Andthat…feels likehope.
17
BETTER LATE THAN NEVERis true AF, and I’m practically sprinting to the office this morning because tucked in my messenger bag isthe letter. Andyours trulyis now a licensed social worker.
Yours trulyalso paid off her student loan debt last week.
And even thoughyours trulyis still sick as a damn dog,yours trulyis feeling damn good abouteverything.
I make a beeline for Georgia’s office and tap my nails on the doorframe. She’s on the phone and does a half-spin in her chair to face me directly as a smile spreads across her lips.
I pull out the letter and hold it up, grinning like an idiot. She squints at it for a second, and then leaps out of her chair, throwing one hand up as though praising the Lord, all the while remaining silent as she listens to the caller. I bounce in place, waving the letter, and she mouths a silent,yes, ma’am!
“Hang on one second for me,” Georgia says to the person on the other end, and then presses the receiver to her chest as she whisper-yells, “I told you!”
I clasp my hand over my mouth to mask a joy-filled snicker, and Georgia skates her hand across a few stacks of files.
“Here,” she whispers, wrapping her hand around three fat file folders and holding them out to me. “These three are now yours. The young man on the top is coming in at one, so start with him. Read that file until you know it backwards and front, and then write up some notes for where you plan to start with him. We’ll meet about it over lunch.”
“Thank you,” I whisper back, clutching the folders to my chest.
Georgia points at me one more time before sitting back down. “Proud of you, Elle.”
The excitement causes my pissed-off stomach to churn, but I can’t even be bothered by that right now. I’m honestly going to have to give up gluten or something and maybe cut back on my coffee, because this is getting ridiculous.
I practically skip down the narrow, but brightly-lit hallway to my office, and then settle in at my desk to get down to business. Stuffing a cracker into my mouth, I pick up the top file and set the other two to the side. I grab a pen and a notepad, flip the folder to the first page of the client information form, and immediately still.
Archer Flannery.
His name is glaring at me in pitch black against stark white, and about a million synapses start firing off in my brain.
Flanneryobviously rings all sorts of bells in my mind. In addition tothat, I’ve also got a funny, hazy, fuzzy-with-the-effects-of-alcohol recollection of the first cocktail mixer ofthat weekendthat Colin dragged me into.
Mrs. Reyes asked Colin about anArcher.Andthen,he dragged her away from me and out of the courtyard like the damn place was going up in flames.
Despite the clamminess of my palms and the extra nerves causing my stomach to churn again, I don’t leap to any conclusions. Irish-American is the second largest ethnic group in New York City, and Flannery is a common Irish surname. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I don’t know how common Archer is, but there’sno possible way...
I push back from the desk to reach into my bag and grab a small bottle of Sprite I’ve been sipping on all morning. Taking a large swig, I manage to talk myself back down from all the wild conclusions my mind is brewing up.
I know the real reason my mind is drawing conclusions like this. Don’t forget, Reader, I have a psychology degree, and it’s made me the world’s leading expert in psychoanalyzing myself. So the reason I’m immediately assuming thisArcher Flanneryis somehow related to Colin is because I’ve been thinking about Colin way too much despite getting the check and paying off my loans. I’ve trained my brain to see Colin all over the place, even if there’s not actually any evidence of him. It’s causing him to pop up in things that have nothing to do with him, such as in the file of my first official client.
Setting the bottle of Sprite to one side, I start reading over the form.
Archer is twenty-five years old. Dropped out of high school, but didn’t complete a GED. Recently worked at a meatpacking plant, but not currently employed. He frequents a Narcotics Anonymous group over in Washington Heights. He’s been on every drug imaginable, but his current preference appears to be cocaine. His medical history forms are a series of near-fatal overdoses and injuries from fights and car accidents.
I turn to my notepad to jot down a few ideas.
One: he’s going to have to check into rehab. I already know he’s going to claim that he’s clean, but they all say that. He’ll have to go for at least two weeks, and then we can move on to the next thing.
Two: once he gets out of rehab, I’ll begin home checks. Those will consist of him clearing out his apartment of any drug paraphernalia before the first check, and with the understanding that I have to report anything I find to the police. All of this is part of the accountability agreement he signed when he hired us. If he doesn’t comply with the contract, we’ll have to terminate coaching, and the fees he paid are non-refundable, all of which is an incentive because we’re not cheap. And given that he’s not currently employed, it’s safe to say that he won’t want to just kiss that money goodbye.
Turning back to his file, I thumb to a thick folder that’s tattered with age. Opening it, I discover that it dates way back to his childhood and is full of police reports and documents and snapshots from Child Protective Services. And this is the part Ihate, but it’s also the most important thing for me to understand so I can best help people like him. Childhood trauma is the leading cause of the things someone like Archer struggles with, and dealing with it will equip him to deal with everything else.
The documents explain the incidents and injuries, but the photos go into far more gory detail. A picture is worth a thousand words after all. Little Archer at six, seven, eight, nine, so on and so forth, battered and bruised and beaten, with marks all over his body. Tiny lips swollen and bleeding; crystalline blue eyes wide and red-rimmed with fear and torment and bewilderment.
And it’sthose eyes…
Those eyes.
