Chapter 5

I called Lakeshore Family Services from the truck. The number was active, but the address was a nail salon now. The woman who answered said they had moved to a suite in the annex building and that all old files were archived off-site. I asked for Patricia Vann. She gave me a number in Traverse City.

Patricia Vann answered on the fourth ring. She sounded tired. When I told her the date and Fern’s name, she went quiet.

“I remember that placement,” she said. “Not the name. The situation. A relative came in with an infant. The mother was in ICU. It was irregular but not unheard of. We did the intake and sent it to the county.”

“Do you have a copy?”

“We closed that office. The archived files were transferred. If the county has the original, we don’t keep a duplicate beyond seven years.”

“So there’s no copy.”

“I’m sorry.”

I hung up and sat in the truck outside the nail salon. Fifth Street looked like every other street in Brayton Harbor. Salt, slush, storefronts with hand-painted windows. A boy could disappear on a street like this and nobody would ask.

At the county building, I filed a formal kinship assessment request. The clerk looked at me like I had asked for the moon.

“You’re the mother?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Legal relationship?”

“None. Not yet.”

She typed. “You’ll need to establish standing. We’ll calendar a review.”

“How long?”

“Five days.”

Five days. I could hold my breath for five days. I had held it for nine years.

But the county didn’t wait. That afternoon, a caseworker named Mr. Ostrander called me from Braithwaite County Children’s Services. He had a caseload of ninety and a voice like he was reading from a script.

“We’ve placed Amos Reeder in emergency shelter in Braithwaite County,” he said. “Fern Lattimore’s health has declined. She’s hospitalized. There’s no approved kinship home.”

“I’m his mother.”

“You’re a legal stranger, Ms. Brannigan. We’re looking for a kinship assessment. That’s a different thing.”

“He’s nine. He’s never been in shelter.”

“He’s safe. That’s what matters.”

I wanted to scream. I didn’t. I asked for the address. He gave it to me, eighty miles north.

When I got home, Junie was at the table with a coloring book. She looked up.

“Where did the rink boy go?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

She studied me. “You’re lying again.”

I put my keys on the hook. “Yes.”

She went back to coloring. I stood in the kitchen and hated myself.