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Patsy takes the phone and goes into the other room, and then she comes back a few minutes later, looking shaken and bruised all the way to her soul. “She’s on the way.”
“We’ll wait until she gets here.”
Patsy nods and she packs a diaper bag for the youngest two children, and a bag with some clothes for the older two.
Patsy’s sponsor arrives and the two of them go into the other room to talk. The sponsor comes out and says, “It’s best if you go now.”
“Does she want to say goodbye?” I rush to ask.
“This is hard enough as it is. We don’t need to make it more difficult.”
“Where are we going?” the oldest child, Anna, asks.
“We’re going to my house for a sleepover!” Mick pretends to show excitement, but his eyes keep flashing toward the closed bedroom door.
“Where will we all sleep?” Anna asks, as she takes her brother’s hand.
“We can make a fort, or a tent, or something.” Mick rubs a hand across his forehead. He leans toward me. “I only have a one bedroom apartment.”
When we get to the car, he runs a hand through his hair. “We’re going to need car seats and everything else.”
“Hang on,” I say as I pull out my phone and text furiously. “I got this covered.”
A couple of seconds later, the phone rings. “Hola, mija. What’s up?” Marta, my mother, asks.
“I think I need some help.”
I hear Marta shout, “Melio, come here. Wren is on the phone.” Emilio is my father, not by birth but by circumstance.
“What are you bellowing about, woman?” I hear in the background.
“I’m putting you on speaker,” Marta says to me.
I take a deep breath to fortify myself. “So, I have Mick with me, and we’re going to take his four young cousins to my house for a few days.” I cover the mouthpiece when Mick protests. “I have four extra bedrooms,” I whisper to him. I uncover the mouthpiece. “And I need a couple of car seats, and some supplies, and…whatever else you need for a…family.”
“Mija,” Marta says softly. “Are you sure?”
“No,” I admit. “But I think it’s the right thing to do.”
Not to mention that I have an empty crib and a nursery that has never been used, not by anyone.
Mick
Wren’s apartment is a hive of activity when we arrive. It looks like all Wren’s sisters are here, sorting through clothes, setting up portable cribs, and putting kid food in the cabinets.
“Your sisters didn’t have to do all this,” I say to Wren.
She shrugs. “This is what my family does.”
The kids stop cautiously in the doorway when they see all the people milling about. “It’s okay,” I say softly. “You can go in. This is Wren’s house. She’s very nice, and I know you’ll like her.”
“Where’s my mom?” Anna, the eight-year-old, asks.
“Your mom wasn’t feeling well, so she’s going to see the doctor so she can get better.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Anna wants to know.
“I’m not sure…” I say hesitantly.
