It’s unlikely. I know that. But as long as it’s even possible, I’m going to hate coming to this place.
“Don’t worry,” she says lightly. “This is all perfectly routine.”At ten fifty-five, they let us into the courtroom for our eleven o’clock time slot. Before I enter, I text Charlie one last time: going in. She texts back a string of emojis, hearts and smiley faces and crossed fingers, and I shut my phone off.
Opposing counsel isn’t here yet, so I soothe myself with my pre-hearing ritual, taking all my notes, the statements, the documentation, everything I’ve collected in my favor, and stacking it neatly in front of me on the wide wooden table. Having the weight of evidence right there, within easy reach, always soothes me.
Last but not least, I take out the drawing.
It’s a different drawing every time, because Rusty’s always making new ones, but I always bring one. This one’s got the two of us as stick figures — her, small, long-haired, wearing a bright green skirt, me twice her height and wearing only shoes for some reason — along with several trees and a small blob with feet that she told me last night was a wombat.
Rusty’s really into wombats right now. Last week I told her that she couldn’t have one as a pet, and ever since then, she’s been casually mentioning various wombat features that would just happen to make them perfect pets. For example, their poop is square, so it’s stackable.
She couldn’t believe it when that tidbit didn’t sway me.
“Did you get a dog?” Lucinda asks, glancing over at the drawing. She’s seen plenty of Rusty’s artwork over the years, though this is the first time in about eighteen months, since things with Crystal have been relatively quiet lately.
“It’s a wombat,” I explain.
“Did you get a wombat?” she asks drily.
“Not yet,” I say. “Though if Rusty has her way…”
She chuckles. A door opens.
Pete Bresley, the bailiff, steps in. He sees me and nods quickly, then steps to his usual spot and folds his hands in front of himself.
“All rise for the honorable Judge Hughes,” he intones.
We rise. The stenographer rises. The officials sitting off to one side rise.
The plaintiff isn’t here yet, and I admit to feeling a not-small amount of satisfaction on that account.
Before I can gloat, Judge Hughes sweeps into the room. Not all judges wear robes for a visitation hearing, but this one does.
Judge Hughes is on the short, stocky side, but I’d bet money that he’s ex-military. He’s silver-haired, white, his face lined but still stern.
“Be seated,” he commands as he sits, then finally looks up at everyone in the room. His face betrays nothing as he glances over Lucinda and me, but his gaze settles on the empty desk to our left.
He laces his fingers together.
“The plaintiff isn’t here yet?” he asks, pointedly looking at the clock on the back wall.
“No, Your Honor,” answers Pete the bailiff.
The judge is still glaring at the clock.
“Well, thank you to everyone who managed to make it on time today,” he says, more than a note of irritation in his voice. “If the plaintiff has not shown up by five after, then we’ll have to table this matter and reconvene—”
The door swings open, and we all turn.
It’s a man I don’t recognize. He’s got on a dark gray suit with a dark blue tie. His briefcase is black and shiny. His shoes are black and shiny. He’s white, tall, probably in his fifties, and he smiles easily at Judge Hughes.
The judge’s face softens.
“Apologies, your honor,” the man says. “You know how it is with all the construction on the roads these days.”
For a moment, I think that Crystal’s just sent her lawyer and hasn’t come herself. I actually let myself get optimistic.
Then the door swings open again, and she comes through.
Belly-first.
My jaw nearly hits the floor. I barely even notice that she’s followed by another man, this one younger but just as well-dressed as the lawyer.
Crystal’s pregnant.
Crystal’s seriously pregnant, far enough along that it’s obvious, though the way she’s got both her hands splayed over her swollen belly does call attention to it.
When the hell did that happen? I think. My heart is rattling again, inside my chest, faster and more desperate than before.
I just saw her six weeks ago, when I dropped Rusty off for a few hours. Was she pregnant then and I didn’t notice?
She must have been.
The belly’s not the only thing.
It’s not even the thing that alarms me the most.
Crystal’s wearing a suit. It’s a full-on pinstripe pantsuit, complete with heels, a nice-looking purse, and a string of pearls.
The woman who once left a six-month-old Rusty home alone in her crib so she could go out and get hammered with her friends now has a brand-new lawyer and looks like a Stepford wife. The last time we came to court, a year and a half ago, her lawyer was considerably shabbier, and she was wearing torn jeans.