A Daughter's Trust / For the Love of Family: A Daughter's Trust / For the Love of Family. Kathleen O'Brien
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can’t believe it. I just saw her…”
“I got a call from the police.” He sounded weary. And as confused as she felt. “They were trying to locate next of kin. She had my mom’s name on her to notify in case of emergency, but the number was disconnected. That happens a lot with my mother. My mother’s last name is the same as mine, and Kraynick isn’t common. When they did a search, my number came up and…”
Oh, God. Christy? Dead? She’d been doing so well. Was so excited about getting Carrie back. “She was only sixteen! It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m struggling with it all myself.”
Sue’s mind raced, and her heart felt painful jabs at every thought. A child having a child before she had a chance to grow up. But struggling so hard to make it, anyway. Carrie, an orphan. Grandma gone. Joe, her cousin. Jenny having been lied to by her own father her whole life. Never knowing her mother. Sue, never knowing Grandma Jo. And now this stranger, this man, losing a sister before he ever knew her. A young sister.
“Carrie is my niece,” Rick Kraynick said, breaking the silence. “I intend to adopt her. But right now I need to meet her. To make sure she’s okay. To connect with her. Let her get a sense of my presence.”
“You’ll have to go through social services to arrange that.”
“I’m sure you realize that’s not as easy as it sounds. I’m a single male who never knew her mother and without enough proof that I’m family. They aren’t real eager to give me the time of day. For all intents and purposes, the mother we have in common didn’t raise either one of us. All I have going for me is half a set of genes, which has yet to be proven. My lawyer’s on it, but it could be weeks before this is sorted out. We’re filing for a hearing that will stay any adoption proceedings already in process, but there’s no guarantee we’ll be granted the hearing. And it’s not the state that we have to be concerned with at this point, as I’m sure you’re aware. It’s WeCare. And their red tape is worse than the state’s.”
Stacking blocks were strewn around the quilt on the floor, residuals from this morning’s after-breakfast, pre-bath playtime. Both Camden and Carrie could roll over now. She’d be sitting up soon.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kraynick, but—”
“Please,” he interrupted before Sue was even sure what she’d been about to tell him. She had guidelines. Her status as a foster mother rested on them. Because the rules were in place to protect the children.
To protect Carrie.
“I have to see her.” All coolness, or hint of composure, sure, left the man’s voice. “She’s a part of the sister I just saw buried.”
Sue said nothing.
“Family is not something I can take for granted, Ms. Bookman. I grew up without one. I know how it feels to wonder what’s wrong with you, why you weren’t wanted enough to have a mother and father who loved you. What it’s like to be caught in the system. I survived. My little sister did not. I can’t let the same thing happen to her daughter.”
“You’re already doing what you can. You’re applying to adopt her.”
Jenny had been adopted. And lied to.
“I’ve started the paperwork.” Frustration seeped from the man’s voice on the other end of the line. “But I’ve been led to believe that someone else is there before me. A possible family member. From what I gleaned from my attorney, the process was already in the works before Christy’s death, just in case she didn’t meet minimum standards to get Carrie back. If I can’t get a stay, the adoption could be granted before I’m able to prove my rights to the child.”
Christy hadn’t told her about someone applying to adopt her baby.
“And I can’t do anything about that.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Rick said, enunciating clearly. “My sixteen-year-old sister is dead, Ms. Bookman. Right now, I just want to see her daughter while I still know where she’s living.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kraynick. I really am. Get permission from WeCare and I’ll happily facilitate a visitation at your convenience. Think about it. If foster parents were able to make these kinds of decisions, they’d be at risk of intimidation from every abusive parent who wanted access to his or her child.”
“That’s your final word?”
“It has to be. I’m sorry.”
Feeling uneasy, Sue hung up.
And wished she could call Grandma.
HE SHOULDN’T BE DOING this. He was assistant superintendent of a fairly large school district. Had ethical and moral standards to uphold. Examples to set.
Yet Rick drove slowly down the street, anyway, searching for the address Chenille Langston had given him at the cemetery. They’d only had one brief conversation but the young girl had told him that Christy had driven her friend by the place many times, when she’d been lonely for her baby. She’d said she wanted Chenille to know where Carrie was in case of an emergency. Christie wanted to be sure Carrie was cared for. Loved. But Chenille was only a kid herself. No one listened to her, she’d said. They certainly wouldn’t give her a baby.
Chenille’s words to Rick at the cemetery had been “It doesn’t get any more emergency than this.” She’d trusted him to make certain that Christy’s baby didn’t get lost in the system.
So he was using the statement of a confused young woman as justification for circumventing the system?
Maybe Mark and Darla Samson were right. Maybe he did need to talk to somebody. They’d been after him to do so ever since Hannah died the year before.
Maybe he really was nuts.
Not thath is friends had said as much. But he suspected, by the wariness in their eyes, the shared glances when they thought he wasn’t looking, that they thought so.
He’d known Mark, and through him, Darla, for years. Had hired him, in fact, to be the high school basketball coach when he’d been principal of Globe High.
Rick stopped the Nitro in front of a large yard with a smallish house set far back on the property, about ten miles south of San Francisco. It was just after four on Wednesday afternoon. The Samsons would absolutely not approve of this visit.
He could hear a baby crying as he approached the front door, and his heart lurched. Carrie? His flesh and blood?
She sounded hungry.
Rick knocked. And then, seeing the button beside the handle, rang the bell.
The crying stopped. Footsteps approached, on what sounded like a wood floor.
Wood floors were drafty. And…
The door opened.
“Oh. You’re not Barb.”
Rick stood there, taking in the sight before him.
Gorgeous, feminine—untouched by the trappings of accessories—the woman had a pure beauty. And babies. Three of them. One strapped to her front in a baby sack. The other two on either hip.
He wondered which of them was his niece.
He met the woman’s dark brown eyes, taking in her impatience, the blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, the T-shirt and jeans and bare feet. “Can I help?” he asked over the crying, motioning to the babies in her arms.
“No,” she said. She was bouncing her babies. One of whom, the crying one, needed its nose wiped. His nose wiped, if the blue sleeper was anything to go by. “But as you can see, I’m busy, so—”
“I’m Rick Kraynick.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Kraynick,” she said, backing up enough to be able to close the door.
“Wait!