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  Jada went through her job history calmly, though she felt anything but calm herself. She was careful not to sound as if she were bragging. When Jada finished, Mrs. Elroy summarized it. “So in the last two years, despite your pregnancy and after the birth of your third child, you were working fifty to sixty hours a week.” Jada had to nod. It did sound like a conviction.

  “And doing the cooking and most of the grocery shopping and all of the cleaning,” Jada added. “I was the one who supervised the children’s homework. I supervised their television—or lack of it. I attended the parent-teacher conferences. I was the responsible parent.”

  Mrs. Elroy didn’t take any notes and didn’t respond to that. “With all of the difficulties you seemed already to be having,” she said, “why did you have a third child—one you couldn’t possibly be home to raise?”

  Jada drew her breath in and hoped the woman hadn’t heard her gasp. Was it legal for the social worker to pry like this? Wasn’t that a question too much like “When did you stop beating your wife?” How could she—why would she—possibly explain about the way she and Clinton had avoided sex until that New Year’s night? That she had been drunk. That she had agonized about having the baby, once she knew about the pregnancy. That, without telling Clinton, she’d made an appointment for an abortion. And that she hadn’t shown up. Nor had she ever—even when she was exhausted from night feedings and returning to work—ever regretted her decision. Sherilee was an easy, loving, happy baby. She felt like a reward to Jada. What had Clinton already told her to poison the woman’s mind? Jada, who never cried, felt her eyes fill with tears.

  “I love my baby,” she told Mrs. Elroy. “I love all my babies. And if you talk to them, you’ll know that they love me. I’ve been a good mother. They need me.”

  “I have spoken to them, Mrs. Jackson, as well as their baby-sitter. I know how to do my job. And I have also spoken to your husband and your mother-in-law. I know your children are living in inadequate space, while you have seven empty rooms around you.”

  “But I want them here. I want them in these rooms.”

  “But you won’t give up the house to them and your husband.”

  “What?” Jada imagined all the poison that Clinton, her mother-in-law, and God knows who else had poured into this woman’s head. “Why shouldn’t they be here with me?” Jada asked.

  “Is it true that you consort with a known drug pusher? And that you let your children visit their home?”

  “No, it’s not true. My best friend has kids almost the ages of my children. They’ve been friends for years. Recently her husband was indicted—not convicted—for drugs. Anyway, my children have not seen them since he was indicted. And I believe he’s innocent. And his wife, my girlfriend, certainly is.”

  “You yourself don’t take drugs?” Mrs. Elroy asked.

  “What?” Jada questioned. “Of course not.”

  “You wouldn’t mind submitting to a urine analysis, would you?” Mrs. Elroy continued.

  “Yes! I mean, no.” Jada still didn’t know what she meant: yes, she would mind, or no, she wouldn’t submit—or yes, she would? She was too shocked by the question to say anything else except, “Is that what this is about? Is that what Clinton told you? That I’m a drug addict?”

  “I’ll do the questioning, Mrs. Jackson. So, you will submit a urine specimen.”

  “Yes. I guess so.”

  Mrs. Elroy checked a box on her form and nodded her head. “Also how long have you been under psychiatric care?”

  “Psychiatric care?” Jada echoed. “Never.”

  “You never consulted a psychiatrist?”

  Jada stopped and thought Clinton couldn’t be saying all this. It was madness. It was so, so very mean—and clever. “I once went to a counselor—I think he was a psychologist—and he was a marriage counselor. It was years ago. I wanted Clinton to come. He wouldn’t.” Jada tried not to sound defensive, as if she’d been caught in a lie. “But I only went to the man two or three times, until it became clear that Clinton wouldn’t participate.”

  Mrs. Elroy raised her bushy brows and made another note. She asked for the counselor’s name and address. “I don’t remember,” Jada admitted. “It was years ago.”

  “So you refuse to give me his name.”

  “I don’t remember,” Jada repeated. “But I’ll look for it.”

  “Fine,” Mrs. Elroy said. Then she bent over, went into her canvas tote, and pulled out a small plastic container in a Ziploc bag. Calmly she handed it to Jada. “Just write your name on the side of the receptacle. Sign this release, fill the specimen jar, and return this to me in the bag, please.”

