.

Trying to fight this feeling, I remind myself that I can’t be with them twenty-four hours a day. That I came when they called, and I have barely left his side. I’m playing devil’s advocate to my inner monologue. Still, I know I shouldn’t have taken that night for myself when I promised to give all of me to them.

A knock sounds behind me. I turn to see a woman standing in the doorway. She motions for me to join her in the hall. I look at him once more before I stand and walk out.

“Hi, I’m Mary Talbot. I’m the hospital’s social worker.” She offers me her hand, and I take it, trying to ignore the giant pit that opens up in my stomach.

“I’m sorry, but why are you here?” I work to keep my tone pleasant, but my hackles are raised, and the hiss of defense makes my words sound like a warning.

“It’s just routine when a child comes in with an injury like this. Are you his guardian?” She gives me the look I’m used to. The one that tells me that I can’t possibly be responsible for anyone at this age. The one I used to give myself in the mirror at nineteen.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” She leads me over to the seats in the waiting area. Sitting down almost makes this feel worse. Instead of a brief conversation, it’s a full-blown meeting about the kids.

“Well, uh, he was boiling water for noodles. He had the pot handle sticking out. When he ran by to go to the fridge to get something for Gabby, he knocked it, and the water poured onto his forearm.” My breath is choppy as my mind creates what this scene looked like. The scream I’m sure poured out of his mouth when it happened rings in my ear.

“And where were you?” She widens her eyes like she is trying to see me more clearly through the accusation clouding them.

I can’t even be mad at her for asking, because the same question has been ricocheting in my mind every time I replay that night.

“Work.” Even though most parents have social lives, this answer seems like the best bet to keep this situation from escalating.

She presses her lips together, and I’m trying to see how she can find fault in that answer. Am I not supposed to have a job?

“Jamal is a little young to be cooking.” It’s clear that she intends to turn this into a problem because that response is a stretch.

“He’s eleven.” It’s not like it was Gabby on the stove making herself food.

“I just mean without adult supervision.”

I’m starting to get riled up, and am two seconds away from causing an entire scene. I get that this is her job, but she is acting as if I neglect them. And despite my own feelings about everything that happened, I know that I don’t. I do my best by them.

“Do you have any other questions?” I stand up, signaling that I don’t care either way.