The Life List Read online

He leans back, as if he’s frightened of me. “Okay, so money’s not the issue. I still think you’re being shortsighted. Mother planted this seed, and now you’re obsessed with it. That child doesn’t look like us, Brett. What is she? Hispanic? Middle Eastern?”

  At this moment I don’t see my brother. I see his father, Charles Bohlinger, shaking his head, wondering why in hell I’d choose to go to the prom with Terrell Jones. My blood pressure soars. “Her mother was biracial. She was a poor, homeless girl from the Detroit projects. I don’t know what race the baby’s father is, because it was a one-night stand. There! Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, some gene pool. What does Herbert think about this?”

  I lean in. “Screw you, Joad. I love this baby. I adore this baby. And she’s bonded with me now. You should see how she snuggles up to me when I hold her. And for your information, Herbert’s completely supportive, though I don’t know what difference that makes.”

  He blinks several times. “Are you serious? The man’s in love with you. He’s definitely thinking long-term.”

  I give him a dismissive wave. “That’s a bit premature, don’t you think? He’s known me all of two months.”

  “When we were at Jay’s last week, he pulled me aside. I don’t know, maybe he figured since I was your oldest brother, I was like a surrogate father or something. Anyway, he told me he hopes to have a future with you. It was just short of asking for your hand.”

  I scowl. “Well, that’ll be my decision, not yours, or Herbert’s, or anyone else’s.”

  “He’s a great guy, Brett. Don’t fuck this up. If you do, you’ll regret it, mark my words.”

  I look him square in the eyes. “Mark my words, I won’t.” I throw my napkin onto the table and rise, leaving him to guess whether I won’t fuck it up with Herbert, or whether I won’t regret it.

  That evening when I arrive home, I find a package gracing my porch, this one with a Wisconsin return address. Carrie. How sweet. I lug it up to my apartment and split the seam with a butter knife. Inside I find a menagerie of stuffed animals, hardback books, cotton sleepers, bibs, blankets, and booties. I hold each piece in front of me, imagining Austin when she’s big enough to wear these clothes that would swallow her today. But then I remember the vulgar woman with the rotting teeth, and her wish to destroy my child’s life. I pick up the phone and call Carrie.

  “I just opened the fabulous package you sent,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “That was so thoughtful of you.”

  “It’s our pleasure. When we first got the kids, Sammy was only a month old. We had no clue what we’d need. You’ll love that Moby Wrap, just wait and see. And the—”

  “Sanquita’s mother wants Austin.”

  There’s a moment of silence at the other end of the line. “Oh, Brett. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’d have sympathy for the woman if she weren’t so horrible.” I tell the story of Deonte and Austin. “She was stoned when Deonte died, but she laid the blame on Austin.” My eyes flood with tears. “I’m terrified, Carrie. What if I don’t get her? Austin’s life will be hell.”

  “Pray,” she tells me. “Just pray.”

  And I do. Just the same way I prayed my mother would live. And Sanquita would get healthy.

  ——

  The walls of Kirsten Schertzing’s modest office are garnished with snapshots of smiling kids and families, old people grinning up from their wheelchairs, amputees happily waving into the camera lens. The officious social worker with the all-knowing eyes clearly has a warm side, though so far I haven’t witnessed it.

  “Thank you for coming,” she says, closing the door behind us. “Have a seat.”

  Brad and I sit side by side on a love seat, and Kirsten sits in a wooden chair facing us, a plastic clipboard on her lap. She takes notes as I tell her about my relationship with Sanquita, and her dying wish that I keep the baby.

  She lifts the page she’s writing on and scans her own personal notes beneath. “According to her medical chart, Sanquita lapsed into a coma following her C-section. For the next thirteen hours leading up to her death, nobody reported her conscious … except for you.”

  Suddenly, this feels like an interrogation. “All I know is that evening, the same day she delivered the baby, she woke up.”

  She notes this. “Just long enough to tell you she wanted you to keep the baby?”

  My pulse races. “Yes, that’s right.”