  “Now?” Jada asked, totally at a loss.

  “No time like the present,” Mrs. Elroy said, and rose. Jada reluctantly took the bag and stood up. She started to move out of the dining room.

  “Where are you going?” Mrs. Elroy asked, her voice sharp.

  “To the bathroom.”

  “That’s not the way we do this. Which bathroom will you be using?”

  “I guess the one off the kitchen,” Jada said, now mystified.

  “I’ll have to tape the faucet,” Mrs. Elroy told her, and took out a roll of bandage adhesive along with scissors. She followed Jada through the kitchen. Jada stopped for a moment to fix the paper towels. “Don’t touch anything,” Mrs. Elroy said sharply. “Not until we’re finished.”

  She went into the bathroom first, and Jada watched from the doorway as she checked the room and the medicine cabinet, then taped the faucet and checked the toilet. “Please don’t flush until you’ve returned the bag to me. Please don’t touch anything until after you’ve capped the plastic bottle and sealed the bag.”

  Jada looked directly at the woman. “Why don’t you just stay in her with me until I’m finished,” she said bitterly.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Elroy told her. She passed Jada and waited while Jada went into the bathroom. Mrs. Elroy shut the door. It was only then that Jada thought about the Xanax that she had taken. My God, she thought, would that show up in her urine? And what did it show up as? She didn’t know exactly what it was, and she sure didn’t have a prescription for it. Did that make it illegal? She could imagine herself explaining to Mrs. Elroy, or to some judge, that her girlfriend, the one whose husband was accused of being a drug lord, had given her pills. Jada’s hands began shaking so badly that the bag rattled, sounding as if she’d set a small crackling fire in her own lavatory. “I’m right outside the door,” Mrs. Elroy said. It was all too much. Way too much.

  Jada opened the door and handed the unopened bag to Mrs. Elroy.

  “I couldn’t do it,” she said. “I’m just too nervous.”

  “I can wait,” Mrs. Elroy said, and smiled for the first time since she’d arrived.

  “No, you can’t,” Jada told her. “Our meeting is finished.”

  “I think I really fucked up,” Jada said to Angie Romazzano. She’d gotten her on the phone immediately after that horror left the house.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think,” the lawyer said. “I mean, you’re bound to feel uncomfortable in these circumstances. Mrs. Jackson—Jada—you’re a good mom and we can document that.”

  “He said, I think he said, that Tonya Green is a baby-sitter. And she believes it. Can you believe it?”

  “Well, he wouldn’t be the first man to be sleeping with his baby-sitter,” Angie said. “Baby-sitters, best friends, sisters. Please, don’t get too upset. We’ll get everything in deposition that we need.”

  “But … but there was the drug test,” Jada said, and her hands began to shake again. They shook so badly, the receiver of the phone actually bumped against one of her teeth.

  “What drug test?” the lawyer asked, her voice raised.

  Jada explained what had happened and there was a long silence at the other end of the phone. “I screwed up, didn’t I?” Jada asked.

  “I don’t know. I think maybe I did,” Angie t
old her. “Look, let me call a few people tonight and see what I can figure out. How about we meet early tomorrow? Before you go to work?”

  “Before I go to work, I walk. Why don’t you walk with us?” Jada asked. “You only live a few blocks from here. And I would hate to miss my walk with Michelle.” There was another pause, but this one was much briefer.

  “Fine,” Angie Romazzano said. “What time should I be there?” Jada told her and Angie groaned. “God, I’ll be exhausted.”

  “You think you’re tired?” Jada asked. “I worked, then I had this interview with Mrs. I-Hate-You-Because-You’re-A-Bad-Incompetent-Mother, and now I have to put on a happy face and pretend everything’s fine.” Jada took a big sigh. “What I really want is to see my kids more than anything, of course. But Lord knows I feel like shit. I don’t want to break down in front of them. And I’m so afraid, afraid that … well, this wasn’t a good thing.”

  “Don’t worry, Jada,” Angie said. “We’ll get you your kids back. I promise.”

