Page 21 of The Dating Charade

Cassie held on to the back of the girl’s pale-pink shirt as she reared again. Snot from cold and tears was forming a stream down her lips and past her chin, leaving clear circles on Rachel’s thick parka. Cassie wasn’t sure what Rachel meant by the dog being too sick, but she could venture the dog needed some sort of heavy cleaning. In hushed tones, she spoke, “What if I took Tinker Bell home and cleaned her up? I’d bring her back to . . .”

To where exactly? And for how long? And why? There were a hundred possible places, and reasons, and lengths of time they were going. The questions were building each moment.

With great effort, Rachel regripped the child on her hip. “You don’t want to go in there, Cassie. But can you help me get them to the car?”

It was at that moment Cassie noticed the extreme juxtaposition between the dress of the social worker and the children she was trying, with such difficulty, to get down the stairs. While Rachel’s blue parka had a thickness hinting of bulky wool sweaters and down feathers, a gust of wind would roar straight through Kennedy and Star’s thin cotton shirts. Only Deidre had a jacket on, though the smiling blue princess printed on the back grinned as if she were as cold as the girl wearing it. And while Deidre wore the jacket, the flip-flops were doing nothing for her toes.

“Of course.” Cassie reached her hands out, searching for a way to give them use. “Can I carry Deidre, Star?”

But Deidre, wordless in the whole affair, only dug her head into Star’s collarbone and gripped her neck tighter.

“Or I can try and hold Kennedy?” Cassie looked to Rachel, whose typically polished, shoulder-length hair was being tossed by flailing elbows.

“Yes.”

“Mypapeesndheidr! I wan my papee!”

Cassie pried the child off Rachel and, with difficulty, put her on her hip. One arm protectively around her back, Cassie gripped the railing and managed to start down the stairs.

The child gave a guttural cry, her small head dropping on Cassie’s neck with a new and different explosion of tears. Her forehead was burning hot.

Cassie rounded for another set of steps.

The little girl began to tremor, and Cassie knew it was because of far more than the icy breeze. It was as though she could feel the little girl’s sense of loss now complete, the realization that she was going to lose her puppy, that her hands weren’t big enough to reach up those few steps and wrap her arms around it. That no matter how loud she cried or how desperately she asked, begged, pleaded for help, the adults weren’t going to hear her. Whatever was going to happen to her puppy, and whatever had happened in that home in the hours, days, weeks, and years prior, was completely and utterly out of this little girl’s control.

“Mypapee!”

Four steps to the bottom.

Three steps to the bottom.

“Mypapee! Mypapee! Mypapee!”

Two.

One.

“I’m going to go get it.” Cassie turned abruptly and handed the child back over to Rachel, not waiting for a response as she darted up the stairs. Come fleas, bugs, human waste, meth, it didn’t matter. She would scrub that dog and drop herself in a bath of Lysol if it came to it, just to hear the little girl stop screaming in that manner.

“Cassie, really—” Rachel called after her, but Cassie didn’t stop.

A man in an orange hazmat suit stood in the living room. With the toe of his foot he nudged a pile of dirty clothes. An empty pill bottle surfaced, and he squatted to take a look. When she stepped inside, he looked up.

“Just getting something for Rachel.”

He nodded and turned back to his work.

Cassie became painfully aware of the inadequacy of her canvas shoes as she tiptoed swiftly through the living room, careful to avoid the piles. After five large strides beyond the front door came the hall to the bedrooms, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she entered the narrow path.

She heard the refrigerator door to her left open and saw an officer, a man without a suit this time—one she recognized. The cries of the child outside were a continuous reminder of the need to return as soon as possible. Still, the urge to know pushed her to sidestep into the kitchen.

“Mike, what’s going on here?”

Mike Slade had run in the same circles as Cassie for years—everything from the same gym membership and friendly barbeque invites to the same geometry class back in middle school. Though she spoke far more with his wife, she’d had a number of conversations with Mike—restricted generally to the cuteness of his kids and work. In one sense they understood each other more than the others. They knew the grit of the other’s job in ways mutual friends and acquaintances did not.

He straightened. “This one of your girls?”

Cassie nodded.