Chapter 6
The Greenwiches’ hardwood dining chair dug into Sharon’s butt. No cushions softened the backs or seats of any of the five dining chairs.
Only two chairs in the house were cushioned, and they rested directly in front of the television. These were probably reserved for Cindy’s grandparents.
Mrs. Eleanor Greenwich’s flabby cheeks shook as she asked in a quivery voice, “Do you want some coffee, dear?” Her short hair was frozen in gray waves. There was something excessively grandmotherly about her, like it was an overdone act. “We also have cinnamon rolls and glazed doughnuts.”
“Just black coffee, thank you.”
As Eleanor turned to head to the kitchen, Sharon saw a wrinkled mole the size of a quarter on the left side of Eleanor’s neck with several wiry hairs. It had previously been concealed by her flowered blouse collar. Sharon didn’t think the mole looked bad, but she wondered whether Eleanor felt self-conscious of it.
Pictures of their daughter, Mary, and son-in-law, Joe, were on the fireplace mantel, the dining table, the side tables by the comfort chairs, the cabinet, hanging on three walls—all straight and well dusted. But the surfaces of everything else were dusty. Even more bizarre, Sharon couldn’t see any pictures of their granddaughter whose well-being they were now responsible for.
“She’ll be down in a minute.” Eleanor placed a steaming cup of black coffee with a coaster on the dining table, stirring into the air a cloud of dust particles. A big smile broadened her cheeks as she pushed it toward Sharon. “I’m sure she’s excited, trying to fix herself up and all.”
Heavy drapes darkened the windows. She wanted to pull them open and bring in morning light. This house just didn’t feel right. Things needed fixing. She wasn’t sure of the biggest reason why, but she knew she wouldn’t want a child of hers growing up here.
Cindy stepped softly down the stairs, followed closely by Mr. Greenwich, one skinny, wrinkled hand affixed to her shoulder. This hand didn’t move until Cindy sat down on a dining chair at the head of the table, adjacent to Sharon. Mr. Greenwich sat on Cindy’s right, while Eleanor went to the kitchen.
Even in the dim light, she could see dark circles under Cindy’s eyes and a yellow sickly color in her cheeks.
“Hi sweetie,” she greeted in a weak voice, ashamed of her failed assurances to the girl yesterday of remaining in foster care.
With lines of worry grabbing the skin on her face, Cindy spoke with tremors, “It’s so good to see you.” She quickly glanced at Mr. Greenwich as though seeking approval.
His eyes flashed with ferocity for an elderly man, but only for a split second, then disappeared as though never having existed. He said, “Why don’t you tell the foster care social worker how good we’ve been looking after you?”
Eleanor came back with coffee for herself and her husband, but nothing for Cindy. She hadn’t even asked the girl if she wanted a drink. Sitting, she flooded the thick wooden chair, her buttocks hanging off the back and sides, the wooden legs creaking from the burden of her weight.
“Yes.” Cindy cleared her throat. “This morning we had pancakes and bacon ... hash browns, and drank orange juice,” Cindy spoke, as if reciting rehearsed material. “Last night, we played Scrabble.”
“Very good,” said Mr. Greenwich.
Their grandparental demeanor seemed more and more like a tired façade that would soon break. Leaning across the table, Sharon gently ran her hand through the girl’s hair, surreptitiously checking for bumps or broken skin. “How have you been feeling?”
“Good ...” She stole a glance at Eleanor. “Very good.” She looked down, cleared her throat again, and said blandly, “They treat me nice here.” But when she looked up, her eyes were puddles.
“Sweetie, I never got a chance to say goodbye to you.”
“I know,” she said, choking and looking down.
“I stopped by today for that reason.”
The girl barely nodded.
Speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Greenwich, Sharon asked, “Do you think we could have a few minutes alone?”
Eleanor raised her eyebrows and spoke quickly, “The county social worker didn’t say anything about time alone with the girl. She just said you could say goodbye. I like to follow the rules, Ms. Wilson.” She sipped her coffee and then set it down. “Please don’t ask me to do something I cannot.”
“Of course not. But I wouldn’t think the county worker would mind if—”
“I don’t like to assume things.”
“I just thought since Cindy and I knew each other, you—”
“You thought wrong.” Eleanor had completely lost her grandmotherly demeanor. Each wrinkle in her face now appeared carved from years of rage. Each sagging clump of flesh was now pulled tight against bones hardened by years of strict, cold, uncaring behaviors. She glared at the girl. “I’m sure you could tell Ms. Wilson anything here that you could tell her in private.”
“Yes, this is fine,” Cindy answered in almost a whisper. “It was nice of you to come, Sharon.” She said more strongly, “I’ve missed you.”
Eleanor’s lower lip curled out, exposing the bottom row of yellowed teeth. “I’m sure you do, darling.” Turning to Sharon, she had a wild look in her gray eyes, reminiscent of her daughter’s. “How long have you known Cindy?”
“Five months.”
“How often did you see each other?”
“Three times a month.” She believed Eleanor already knew this. The grandmother had to have known if she had been talking with Mary or Joe. “It may not sound like much, but the time we spent was quality time.”
Eleanor picked at the mole on her neck, inadvertently or purposely pushing her flowered collar further back. “I’m sure it was.”
Mr. Greenwich interjected, “Look, we want you and my grandchild to have closure, but how long will this take? We’ve made plans for Disneyland today, and the longer we wait, the longer the lines will get. Isn’t that right, Cindy?”
She sat still in her chair, her arms and legs motionless. “Yes, Grandpa.”
“I’m sorry,” Sharon apologized. “I … my intentions were not to disrupt your day, just to express care for your granddaughter.”
“We appreciate that, Ms. Wilson, but we assure you she has plenty of care here.”
A single tear rolled quietly down Cindy’s right cheek, pausing briefly halfway.
“Yes,” Sharon unwillingly agreed, “I’m sure she does. Really, I just wanted to say goodbye.”
Mr. Greenwich stood up, pulling Cindy up by the arm, “Okay, then let’s say our goodbyes.” Eleanor also stood.
The girl’s head lowered.
Sharon felt awful. She pushed her hard chair back underneath the table, knelt down, and gave Cindy a long hug. When Sharon’s arms slackened, Cindy’s still held tight. As more time passed, the girl’s arms grew tighter.
Mr. and Mrs. Greenwich began shifting their weight from one leg to the other, their eyes meeting at times, the air becoming tenser by the second.
Finally, Eleanor groaned as she peeled off her granddaughter’s arm and pushed the girl into her husband. “Goofy, Donald Duck, and Mickey are waiting for you.”
Mr. Greenwich fixed his wrinkled, skeletal arm around his granddaughter’s shoulders and almost had to drag her up the creaking stairs. Halfway up, she turned to Sharon with the saddest, frightful look on her pale face.