11
I’ve already gone over the case file about a hundred times. Madison Perez. Nine years old. Parents are Raine Perez and Colette Clarke, not married. Raine Perez is twenty-eight years old, an unemployed forklift operator addicted to Percocet and Oxytocin, following a serious work-related injury to the back. Collects disability. Colette Clarke, twenty-five, hairstylist, alcoholic with a history of depression.
Colleen Parson, thirty-one, homemaker and sister of Colette, married to Greg Parson, family law attorney. Seeks sole custody of Madison because she maintains that Madison’s home environment is not suitable for reasons of neglect, drugs and alcohol use in the home. Madison’s parents, who insist they love their daughter, are fighting these accusations.
Madison’s photo tugs at my heart; she reminds me of myself at that age. Messy hair, a spattering a freckles on her nose, and a wrinkled blouse. Her smile is forced, her expression cautious. At nine years old, I can see that she’s already cynical. So was I at that age.
Both sides of the dispute have attorneys representing them. Court-appointed for Madison’s parents, and some big-shot private firm lawyer represents Colleen and Greg.
And I’m the lucky one assigned to this heartbreaking case. I’m the one whose job it is to interview and investigate Madison’s emotional health and quality of life. Then I will be asked to write a report stating my findings which will be used in court. I play a large role in this case, and I don’t take it lightly. This is a girl’s life, and all I want for her is the best.
I first meet her in her home. I’ve worn a professional but not too intimating ensemble; a blue pencil skirt and a frilly blouse, topped with a tweed blazer. My hair is up in a clip and my makeup is minimal. My sensible black Mary-Jane Hush Puppies carry me up the stairs of the tiny unkempt home smack in the middle of Woodland in South Chicago.
I ring the doorbell, hand grasped tightly around my briefcase handle. As soon as the door swings open, I smile brightly.I’m here to help you, I want to say, but of course, all I say is, “Hello. I’m Abigail Cooper, and I’m a social worker with children services at Warden Social Services. I believe you were expecting me. You must be Madison’s mother.”
The thin young woman, who in my opinion, looks much older than her twenty-five years, motions me in. “That’s me.” She forces a smile. I can tell she’s trying hard to be amicable, but she clearly hates every second of this.
My gaze darts around the space; toys are tucked in a large basket in the corner, marks of a freshly vacuumed carpet are evident in the living room, and the smell of Febreze mixed with cigarettes assaults my nostrils. The kitchen is tidy enough, but there is a large collection of cereal boxes on the counter; sugary dessert cereals, the kind I would never eat. Clearly, there has been an attempt to tidy up the place, but telltale signs of neglect linger about: a pile of bills and documents on the desk in the entry hall, unopened and ignored, an iPad, a laptop and a video game console on the sofa. Missing in action: books, a banana stand, a bottle of children’s vitamins.
“Madison’s in her bedroom,” she tells me. “I can go get her.”
She seems sober enough. She’s not slurring her words, nor is she wobbling. She’s put together; a pink t-shirt and dark jeans, hair up in a ponytail. Yet her nails are bitten to the quick, her nose is red, her eyes are bloodshot and her hair looks dirty.
“Actually, I’d love to see her room. We can go see her.”
Colette shrugs. “Sure.”
When we turn the corner, the first thing I see is a Jonas brothers poster. Madison is stretched out on her bed. Her eyes are glued to her device, and a bag of Cheetos sits next to her. A small mutt of a dog lies next to her.
“Hello there, Madison,” I say cheerfully. “I’m Abby.” I offer my hand.
She hesitates a beat before finally getting up from the bed and shaking my hand.
“What’s your dog’s name?” I ask. “He’s cute.”
“Scooter.”
An awkward silence fills the room.
“I like your room,” I tell her. It’s definitely nothing special; small, the walls a faded grey, posters, and girly knick knacks everywhere, the kind one can get at the dollar store.
She smiles but barely. “You can sit on the bed.”
Her mother stands by the door, clearly not planning to leave me alone with her daughter, and that’s fine because it wouldn’t be protocol for me to be alone with the girl anyway. I smile and ask her if she’d like to come to the living room with us. She follows, but she’s clearly hesitant, skeptical. Why exactly is this woman here?
As soon as we settle on the outdated brown sofas, I tell her a little about myself; how I love books, comic books especially. I tell her about my love for baking and how I live in a really cool building and have the greatest friends.
“Are you married?” she asks.
“Nope.” Of course I don’t tell her about the divorce.
“My parents aren’t married either.”
I nod and smile
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
I laugh. “No, not at the moment.” I think about Noah, and a hint of a smile traces my lips.
