7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Kayla

Despite its beautiful name, Sunrise Terrace is a dingy apartment building in the more rundown part of the town. An older lady scowls at me as I park my car and she tugs on the leash she's holding. Her tiny Chihuahua barks, first at the woman, then at me, and finally at a suspicious spot on the side of the building before the woman drags it away.

Having lived most of my life in a similar apartment building, I don't risk getting stuck in the elevator and take the stairs instead. There's a faint stench of urine in the air, but aside from that, the staircase is relatively clean. I know that Georgia probably didn't have many housing options after her parents kicked her out, but she could have ended up in a much worse place.

It doesn't take me long to locate the right door. There's no name tag, and the apartment number is missing, too, but I can hear a baby crying from inside. I wait, listening for any shouting or the sound of things breaking that would suggest Georgia might be aggressive toward her baby, but all I hear are muffled words, a god-awful attempt at singing, and then heart-wrenching sobs.

I take in a deep breath, reminding myself that I'm a professional. I can't pull this girl into a hug and tell her everything will be alright the second she opens the door, no matter how much I want to.

The sobbing stops the moment I knock on the door. The baby wailing does not. I hear someone blow their nose, then the door opens, and I'm met with a menacing scowl of a girl at least a foot taller than me. Holy cannoli! Georgia could easily kick my ass if she wanted to.

She has a fresh burp stain on her shoulder and looks like she hasn't slept in a month. Which she probably hasn't. "Yes, I know my daughter is crying," she snaps at me before I have a chance to introduce myself. "Babies cry. Get used to it. Or call the fucking police again. I don't care."

She tries to slam the door in my face, but I stop her. "Ms. Simpson? I'm not your neighbor. My name is Kayla Reynolds, and I'm with the local Child Protective Services department."

As expected, Georgia's face pales to an alarming shade of white, her eyes widening like saucers. One would think I'd just pointed a gun at her instead of simply saying my name. But I know it's not my name she's scared of.

"N-no," she stammers, taking a step back. "You can't take Arya away from me. I know she cries a lot, b-but the doctor said she's fine, that some babies just cry more. You can't take her. I-I won't let you." She positions herself protectively between me and the crib, tears streaming down her face.

I give her a sincere smile, fighting off my own tears. This girl is at the end of her rope, exhausted both physically and mentally, and despite that, she's ready to fight tooth and nail for her baby. "Ms. Simpson," I say in the calmest tone I can manage, "I'm only here to talk to you and perhaps offer some help, if you're interested. May I come inside?" The neighbor across the hall has their door cracked open and is no doubt listening to everything we say.

Georgia wipes at her tears, eyeing me with uncertainty. "Just to talk?"

"Yes. I only wish to talk to you. I promise I'm not here to take your baby away," I add, smiling again. My wording is far from what the CPS guidelines suggest, but I'm not about to start citing laws to a frightened girl on the brink of total exhaustion.

After a moment's hesitation, Georgia returns my smile. "Okay. Come in." She glares at the door on the opposite side of the hall but doesn't say anything; just closes her own door and turns to me. Her smile vanishes as her eyes dart around the room. "Sorry about the mess," she mutters, hurriedly picking up clothes scattered around and stuffing them into an already overflowing hamper. As she collects the dishes, a plate slips from her trembling hand, rattling in the sink. "I-I haven't had much time to clean up."

"That's understandable, Ms. Simpson," I reply.

The single-room apartment is indeed messy, but all I see are burped-on clothes and dirty dishes. There are no empty beer bottles, pills, or syringes. Not that I expected any. The crib is definitely second-hand, but there are no cracks in the wood, and it doesn't creak when Georgia picks her daughter up. The bedding is clean, and there aren't any dangerous objects inside the crib. It's as safe as it can be, which is the only thing that matters.

The baby finally calms down a little as Georgia rocks her, the ear-splitting cries turning into dissatisfied whimpers. "Ssh, it's okay," Georgia whispers, running her fingers over the baby's tiny head. "It's okay, sweetheart. I'm sorry," she says to me, lowering her eyes. "I didn't mean to yell at you. I thought you were here to complain about the noise."

"I figured," I reply, softening my tone as I watch the baby's eyes close. "Her name is Arya, like from Game of Thrones?"

"Yeah," Georgia says bashfully. "My mother said it was stupid, but, well…she doesn't get to decide for me anymore." There's something hard in her eyes, something angry.

I don't blame her. I know for a fact my family will always be there for me, no matter what happens. They'd never kick me out, especially not with a baby on the way.

"Well, I loved Arya in the show. She grew up into a total badass," I say, hoping to connect with her. Every little thing that makes her more trusting and less afraid of me helps. "Are you in contact with your parents?"

Georgia snorts. "No. They wanted me to give Arya up for adoption. Decided I won't be messing up my life with a baby. I was supposed to go to an Ivy League university and become a doctor or a lawyer or something like that. Pfft. As if I ever wanted any of that. When I stopped doing what they wanted, they cut me off. Completely. Didn't even look at Arya's pictures I sent."

Tears prick at my eyes, but I don't let them fall. I'm a fucking professional. And I'll professionally kick these parents' posh asses the moment I see them. "I'm sorry to hear that. Sometimes, parents aren't ready to see their children grow up so fast, and they feel they have to protect them from everything. But you have every right to decide about your life, especially now that you're eighteen."

