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“That’s a fact. You’re a terrible cook.” She snickers in my ear. “Remember when you attempted to make pulled pork in the slow cooker, but you didn’t put any liquid in it?”
“That’s low, Iz.” It’s hard to forget the fire chief calling in the middle of a workday to notify me that a neighbor reported hearing my smoke alarm continuously going off—the fire department broke the front door down because smoke was visible inside my kitchen. “Thanks for the reminder—not helpful right now.” My teary right eye twitches.
“I wasn’t done! You can’t cook, but there’s got to be a few parents who are worse than you. You’ll figure it out, Noah. For shit’s sake, you make good money. Hire someone to come over once a week and prepare some dinners you can just throw in the oven.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Yeah, that’s a thing. There are also meal delivery boxes that come with step-by-step directions.”
My body releases some of the tension my shoulders have held since waking up. “That may work.”
“Your house is a mess,” Izabeth continues down my list. “Have you been to my place? Of course you have—I’ll help, if you let me.” Izabeth’s home is as close to immaculate as I’ve ever stepped in.
“This is too much. I can’t have you watching Rainey, cleaning my house, and keeping my life afloat.”
“For the love of all things holy, Noah, stop. Just stop.” Her voice is sharp. “You’d refuse help from others if your life depended on it, but none of this is for you. It’s for Rainey, because she deserves better than the circumstances she was born into. She deserves a chance at a home where she’ll feel safe and loved. If you want to be the one to give that to her, you have to accept some help along the way. Start with me.”
All the peace Izabeth gave me with her pep talk shatters. Showing up and staying around isn’t something I expect from people. My entire childhood was a series of adults letting me down as I moved from home to home. No one played the long game with me until I met Iz during our sophomore year of college. She became the cornerstone of my life and the family I’d spent years searching to find.
“No experience with kids?” Izabeth moves onto my biggest concern.
“None. Like, at all.”
“That’s not true. You’ve cared for Rainey for two solid weeks. She’s fed. She has shelter. She’s loved. She’s . . . a little spoiled,” Iz says, and I can feel her smile through the phone. “Seriously, she’s fine. From the way my aunt talks, nothing prepares you for parenthood. It’s normal to feel apprehensive going from having no kids to having a six year old depend on you for everything. You’re doing good.”
“I’m drowning,” I admit.
“It’s normal! My aunt says it all the time, and she’s got plenty of so-called experience with three boys. The social workers will care more about what you can provide than your lack of experience.”
I let her words sink in. What I can provide. “God, I hope so.”
“This interview is going to go well. I can feel it.”
“Thanks, Iz. I better wake Rae up and get her ready.”
“Call me after?”
“Of course.”
Georgia meets Rainey and me at the reception window of Alexandria’s small social work office. It’s a section on the third floor of City Hall.
“You ready?” Georgia asks sweetly.
“As ready as I can be. Is there somewhere Rainey can play?” I hold up a pink backpack. “I crammed this full of dolls, puzzles, and books.”
“Bring her around through the door.”
Rainey climbs onto a swiveling stool next to Georgia and dumps the contents of her backpack onto a desk. “Rae, you be good for Miss Jessamie.” I place a quick kiss on top of her wild curls.
I couldn’t have planned for how well the interview goes. There was no interrogation panel, just two kind social workers who appeared close to my age. I expected gray hair and wrinkles from whomever I met today. They pepper me with questions and most of them are easy to answer because they’re just about me. They want to know what I do for work (graphic design), how long I’ve been employed (eight years), what my current living situation is (I own my home), if I have a partner (nope, been single as a Pringle for two years), if I have any pets (I don’t), and if I plan on remaining in the area over the next year (of course).
The questions become harder and some catch me off guard. I ramble as my nervous system fires like bottle rockets on the Fourth of July, but overall feel my answers are acceptable. The pair of caseworkers ask me about my current relationship with my brother. I answer honestly that our relationship is estranged and sad, but I’m hopeful it can improve. The woman asks how Rainey’s settled in at my home (maybe a little too well—I caught her going through my sparse makeup drawer a few days earlier).
Then came the questions I saw online: who I regularly spend time with (Iz and my co-workers, occasionally a few girls from a small group of friends I know through Iz), if I smoke (never), and if I drink alcohol (yes, but only a drink or two on the weekend with friends). Thank God Izabeth coached me during our call this morning because I’ve got answers ready.
The interview wraps up with the simplest, but toughest question: “Why do you feel Rainey would be best cared for in your home instead of being placed with a foster family?”
Every answer I have for this question vanishes as stress-sweat beads on my forehead.
