Page 35 of Minted
“That’s no good,” I say. “Is there something I can do? I could run grab medicine, or I could take her to the doctor if that would help. I have a car.”
Nikki shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. She just can’t come to the door.”
I don’t like it, but I finally pass the paper to her and wait.
Two minutes later, she’s back, and the signature looks just like the one from before—like an eleven-year-old authored it.
Something is definitely up.
“Girls.” I frown. “Is your mom really in there? Because I have a fiduciary duty to you and your mother to make sure that she knows what’s happening.”
“She’s here. That’s her signature.” Nikki nods.
I know it’s not. I pulled the paperwork and her signature did not look like that last year, but arguing with an eleven-year-old is like complaining that concrete’s hardening. Useless. “Well, thanks.”
I walk to the front of the complex and call my boss. “Are you almost here?” Jennifer usually avoids holiday parties like the plague—she’s atheist and she hates pretending to celebrate Christmas. But Gary’s a big enough client that she was stuck when he asked for her specifically.
“I’ve hit a small snag.” I explain that I’m pretty sure the girls are forging their mom’s signature and that I’m worried she may be sick or in trouble.
“You’re not their babysitter,” she says. “Put the paper in the file and as long as they’re making their posts, don’t worry about it. Are you worried they won’t honor their obligations to the clients?”
“I mean, not exactly.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
“I’m worried about them,” I say. “They’re kids, and honestly, it kind of looks like their mom has either checked out or is in trouble.”
“That sounds like their dad’s issue.”
“I’ve never heard anything about their dad,” I say. “I think they had an affidavit on file saying they had only one guardian.”
“Listen, you’re not a judge and you’re not a social worker, you’re a marketer. You’re my marketer, and I just found out they’re doing holiday karaoke, so you’re going to get your cute tushy over here in the next thirty minutes or else, because I can’t sing, but I know you can.” She hangs up.
Well.
I sigh long and slow, but when I start for my car, I feel really, really uncomfortable. Instead of heading to the party like I know I should, I call Seren and tell her the same thing I just told Jennifer.
“You know, life has a lot of paths.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Only you know which one to take.”
“Seren, I’m asking what I should do right now. I don’t have time for some philosophical debate.”
“You have a job,” she says. “And tonight, you have a party to get to, right?”
“I do,” I say. “Yes. I should go.”
“But you didn’t go. You called me instead.”
“Only because. . .” I realize it sounds kind of dumb to say that I called her because she’s a foster mom, and her kids are messed up, and I’m beginning to worry that these kids are messed up too.
“In my experience, people usually already know what they ought to do when they call to ask for advice,” Seren says. “I can’t tell you what the right move is, but your heart already knows, or you’d be in your car en route to that party.”
I think about those sweet little girls, and I just can’t go anywhere until I’m sure that they’re alright.
“Can you send me your social worker’s information?”