"Yeah." She heaves a sigh. "That's what I told them. Well, not in such fancy words. There was some yelling involved. They told me that if I'm an adult, I should fend for myself. Then they kicked me out. If I hadn't had some money saved up from a summer job, I would have ended up on the streets."

I know she hasn't applied for temporary financial assistance or food stamps yet, so I wonder where she's getting money now. Probably borrowing from friends. Not wanting to broach the sensitive subject yet, I decide to go for another one, almost as sensitive. "What about Arya's father? Do you know who he is?"

"Of course I do," Georgia scowls. "I wasn't sleeping around. He was my first. And probably my last," she adds with a scoff.

"That's not what I was implying, Ms. Simpson. It's just that sometimes, the situation regarding the conception of a child can be complicated."

She blinks as the words sink in. "I haven't been raped, if that's what you're asking. I even told Mike I was pregnant. He called me a wh—" She stops herself, casting a glance at the sleeping baby in her arms. "He told me to go bother someone else, that it wasn't his. Douchebag."

I want to agree with her that most men are assholes, but like I said, I'm a damned professional, so I bite back the answer. "You could take him to court and request a paternity test. If it turns out positive, he'll have to pay child support."

"He'd have to give me money?" Georgia's face lights up as she thinks about it, then falls again. "But then he'd officially be her father. Could he take Arya from me? He doesn't want kids, but if he hates me enough…"

She's definitely a smart girl. "The court would determine custodial rights and visitation schedule. He's unlikely to gain full custody, but he'd most likely get to visit your daughter regularly. I know it's a difficult decision. You can take your time with it, Ms. Simpson."

"Georgia," she says, rubbing her forehead. "Please, can you call me Georgia?"

"Of course." I beam, offering her my hand. "I'm Kayla."

She shakes my hand, then gives me a bashful smile. "You're different from I expected."

"Oh, let me guess. You expected a mean old hag who'd rip your baby out of your arms?" I chuckle. "Is that why you never asked for state support?"

"Well…yeah," she admits, looking away. "I googled it and found out I could get some money and food stamps and stuff like that, but it also said that the child has to live in good conditions, and…" Trailing off, she gestures at the small apartment. "I guess I was worried about drawing attention to myself."

Suppressing an eye-roll, I opt for a straightforward question. "Are you on drugs, Georgia?"

"What?! No! I never even tried weed!"

"Do you regularly drink alcohol or abuse any kind of prescription drugs?"

"Of course not! I'm breastfeeding Arya, and all the sites said I can't even have coffee, let alone alcohol."

"Well, then you're already doing better than many of my other cases," I say matter-of-factly. "I will need a report from Arya's doctor to confirm you're visiting regularly and that Arya is healthy and not showing any signs of malnourishment or abuse, but that's a legal formality. You're taking good care of your daughter, Georgia. Nobody is going to take her away from you just because you don't have money to live in a fancy house."

She wipes her tears with her already soaked sleeve. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I really didn't know what to do. I know I'm supposed to be an adult, but…I'm just faking it," she says with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I don't know how to be an adult."

I give her a warm smile. "Want to know a secret? We're all faking it. I just moved out of my parents' place two days ago, and I have no clue what I'm doing either. You're going to be fine. Now, let's talk about getting you some financial aid."

"And food stamps," Georgia adds, grinning. "My mother will die from embarrassment when she hears I'm on food stamps. Such a stain on our family name."

Seriously? That's what her parents will be worried about? Their good name being "soiled" by food stamps? If I ever run into Georgia's mother, I'll have a hard time holding back from slapping her.

I pull out the list of contacts Michelle helped me compose. Local non-profit organizations that provide clothes and food for the needy, a support group where Georgia can connect with other single mothers, church-organized play dates. There's a lot of help available for Georgia if she asks for it, and I'm ready to guide her through it.

I spend over two hours in Georgia's apartment as we discuss all the options she has, some local gossip, and a new TV show that just started last week. I even get to hold baby Arya, gushing over how adorable she is. When she's not screaming her lungs out, of course.

By the end of the afternoon, I'm friends with the young mother, and I feel great about it. With some families, I need to be Ms. Reynolds, a stern social worker who insists rules are being followed and requirements met. With others, I can be Kayla, a friend who's ready to offer a helping hand. That variety is what I love most about this job. That, and helping people, making a difference in their lives.

As I head home, I can't stop smiling. I did make a difference today.

Stretching out my arms, I step out of my car in front of my house. A shower, slow yoga, and a big cup of herbal tea sound like the perfect plan for the evening.

The silence that greets me as I unlock the door is still new to me. I'm used to noise. My parents greeting me, music from my sister's room, shouting from my brothers' room when they have friends over to play video games. Here, all I get is the hum of the refrigerator and the A/C unit. The quiet is both comforting and unsettling.

I head over to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, drinking half of it before a thought registers in my mind, and I slowly turn around. The glass slips out of my hand and shatters on the floor.

There's a bouquet of blue flowers on my kitchen table that wasn't there in the morning. Worse still, they're in a crooked vase I made in a pottery class as a child. A vase that was in one of the boxes I brought over from Kansas City. A vase I most certainly haven't unpacked yet.

My breath catches, my heart pounding against my rib cage.

Someone has been here.