"Just answer the question, Mrs. Bennett. The complaint isn't important. I just want to make sure I do my job."
Huffing I say, "He plays in the yard where I can see him from the kitchen window. He rides his bike to the stop sign at the end of the street and back, always with his helmet on. He's eight, Mrs. Finch. I give him age-appropriate independence, but I always know where he is."
"That sounds perfectly reasonable." She makes another note and flips to the next page. "Do you mind if I take a quick look at the rest of the house? His bedroom, the bathrooms, the general living areas?"
"Not at all. Let me show you around." I have a huge problem with this because it's a major invasion of my privacy, but I walk her through every room and she takes her time in each one without lingering too long. Ethan's bedroom with his made bed, his bookshelf, and his soccer trophies lined up on the dresser. The bathroom where his toothbrush sits in the holder and his towel hangs on the rack. The living room where the gaming console sits neatly under the television. She writes a few things down at each stop and moves on.
We end up back in the kitchen where she closes her portfolio and caps her pen. "Mrs. Bennett, your home is clean and well-maintained, and your son's living space looks comfortable and appropriate. I don't have any concerns based on what I've seen today." She stands and tucks the portfolio under her arm. "I'llfile my report and you'll receive a copy in the mail within two weeks. My card is in the packet I'll leave with you if you have questions."
I'm almost in tears at her assessment because if she'd have thrown up red flags, it would mean Ethan never came back here. Derek would get assigned temporary custody until the judge could rule, and it would not go in my favor.
"Can I ask you something?" I say timidly.
"I can't tell you who called in the complaint," she says, hooking her purse strap over her shoulder.
"Why would someone do this to me?" I know this question isn’t part of her responsibility and that really I need a friend to offer the comfort I need. But I don't have friends, and she's right in front of me.
Mrs. Finch sighs and touches my hand. "Honey, people are mean and cruel sometimes, and whatever the motive, you'll just have to live with that. But I can assure you that you are a good mom. You've done the right things, and you don't have anything to worry about from us." She squeezes my hand and turns toward the door.
"Thank you for being so thorough." I walk her to the front door and shake her hand. She slips out as quickly as she came, but I'm rattled. What if I hadn't done the dishes this morning or Ethan had left his room messy? Would those things have counted against me?
I think I'm going to be sick.
Mrs. Finch backs out of my driveway, and I stand on the porch watching her go until the vehicle drives away. Then I look acrossthe yard and see Caleb crouched by the fence on his side with a can of wood sealant and a brush, painting the painted posts he installed weeks ago. The clear varnish dampens his shirt. He looks so focused and steady, like what happened between us isn't even bothering him the way it has me. I want to scream.
When I step off the porch, moving his direction, he looks up, setting the brush aside to stand and wipe his hands on his jeans. The clearcoat smears across the denim, making me cringe, but I march over there ready to give him a piece of my mind.
Unfortunately, on the march over, I lose some of my steam. He looks cautious, maybe almost remorseful, and I'm nothing if not a softy for those big brown eyes. It slows my pace and cools my temper, and when he runs a hand across his pants again, I let my shoulders relax. He's probably nervous because we haven't spoken in weeks.
"CPS just came to my house," I tell him softly. He doesn't need to know, but maybe it'll show him just how bad this crap with Derek is getting. I know the man inside that thick skull at least cares about Ethan. "Apparently, someone reported my medications to them and said I'm not supervising him well."
I'm not sure how much of this "complaint" came from Caleb's snooping around, but I don't think, based on the look on his face, that he is the one who called them.
He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens, he looks sad. "It was Derek," he grumbles, but I'm not surprised by that. But when he speaks again, I almost feel violated again. "And he complained to your boss too…"
I don't even know what to think or whether to trust him. "How do you know about calls to Helen?"
"I went to the boutique and talked to her." He says it sheepishly and hangs his head. Then looks up at me with definite remorse this time. "I know he's just trying to ruin your life and?—"
"You went to my job and talked to my boss about me?" I say hastily, and the frustration I'm feeling starts to bleed through my positive mentality. He wasn't just watching me. He went behind my back.
"I was trying to help."
"How is spying on me helping?" My positive attitude snaps and I curl my hands into fists.
"I know what I did and I know I can't undo it." Caleb picks at some of the sealant dried to his hands. "But Derek's the one making these complaints. I'm not wanting you to feel sorry for me or even forgive me, but I just want you to know that I'm not the one making the complaints."
He steps back and his shoulders slump. I hate it, but I picture the kid inside him, wanting to do a good job, and having failed, receiving a lecture. It makes me think of how I might speak to Ethan if he did something wrong, and I calm down immediately. With my voice in a lower tone, I say, "But you gave him what he needed to continue his plan to sue for custody."
"Yes. And I'll carry that for the rest of my life." I can hear the apology in his tone, even though he doesn't say he's sorry, and I know how bad he feels. It doesn't change what he did, but at least he realizes now what he's done.
"Can you put the paint supplies away when you're done?" I ask him, letting my head fall. "CPS is watching me now, Caleb. I can't have open paint cans sitting along my fence line where Ethan can reach them."
I make it to the kitchen before my knees buckle. I sink into the chair at the table Caleb built, burying my face in my hands, and break down crying. The sobs rack my body and my heart physically hurts.
I want him to come right over here and hold me and tell me it'll be okay.
I want that man who seemed so understanding and supportive to go undo the damage he did and fight for me to make it right now.