  That evening, after Jada fortified herself with a prayer and even considered a glass of rum and Coke, which she passed on, she finally picked up the phone and called her parents in Barbados. They had a little house not far from Crain Beach and Jada imagined her mother jumping when the phone rang in the evening island stillness. Jada had decided she wasn’t going to tell them everything—if she did they’d be up there beside her, and right now she didn’t think she could face them. They probably couldn’t be of much help anyway.

  It hurt her pride to have to admit to her mother that all of the woman’s maternal instincts and prejudices had been right. She didn’t want to upset her father, who had a mild heart condition and high blood pressure. Most of all, she didn’t want to break down and cry like a broken-hearted child. She wondered if the air down there was sweet with the smell of frangipani or night-blooming jasmine.

  When, on the fifth ring, she heard the receiver lifted and her mother’s voice saying, “Hello? Hello?” Jada was silent for a minute. Then she took a deep breath.

  “Mama?” she asked, though she recognized her mother’s voice. “Mama, you were right.”

  28

  All girls get moving

  Angie hadn’t been able to reach her mother the night before, so in desperation she tried Michael, who was the clinic’s specialist in marital law. He answered the phone on the first ring, and after Angie apologized profusely, she told him about Jada Jackson’s meeting with the social worker and the unexpected request for a urine sample. “Is that usual, Michael?”

  “No,” he said. “There would have to be some real strong allegations about her. The husband, or George Creskin, is really playing hardball. And it’s a no-win for your client. If she refuses, she looks bad. And she doesn’t have to take it. But why didn’t she take the test—humiliating as it was—just to prove how unsubstantiated his position is?”

  “I don’t know,” Angie admitted. “But I’m going to meet with her tomorrow morning at six and find out.”

  “Boy, you’re really throwing yourself into this.” Michael paused. “Do you mind if I give you some non-legal advice?”

  Angie didn’t like advice, legal or not, but she liked the way he asked, giving her the option to refuse it. He really was a thoughtful, nice guy. “Okay,” she said. “Fire away.”

  “This job can eat you up,” he said. “You have to be committed but detached. I know that sounds contradictory, but it’s the only thing that works.” He paused for a minute and Angie was about to say thanks when he cleared his throat and continued. “These clients can break your heart if you get too involved,” he said. “And it can destroy your personal life.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Angie told him. “I don’t have one of those.”

  The next morning when the alarm went off, Angie felt that it was impossible for her to get up and go out. It was still really dark. But she forced herself to pull on the old Rangers sweatshirt (which she actually had thrown into the wash a couple of times since she’d begun wearing it) slipped into her father’s jogging pants, and was sure to put on two pairs of socks along with her sneakers.

  Trudging down the street toward Elm, feeling like a kid trussed up in snow pants, she thought about her conversation with Michael. She was sure he meant well. Her answer had probably sounded snotty to him, but it was true. She had no private life, except for the secret inside her. Aside from her trip to Marblehead, a couple of business lunches, some dinners with her mother, and the apartment hunting, Angie hadn’t been out of her father’s house. She didn’t even make phone calls because she had lost not only her husband but her close friend, and she wasn’t in the mood to tell her old college friends or law school acquaintances about the collapse of her life. Most of them probably knew by now anyway, though, thanks to the nasty grapevine—the one that always let classmates know when someone didn’t get a partnership.

  She had no close girlfriends, no hobbies, no home, and she was living off what was left in her checking account, the clinic’s tiny salary—which was still a temporary per diem—and her father’s unpredictable charity.

  She had cooked her dad dinner the night before so she could prepare him for her move. As she expected, he had been grateful for her company and the grilled chicken, but he hadn’t been glad about her relocation news. “It’s not necessary,” he said. “It’s just an extra expense.”

  Angie suspected he was hurt and still recovering from the fact that she was working with her mother. Now, if she wasn’t living with him, he was probably afraid he wouldn’t see her. Her father was an odd man. She knew that he loved her, but they didn’t have much to share. It was odd thinking of her mom putting up with her dad for all those years, and odder still to think that he had broken up the marriage by cheating on Natalie. Not that it had done him much good; the second marriage hadn’t worked and now he was stuck here alone without much of a life. Angela knew that he would both miss her company and be ashamed to admit it. Why was it that people who wanted to be with her were not the people she wanted to be with, and the people she wanted to be with didn’t want a thing to do with her?

