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Chapter 4
I knew it was too good to be true. Having little Jessie’s mother show up brought me right back down to earth. She wasn’t my baby. But what happened before getting the news that they’d located the mother terrified me, once again making me worry for her safety.
After Mark left on Saturday, I was out walking Jessie in the stroller, when a dark gray Dodge Charger pulled up to the curb and the same jackass who had dropped Jessie onto the median opened the door like he was going to charge me. He wore baggy black jeans and fancy athletic shoes that were untied, the laces dragging in the dirt. I screamed so loudly, I was hoarse for a day after, but it did the trick. After shooting me the middle finger and a pissed-off look, he jumped into the car, and it took off.
Running back to my building was much easier with sneakers on my feet, and once inside, I asked Ben to call 9-1-1 again as I fled for the elevator.
A new trio of officers showed up this time and took a report. And while they were with me, my phone beeped.
“It’s CPS,” I told them, and answered the call.
“Miss Long, we found the baby’s mother.”
I held Jessie in my arms, listening to the voice explaining what would happen next. CPS was on their way to pick her up, thank you so much for caring for her, blah, blah, blah.
“The same guy who dropped her to the ground just stopped me on the street,” I explained. “The police are here now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
But there was no explanation offered about the mother, and frankly, at that moment, I didn’t want one. I didn’t need to know details or anything that would make me worry needlessly about the baby. Her safety would soon be out of my control.
“Someone will be there before five,” she went on to explain. “Thank you again.”
I sat on the couch, in despair. “CPS is coming to pick her up,” I said to the officers. “They found the mother.”
“We’ll still take a report,” one of the officers said, flipping a notebook open. “Thank you for taking her in.”
“I didn’t really have a choice,” I said, parroting Detective Spinoza.
They asked for details about the encounter, and this time I remembered the car make and part of a license plate number as it sped off—XT1.
In the middle of this, Mark Spinoza sent me a text. You okay?
I responded: Mother’s located. I had another run-in with the Dodge sedan. Other than that, nothing new.
My phone beeped with an incoming call. “I’ll be right there,” Mark said.
Although I didn’t want him to come over, I didn’t see how I was going to survive handing the baby over to CPS. I was just able to choke out an “Okay” and not burst into tears.
The officers finished their questioning and turned to leave just as the doorbell rang. I opened the door to two kind-looking women, an older lady and a younger one. They wore street clothes but had ID badges on lanyards hanging around their necks. They stepped aside to let the officers pass, introducing themselves, though I promptly forgot their names.
“The guy who dropped the baby off initially just showed up again today,” I told them before even saying hello. “I’m afraid for her.”
“I’m so sorry,” the older lady said. “Thank you so much for caring for her.”
“I bought her a bunch of clothes, a bed and a stroller, formula, all that baby stuff.”
“You can keep it,” the younger one replied. “Or donate it. Thank you so much.”
“Do I just hand her over?”
“That’s all,” the older one said. “We were told she came with a diaper bag, and we’ll take that, too, and give it back to the mother.”
“I guess you can’t tell me what happened,” I said, changing my mind about wanting details.
“It’s a custody issue,” the older woman said.
“Oh, God, I hope that jackass that threw her to the ground isn’t the father!”
