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“Well,” she says slowly, “he’s still effectively your next of kin now your mother is gone.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re saying you want me to go and live with my stepfather? A man I can barely even remember?”
“Not necessarily. It’s just an option. I’ve made contact with him, so I’m just waiting to hear back.”
“What are my other options?” I ask.
“To go into care until you turn eighteen.”
I grimace. “You mean go and live with a whole heap of other people I don’t know?”
She offers me a smile. “They’re all carefully vetted and want to help. I’m sure they’ll make you feel right at home, if that’s what you’d prefer.”
“I have a job,” I tell her and gesture toward the trailer, “and I have a home. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”
Despite what I’m saying, a part of me never wants to go inside that trailer ever again. The memory of her on the toilet, the thud her body made when I tried to haul her off it, the feel of her skin, cold beneath my palm, lingers in my mind. I shiver, frigid fingers trailing down my spine. Will I ever be able to use that bathroom again without picturing her sitting there? I doubt it.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t simply let you live alone. You need to be eighteen.”
Her phone rings, and she glances down at the screen then holds a finger up to me to say she’ll be one minute and steps away.
I let out a sigh.
They say I’m a minor and I need looking after, but I’ve been taking care of myself for as long as I can remember. It seems ridiculous that these assholes are paying attention now that I’m almost eighteen.
I search my memories for any recollections of this elusive stepfather. I was only small when he came into our lives, but I have a vague memory of one man being around for slightly longer than the others. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of thelong line of men my mother had coming in and out of her life, though. Why she decided to marry this one, I have no idea.
I don’t want to end up with some loser. He might be even worse than my mother, and the thought of being in a similar situation with a man I don’t even know is horrifying. I assume social services will do some kind of check before they just hand me over to a stranger. If he’s another meth head alcoholic living in a trailer, they wouldn’t expect me to live with him, would they?
A wave of sickness washes over me, hot followed by cold, and I’m suddenly dizzy. I plant my hands on my knees and fold at the waist, trying to inhale oxygen into lungs that have suddenly become tight and refuse to expand.
It’s a panic attack. I’ve had them before. But that doesn’t make it any less frightening or unpleasant. My entire world has just been swept out from under my feet, and I’ve lost the only person I’ve ever loved. It’s hardly surprising that I’m not doing so well.
The crunch of feet approaching forces me to get a grip, and I look up to find the CPS woman standing over me.
“That was your mother’s husband on the phone,” she says.
“Estranged husband,” I correct.
“We’ve explained to him who you are and what’s happened.”
This is the point where I expect her to tell me that he laughed and told them to fuck off, that he didn’t want some seventeen-year-old girl he barely remembers hanging around.
But she smiles. “It’s good news. He’s in Los Angeles, and he’d like to meet you.”
I sit up straight. Could that really be considered good news? “What? Why?”
Her brow crumples. “Because you’re his stepdaughter and you’ve just lost your mother.”
I realize she’s misunderstood me. “No. Why is he in Los Angeles?”
I don’t know why, but I’d never imagined that he’d still be in the same city. If he had, I was sure he’d have crossed our paths again at some point or another.
“Looks like he’s on tour.”
I’m still confused. “On tour for what? Is he in a band or something?”
“Umm...I’m not sure it would be considered a band. He’s the manager for his son, Darius Riviera.”
