Chapter 5: The One Person She Called
My sister Diane answered on the second ring.
"Maya?
Why are you calling, you should be resting—"
"I need you to come," I said.
"Right now.
Please don't ask me anything yet.
Just come."
A pause.
Then: "I'm already getting my keys."
She arrived twenty-two minutes later.
She walked through the front door, took one look at me sitting on the hallway floor with Noah, took one look at Mr.
Briggs standing near the wall, and her face went through about six different expressions before settling on the one I knew best.
Diane in problem-solving mode.
"Tell me everything," she said, sitting down beside me.
I told her in a low voice while Mr.
Briggs pretended not to listen.
The groceries.
The nurse.
The letter.
The report.
Helen's voice carrying through the dining room wall for the past forty minutes.
Diane didn't interrupt once.
When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
"She filed a welfare report," Diane said.
"Yes."
"Against you.
Five days postpartum."
"Yes."
"While she was the one refusing your care."
"Yes."
Diane stood up.
"Which room is she in?"
"Diane—"
"I'm not going to do anything.
I just want to see her face."
"The family services officers are still here.
Please."
She sat back down.
Slowly.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay." She took a breath.
"Does she know you called me?"
"Not yet."
Diane looked at Mr.
Briggs.
"Is my sister under any kind of formal review right now?"
Mr.
Briggs chose his words carefully.
"We're still in the assessment phase.
No determination has been made."
"What would help her case?"
"Evidence that the home environment is safe and that the primary caregiver is receiving appropriate support."
Diane looked at me.
"Your discharge papers.
Do you have them?"
"In my hospital bag.
In the bedroom."
"The nurse's contact information?"
"In my phone."
"Any messages from Helen?
Texts, anything where she told you to do things you weren't supposed to do?"
I thought about it.
Three days ago, Helen had texted me from the living room — three rooms away — telling me to bring her tea.
I had the message.
I had the timestamp.
I had the discharge instructions dated the same day with the words no strenuous activity printed in bold.
"Yes," I said.
Diane nodded once.
"Get me everything you have."
She helped me up carefully, one hand under my arm, and walked me to the bedroom.
She found the discharge papers in my hospital bag.
I pulled up the texts on my phone.
There were eleven of them across five days.
Each one a request.
Groceries.
Cooking.
Carrying.
Cleaning.
Eleven texts.
Five days.
A body that was not supposed to lift anything heavier than the baby.
Diane photographed every one.
When we came back to the hallway, the dining room door was open.
Evan was standing in the doorway.
Sandra was behind him, and Helen was seated at the table, hands folded, watching us.
Her eyes went to Diane.
Then to the phone in Diane's hand.
Something shifted in Helen's expression.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
"What is she doing here?" Helen said.
"She's my sister," I said.
"She's here because I asked her to come."
"This is a family matter—"
"She is my family."
Helen looked at Sandra.
"Is this appropriate?
Bringing in outside parties during an official assessment?"
Sandra looked at Diane.
Then at me.
"There's no restriction on who can be present in the home during a welfare visit."
Helen's mouth tightened.
Diane stepped forward and held out her phone toward Sandra.
"I have my sister's discharge instructions, her medication schedule, and eleven text messages from the past five days in which Helen Carter asked my sister to perform tasks that directly violate those instructions.
I also have the contact information for the home nurse who was turned away at this door on day two." She paused.
"I thought that might be relevant to your assessment."
May you like
The room was very still.
Sandra took the phone.