  If I think about this, I’ll go insane, Angie told herself. Then she realized that she was trudging through the dark on the cold street because she was moving toward the warmth she saw between Jada Jackson and her friend. She missed friendship—if she’d had any. Thinking about Lisa made her so angry or depressed she pushed the thought from her mind. She missed not Lisa, but having a real friend. Well, this walk probably was a bad idea, but it wouldn’t kill her to get a little exercise, just this once.

  When she joined Jada and Michelle, they were in the middle of the street just around the corner from their homes. They greeted each other silently and Angie turned around to walk back in the direction they were going, back past her father’s house.

  “We could just stop and pick you up on our way,” Jada said.

  “Yeah,” Michelle agreed. “Jada always gets me. Except for those couple of times she couldn’t get in gear. Then I got her. We could both get you and make sure you do the circuit.”

  Despite the cold, Angie felt warmed through by the offer. The kindness of inclusion felt so good it almost made her choke up. Boy, you are really vulnerable, Angie told herself. Better watch out or you’ll be rolling over and barking for treats. Remember not to lick their hands when we say good-bye. They trudged for half a block in silence and then Jada picked up the pace. Angie figured she better get down to business. “So, tell me about this interview.”

  Jada shook her head. “It was unbelievable,” she said. “I would say the woman was a bigot, except she obviously wasn’t prejudiced against my husband.”

  “There’s another five-letter word that begins with ‘b,’” Michelle said. “She was just a bitch.”

  Angie asked for all the details, though it was obvious that Michelle had already heard them. They walked up a steep hill, then down it; around a bend, another long hill appeared. Angie was out of breath and out of shape a
nd she wished she could take notes, but she kept up with the other two.

  “Look, I’m checking into this. Don’t worry. I’m sure we can get another social worker in, but may I ask why …” She paused. “Well, why you didn’t take the test. Is there something I should know?”

  She saw Jada and Michelle exchange looks. Then Michelle, who had been silent except for her bitch remark, spoke. “It’s all my fault. I’m under a lot of stress, too.” The woman looked deeply troubled and for a moment Angie thought she was about to spill her story. Then she watched as Michelle licked her lips and turned her head away. “Anyway, I went to my doctor because I was having anxiety attacks. He prescribed something.”

  “Yeah? So what’s wrong with that?” Angie asked.

  Michelle flicked a look at Jada, who shrugged. “She’s my lawyer, Mich. I’m telling her everything. And I’m never taking those pills again.”

  Angie got worried. Was there some kind of drug problem going on? Oh Christ. Now that she had committed to this case, she’d find out that Jada was all the things Mr. Jackson accused her of.

  “Look,” Michelle said, “there’s nothing wrong with them. They were psychotropics. Jada was so crazy from all this that I gave her a couple of my pills.”

  “Yeah,” Jada said bitterly. “I was feeling like a psycho, but they sure didn’t make me go to the tropics.”

  “The point is,” Michelle said, “she was afraid they might show up in her urine. We don’t even know what’s in them.”

  “Well, what are they? Ecstasy?” Angie asked.

  “Xanax,” Michelle said, without even a hint of a smile.

  “So what’s the big deal?” Angie asked, deeply relieved. “Jada, with what you’ve been through, you probably need some anti-anxiety medication. Best to get a prescription, though.” Angie turned to Michelle. “Can I have some, too?” she joked.

  Michelle managed a weak smile. “I felt so guilty. I thought I ruined everything. You don’t think it’s too serious?”

  Actually, Angie wasn’t sure, but she shook her head no. “Half the women in America have prescriptions for Xanax or Valium,” she said. “And the other half borrow them from their friends. It’s no big deal.” She paused, vamping for time, and hoped to give Jada some shred of comfort in what sounded like a vat of trouble. “I’m going to try to get another social worker assigned. It won’t eliminate the first home visit, but it will add. And maybe it wasn’t as bad as you thought.”