  She writes with raised eyebrows. “Did anyone else witness this?”

  “At the hospital, no. But that morning, on her way to the hospital, she told Miss Jean, the director of her shelter.” I look away. “But I doubt she’d stand up for me in court.” I clasp my clammy hands together. “Sanquita spoke to me. I know it sounds crazy. But it’s true. She begged me to take her baby.”

  She sets down her pen and finally looks up. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s gained consciousness just long enough to say good-bye, or express a last wish.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “What I believe is irrelevant. What matters is what the court believes.” She stands and moves to her desk. “This morning a very coherent, extremely well-behaved Ms. Robinson came to see me.”

  I gasp. “What did she say?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you. But it’s important to note, in almost every case of child custody, the court rules in favor of the family. I’m not sure this is a fight you want to take on.”

  Brad clears his throat. “I’ve done a background check on Tia Robinson. She receives disability due to a history of mental illness. She’s been in and out of rehab for alcohol and drug addiction. She lives in one of Detroit’s most crime-ridden housing projects. Sanquita has three half brothers, each from a different fath—”

  Kirsten doesn’t let him finish. “Mr. Midar, with all due respect, the state is only interested in whether or not this woman—who happens to be the baby’s maternal grandmother—has ever been convicted of a felony. And though she’s had several misdemeanors, she’s not a felon.”

  “What about the boy, Deonte, who died in the fire?” I ask. “What kind of mother sleeps while her kids are screaming for help?”

  “I checked into that for you. There was no formal charge. The records from the county indicate that she’d briefly stepped into the shower. Sadly, accidents happen in the blink of an eye.”

  “No. She was high. Sanquita told me.”

  “Hearsay,” Kirsten and Brad say simultaneously.

  I stare at Brad like he’s a traitor. But of course, he’s right. My statement would never hold up in court. “But these other things,” I say. “The addictions, the mental illness. Don’t they matter?”

  “Right now she’s testing clean. Look, if we took children away from parents who were depressed or had prior addictions, half the city would be in foster care. Whenever possible, the state’s goal is to keep children with their family. Period.”

  Brad shakes his head. “That’s wrong.”

  Kirsten shrugs. “And what kind of society would we be if placement were based on who had the nicest house, or who was happiest?”

  My mind races. I cannot allow this child to go to Ms. Robinson. I can’t! I promised Sanquita. And I love that baby too much.

  “Sanquita didn’t want her baby anywhere near this woman,” I say. “If it has to be a family member, let’s find someone else, some relative without issues.”

  “Fine idea, but nobody else has come forward. Sanquita had no sisters, so the maternal grandmother is the closest of all relatives. And in this case, Grandma’s only thirty-six years old, so it’s not exactly a stretch to imagine this woman raising a baby.”

  Thirty-six? The woman I saw in the hallway looked fifty! I look up and Ms. Schertzing gives me a sympathetic smile. I’m losing this case. I’m letting Sanquita down.

  “What can I do?”

  Her lips tighten into a thin line. “Honestly? I suggest you start reining in y
our emotions as best you can. I have every reason to believe this is an open-and-shut case. Ms. Robinson will be granted custody of her granddaughter.”

  I cover my face and burst into tears. I feel Brad’s hand on my back, patting me the same way I pat Austin.

  “You’ll be okay, B.B.,” he whispers. “There will be another baby.”

  I’m crying so hard I can’t tell him my tears aren’t for me. It’s true. I may have another baby. But Austin only gets one mother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I spend the next week racing to the hospital every afternoon following my last homebound session. I don’t care what the social worker said, I’m going to spend every last minute with this baby. Each time I touch her silky black curls or rub her downy skin, I pray these tender moments will somehow take root in her memory and trail her for a lifetime.

  Nurse LaDonna sidles up to the reclining chair and bends down to take the baby from me. “Kirsten Schertzing just called. She’d like you to call her before five o’clock.”

  My heart soars. Maybe Ms. Robinson changed her mind! Or maybe the court denied her custody!

