Page 45 of The Dating Charade
“Left, then right after water fountain but before poster. Got it.”
“Cat poster,” the man corrected and set down his pencil. “There are other posters, but turn before the cat poster. Not the vaccine poster or the domestic-abuse poster or the poster with the statistics about tax fraud. The cat poster. The cat is a Siamese with a ball.”
Cassie’s voice grew louder, and Jett saw her silky hair peeking above the window in the hall door to his right. He put up a hand. “Cat poster. Got it. Thank you,” he said and scurried to his left and around the corner.
“I’m just beginning to call around, Cassie,” the woman was saying. “I wish I could give you and the girls something definitive, but one of their relatives hasn’t even called me back yet—”
Cassie sounded deflated. “No, I understand. I just feel, for their sakes, how imperative it is to know what to expect in the near future. Or far future.”
Jett caught a glimpse of the woman touching Cassie’s arm. “Believe me, I wish for that kind of answer in this job every day too. But right now, there’s so much potential for the unknown that I don’t feel comfortable leading you guys one way or another. Let’s keep our appointment for after the holidays, and, at the very least, I’ll see you at the first PATH class on the thirty-first. Until then, know that unless I give you a call, nothing has changed. And if something does, trust me, I’ll be calling you as soon as I can.”
“As soon as you can,” Cassie repeated. “Really, Rachel. Please.”
The woman nodded.
Cassie’s voice was empty, all the bounce in her step from those former moments with him gone. “You have a Merry Christmas.”
Cassie Everson. It was impressive how much she cared for the girls at her job, endearing to see her standing up for them firsthand. Those kids were lucky to have someone like her in their corner.
Jett waited until Cassie was safely out of sight before venturing into the waiting area. Rachel leaned over the desk, checking the clipboard.
“Have you gotten a Jett Bentley in yet?” she was asking just as he stepped up.
“So sorry I’m late.” He put out his hand. “I’m Jett. Thanks for being willing to meet with me.”
Rachel shook his hand. “It’s fine. I’ve been behind all morning anyway. Come right this way.”
The moment Jett sat in the chair opposite her desk, he set his crumpled jacket on the floor. He saw a Purell bottle and quickly gave himself a couple squirts. “I’m here to discuss my sister’s children. They have recently come into my care.”
Rachel nodded. What was earth-shaking, life-altering news to him didn’t faze her—someone who dealt with misplaced children for a living. Nevertheless, her lack of reaction was disappointing. Calm, much too calm, for what it meant in his life.
“You should already have a file on them. I, uh . . .” Jett rubbed the knees of his pants uncomfortably. “I had to file a report sometime about a year ago.”
“I see.” She reached for her cup of coffee. “How many children?”
“Three. The twins are just over three years old, and the youngest, a boy, is somewhere around seven weeks.”
“Quite the newborn.” Rachel sipped her coffee. “And under what condition did they come to you?”
He paused. “As in . . . ?”
“As in are they healthy? Are they dealing with medical issues, abuse?”
He dodged the question. “To the best of my knowledge she never hit them.”
“Yes, but I think we both know physical abuse isn’t the only type out there.”
Rachel asked him several more questions and listed off a dozen potential behavior responses of a child affected by different forms of trauma. A few of the issues hit the target for Dakota or Drew, or even TJ, and he shifted his legs uncomfortably.
How much could he share here? How much did she need to know about Trina for this conversation? He found himself afraid to be too specific. Instead, he avoided details for her sake, choosing to round up his answers by saying, “My sister was in no shape to take care of the kids at this time. Several days ago she took them to my home and left them. Now I’m struggling to know what to do.”
“Well, you have a few options here, Jett.” Rachel set her coffee cup down. “You can continue as an informal kinship caregiver, taking care of the children until she returns to take the children back. Or . . .” She went through several other options, including gaining temporary legal custody, finding other relatives, or assuming temporary guardianship in the case his sister was prosecuted on charges of neglect and possession. He shook his head after each one, including the last, which was turning the children over to the State.
Rachel clasped her hands together and leaned forward in her chair. “Well, that’s all I’ve got here, and you don’t seem pleased with any of them. So tell me, what do you think is the best option for yourself and these kids?”
“I want—” He pressed his thumbs together, watching through the open door as another case worker walked by. What did he want? He’d realized five minutes into their conversation that his situation might not be the norm, that people didn’t usually come to DCS telling them about a child in their care. DCS usually called relatives trying to drop off nieces and nephews, not the other way around.
From what he could tell, the easiest path for him was to be an informal caregiver—to welcome life as a single uncle of three little kids, to feed them and clothe them and send them off to school and help them with homework and coach their Little League games until the day Trina popped back in their lives and tossed them into the back of her duct-taped car.
