$4.27
I thought it was enough
There’s a quarter on the sidewalk. I try to seem casual as I stride a little faster to pick it up before anyone notices it. That puts me at just over $4. And just in time too.
I walk into the chain diner and sit in the booth at the very back. The waitress makes her way to me.
“Hey hun, can I get you anything?” She asks kindly.
“Umm, just some ice water please.” I smile as sweetly as I can.
“Sure thing sweetheart.”
I’m so nervous. I hope the cold water will help settle my stomach. I’ve been waiting for this day all month. I hope this goes well.
How do I look? I hope I look okay. I scan and find the restroom. I check the clock above the bar, 3:27. I still have time. I enter the restroom and look over myself. I look filthy. Shit.
I grab paper towels and wipe my face, wash my hands, slick some water over my greasy hair. I sniff my pits. Do I stink? I place my hand between my thighs briefly and sniff it. Not too terrible. But, I rub the handsoap over the pits of my button down shirt and seat of my jeans anyway. I rub some in my hair and behind my ears. I’ll rinse it off once this is over. I rinse my mouth and smile to the mirror. I still look kinda rough, but not so dirty. My shirt has a hole in it. I try to tie it up to cover it. Do I look slutty? I don’t want them to think I’m slutty. I undo it and try to tuck in into my pants. But I don’t have a top button. FUCK. This is the nicest thing I own. Well, we’ll be sitting down, so it won’t really matter.
I check the clock as I return to my booth. 3:50, 10 more minutes. I drink the cold water the waitress left for me. I feel the cash in my pocket. And I wait. 4 o’clock comes. Then goes. 4:05. 4:10. Maybe they aren’t coming. At 4:12, I hear the jingle of the bell that announces someone entering. I see a thin blond woman in a skirt suit and I can’t help my excitement. She sees me and starts to approach. I sit up straight and run my hands over my blouse. I try to look professional and mature. I try to contain myself. But the blond woman gets closer and I finally see her. Her curly brown hair and hazel eyes and button nose and soft tan skin and her tiny hands. I can’t keep my composure at the sight of her and despite my best effort at restraint, I leap to her and wrap her in my arms. I kiss her all over her beautiful, doll like face, and her perfect mouth. I look over her, top to bottom. I bring her small chubby hands to my mouth and kiss them. Then I blow a raspberry in her palms and she giggles. It sounds like a chorus of angels. I rub my hands along her plump arms. Over that scar. The burn. The constant reminder of the incident that got us here. “Hi mama” she says. “Hi baby” I coo.
The blond woman, the social worker, pulls her along by the hand, into the booth. I pat my pocket to make sure the money is still there. Gratefully, it is.
The social worker takes out her notepad and starts to ask me questions. About school. About how my time in the girls home is going. Am I getting along, am I making friends? I assure her all is well and I’m doing my very best, all while staring at the ball of curls seated across from me, as she scribbles a masterpiece on the little paper menu they placed before her.
It’s been four and a half months since I got to see her. She’s grown. She’s taller, and heavier. Her hair is longer, wild, dry. They’re not using the right conditioner for her. But, she smells divine. Like a baby. Powdery, clean. She looks healthy. She looks happy. She was happy to see me.
The waitress comes to take our order. I let her know the water is fine for me. I ask my daughter “what would you like?” knowing exactly what her answer will be, silver dollar pancakes with grapes and apple juice, “baby pancakes” as she calls them. I picked this place because it’s her favorite. And mine, simply because I’ve always been able to come here, no matter the time, no matter the day. The only consistent thing I can rely on. I smile, and await her usual response. “Mac n cheese!” She shouts, pointing to the menu. My smile breaks for a second, but I collect myself. “And chocolate!” She points to the pudding pictured on the menu. Pudding? They let her have pudding? It’s just milk and sugar, that’s not healthy for a growing child! They ought to know that! “And juice!”
“Oh, no, sweet girl, let’s get water since we’re having pudding. We don’t want the sugar bugs to eat our teeth!” “Please mama?” She wines and gives me that pout, the pout that always melts me into pieces in her hands. “Oh alright, I guess. This one time.” She beams.
The social worker is talking to me about the process and hearings and lawyers. But I can’t focus on her words. The only thing I can think, while watching my little girl happily eat her food is, we used to come to this diner at least once a week and she always, always ordered baby pancakes and grapes. And now she wants Mac n cheese and pudding. I don’t know her anymore. I don’t even know my own child now. They took my baby and they changed her. The longer this goes on, the more she’s gonna change without me. My eyes sting with tears. How long is this gonna be?
“How long is this gonna be?” I ask the woman, interrupting whatever she was going on about.
“Well, there’s no way to know. We’ve found that the situation was an accident, and you’re not a danger to her. But, you are a minor. You can’t legally be on your own, with no job and a child. You need to finish school, get your hardship license so you can work. You won’t be able to emancipate for another 7 months hun. You’re a ward of the state, just as much as your daughter is. We can’t release her to you until you’re established. Until you have a job and place to live sweetheart.”
I try to speak as calmly as I can. I try to keep my rage in check, but I’m seeing red, literally. I feel like my nose is gonna bleed. I wanna scream and cuss but my baby is right here, so I try to speak calmly, behave rationally. “We were doing fine. We were doing fine. It was an accident. The grease pot fell over when she bumped the stove. I get it, she got hurt, but I got hurt too, worse. I protected her! With my own body! I’ve kept her cared for on my own for more than 2 years! I’m a good mom!” I say, with my finger digging into my chest.
“Sweetheart, I know you’re hurting. I’m not doubting that you did your best. But you both deserve so much more. It’s my job to get you girls what you both deserve. I want you to be your best for her. I’m pushing for reunification, but I don’t know how long that’ll take. I’ll do my best to keep you two on the path to togetherness. But there are steps, okay? There are things we have to do, legally. Trust me, and trust the process.”
My thoughts are racing as I fight back tears. I know she’s right. I know I have to be working legally and have a house before they give her back. I got away with couch surfing with her for almost 3 years. But she does deserve more. But, but, what if she forgets me? She forgot baby pancakes. What if she forgets me too?
“Okay.” I answer, defeated.
The social worker answers a call and let’s me know they have to leave. I hug my baby tight to me. I sniff her and run my hands over her wild mess of curls. And kiss her face a thousand times. I kiss and blow a raspberry into her palms and she giggles. They walk away. I fight back tears and sip my water, trying to calm my nausea and my emotions.
I breathe and steady myself. I’ll do whatever I need to do for her.
The waitress brings over the check. I reach into my pocket and pull out all the money I was able to scrounge from the day they granted me visitation. I have $4.35. Silver dollar kids meal costs $4.27.
I look at the check. $5.14.
I don’t have enough.
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