  I race down the hall to a bench in front of a window that overlooks the city, the only place in the hospital that has decent cell phone reception. Austin is mine, I feel it. But didn’t I also feel pregnant? And that Brad was the man of my dreams?

  “Kirsten,” I say, gripping the phone. “It’s Brett Bohlinger. What’s going on? I’m here at the hospital now. I can come down to your office—”

  “No. That’s not necessary. I’ve just received information about the custody hearing. It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Judge Garcia at Cook County Courthouse will be presiding.”

  I let out a breath. “Nothing’s changed?”

  “Nada. Tia Robinson is back in town now. Short of a miracle, she’ll leave the courtroom tomorrow with custody of her granddaughter.”

  I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming, and tears flood my eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Brett. I just wanted you to know in case you’re still determined to contest it.”

  I manage a thank you and punch off the phone. An elderly patient teeters down the hall, wheeling his IV pole alongside him.

  “Bad prognosis?” he asks when he passes in front of me and sees the tears streaming down my cheeks.

  I nod, unable to utter the word terminal.

  When I return to the neonatal unit, Jean Anderson sits on a sofa in the reception area, holding a bright pink package on her lap. She startles when she sees me.

  “Well, well,” she says, pulling herself to her feet. “Look what the cat drug in.” She thrusts the pink present at me. “From the women at Joshua House.”

  I take the gift, but I don’t trust my voice to speak.

  She narrows her gaze. “You all right?”

  “Sanquita’s mother is taking the baby.”

  She scowls. “But Sanquita wanted you to keep the baby. She told me.”

  “There’s a hearing tomorrow morning with Judge Garcia. The woman is crazy, Jean. I’m so scared for Austin. Can you come tomorrow? Can you tell the judge what Sanquita told you?”

  She huffs. “And waste my time?” She lets loose a cruel cackle. “It doesn’t matter what Sanquita told me. It’s all hearsay. We don’t have a lick of proof. And because of that, grandmother trumps the schoolteacher, crazy or not.”

  I stare at her. “Then we’ve got to convince Judge Garcia it’s in Austin’s best interests for me to adopt her. We’ll tell him how Sanquita didn’t want her child to live in Detroit, and how …” My voice trails off when I see Jean shaking her head.

  “You think everybody plays by the rules, don’t you? You think if you smile real pretty and tell that judge the truth, he’ll see things your way.” Her eyes narrow, and she breathes heavily. “No. I’m afraid the truth won’t set you free this time.”

  I break into tears.

  “Look at me.” She grips my arms so tightly they hurt. “Those crocodile tears probably worked wonders all your life, but they’re not going to help you get that baby, you hear? If you want that child, you fight for her. Play hardball, don’t you know?”

  I sniff and wipe my eyes. “I will. Of course I will.”

  I’d love to play hardball. But the only equipment I’ve got is a plastic bat and a Nerf ball.

  Painted the shade of a cardboard box, Cook County’s musty old courtroom looks as lonesome and forsaken as I feel. Six empty rows of pine pews, separated by a center aisle, face the judge’s bench and witness stand. To the right of the witness stand, the chairs reserved for jurors sit vacant today. This is a bench trial. Judge Garcia will decide this case.

  Brad reviews his notes and I glance at the table to our right. Huddled together, Tia Robinson and her court-appointed attorney, Mr. Croft, speak in hushed tones. I look behind me at the empty pews. Nobody cares about this trial. Not even Miss Jean.

  At precisely eight o’clock, Judge Garcia takes his place on the bench and calls the court to order. We learn that Ms. Robinson will not be testifying today. I’m no attorney, but even I know it’s too risky to put that woman on the witness stand. Besides, it’s an open-and-shut case. She has nothing to gain by testifying.

  Suddenly I’m being called to the witness stand. I’m sworn in and Brad asks me to state my name and my relation to Sanquita Bell. I take a deep breath and make myself believe everything hinges on this testimony, that the case hasn’t already been decided.

  “I’m Brett Bohlinger,” I say, working to steady my breathing. “I worked with Sanquita Bell the five months preceding her death. I was her homebound teacher and her friend.”

  “Would you say you had a close relationship with Sanquita?” Brad asks.

  “Yes. I loved her.”

  “Did Sanquita ever mention her mother to you?”

  I take care not to look at Tia Robinson, seated less than twelve feet from me.

  “Yes. She told me her mother moved to Detroit, but she refused to go. She said she didn’t want her baby to have that kind of life.”

  With one hand resting on the edge of the witness stand, Brad looks as comfortable as if we were chatting it up at P. J. Clarke’s. “Can you tell me what happened at the hospital?”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling sweat trickle down the back of my neck. “It was after her surgery, about six o’clock in the evening. I was alone with Sanquita. She woke up suddenly. I went to her bedside and that’s when she told me she wanted me to take the baby.” I bite my lip to keep it from quivering. “I told her she wasn’t going to die, but she was insistent.” My throat tightens and my voice is strained. “She knew she was dying. She made me promise to take her baby.”

  Brad hands me a handkerchief and I blot my eyes. When I lower the hankie, my eyes lock on Tia’s. She sits with her hands folded, showing not a trace of emotion for her daughter’s dying words.

  “I plan to keep that promise.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Bohlinger. No further questions.”

  Mr. Croft’s sickly sweet cologne arrives at the witness stand ten seconds before he does. He hikes up his brown slacks before turning to me, his belly looking more impregnated than Sanquita’s ever did.

  “Ms. Bohlinger, did anyone hear Sanquita tell you she wanted you to take her baby?”

  “No. We were alone in the room. But she did tell someone earlier, Jean Anderson from the Joshua House.”

  He wags his finger at me. “Please answer yes or no. Did anyone else witness this miracle you say happened, when Sanquita came out of her coma just long enough to tell you to keep her baby?”

  He thinks I’m lying! I search out Brad’s face, but he simply nods for me to continue.

  I force myself to meet the runny gray eyes behind Mr. Croft’s wire-framed glasses. “No.”

  “Did Sanquita know she was dying?”

  “Yes.”

  He nods. “So she wanted to have all her ducks in a row.”

  “Exactly.”

 
“Did Sanquita strike you as a smart girl?”

  “Yes. She was very bright.”

  “Then naturally, she put her wishes in writing, yes?”

  The air is sucked from the room. “No. Not that I know of.”

  He scratches his head. “That’s extremely odd, don’t you think?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” He paces in front of me. “A smart girl who knew she was going to die wouldn’t plan ahead for her baby’s future? Perplexing, wouldn’t you agree? Especially when her home environment was as deplorable as you claim.”

  “I … I’m not sure why she didn’t.”

  “This life that Sanquita referred to … the life in Detroit with her mother? Did she happen to mention that she was in Detroit when she became impregnated?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you are aware that she slipped out of the apartment against her mother’s wishes and had unprotected sex?”

  I blink. “No. She never told me that. I don’t think she slipped away, as you suggest.”

  His face is a portrait of self-righteousness, nose aloft and head angled so he’s looking down at me. “Did she tell you she wandered down to the Detroit Jazz Festival that very night and had sex with a stranger? Someone whose name she didn’t even remember?”

  “It … it wasn’t like that. She was lonely … and very upset …”

  He raises one eyebrow. “Did she tell you she stayed six weeks? That she left Detroit only when she found out she was pregnant?”

  “I … I didn’t know she stayed six weeks. The point is, she left. Like I said, she wanted her baby out of that environment.”

  “And she wanted to get herself out of that environment as well, yes?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Did she tell you that her mother wanted her to terminate the pregnancy?”

  My head snaps to attention. “No.”

  “Sanquita’s kidney disease was so severe, the doctor recommended an abortion in order to save Sanquita’s life.”

  My mind reels. “That’s what Dr. Chan told her, too.”

  “And did she listen to Dr. Chan?”

  “No. She said she wanted the baby more than life itself.”