Home Visit

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"HI CHARMAINE, I'M Dolly." I don't bother to reach my hand out to the sullen teenager who's sitting, tightly hunched in a big armchair, legs tucked beneath her, hands lost inside pulled down sleeves. She's trying to make herself as small as possible. I recognize the habit of kids who have been treated like they're not worth the space they take up.

The house is really nice. It's unusual to see a kid trying to erase themselves inside a fancy Leaside house. Two car garage, I noted on my way in. Foliage-laden planters flanking the steps to the heavy oak door like palace guards. Frontage, all sandblasted stone and shiny windows. It's not often I get sent on a home visit to a place as nice as this. Not that I'm going to be fooled by a nice house. I know there's bad among the rich, just like there's good among the poor. Wealth doesn't prevent badness—it can just make it a little less obvious.

I take a seat on the couch opposite the girl and gaze through the wall of windows at the back of the house, where I can see the reflected blue shimmer of an in-ground pool.

"A pool, huh? That's something."

I may as well have made this observation to the wall of books behind her. Charmaine doesn't even glance at me. Her dark eyes stay trained on the chicly distressed Moroccan carpet under us.

That's okay. This is just a first visit, and I'm plenty experienced with teen reticence. I know how to play this.

"Okay, so anyway, here's how this goes," I say, affecting a slightly lazy/bored tone to show how little I need from her. "I'm basically here to make sure everything's cool at home. You know, after what happened at school last week."

Her eyes flit to my hands, then back to the ground.

"The fire and everything," I go on as if either of us doesn't know exactly what I might have meant. "And I'm not here to ask you anything about that because I know you've already told the school what happened. But the thing is—" and here I drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "—the school says this isn't the first time you've been in some trouble like this. They think you might need some help at home because your teacher thinks maybe she's seen some bruises on your arms?"

I wait for her to correct me. The school never mentioned 'bruises,' but there was an ER report on the girl's file from last year that indicated someone had been roughing her up—maybe her mother, who appeared to be tweaking on something at the hospital, all worked up. Charmaine shifts a little in her seat, and her arm gets pulled even higher up into her sleeve. That tells me what I needed to know.

"So, I know your dad hasn't been around for a while. And your mom is a little... unreliable."

At this, Charmaine makes a sort of snorting noise.

I continue. "You and your 'unreliable' mom have been living here with your aunt and uncle for about a year and a half now. Is all that about right? I have my facts correct?"

She shrugs her bony shoulders inside her oversized hoodie.

"Okay. All correct then. And what are your aunt and uncle like? My boss says they weren't too happy about me coming around to check on you after what happened. Why not?"

Another shrug.

I take a long look around at the expensive furniture, the polished surfaces, the shine of money that's on everything.

"I'm guessing they don't like it when things aren't perfect, right? And me being here is like a big signal to the world that things aren't perfect?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Charmaine finally speaks.

I nod.

"Yeah, I know how that is," I say. "My mother's like that. Something bad happened when I was a kid, and she still pretends it didn't. Makes me feel... I don't know. Worse about it. Like it didn't happen at all. Like I must have made it up."

Charmaine's eyes lock onto mine for the briefest moment, then she looks away again.

"Anyway, I'm going to leave you my contact info, okay? So you can get in touch any time. And I'm going to come back next week to say hello again if that's okay with you."

Charmaine nods, and I give her a small smile. Not bad for a first visit.

INSTEAD OF LEAVING, I take a left down a hall that leads to the kitchen. The woman who begrudgingly let me in earlier is standing at the counter chopping a butternut squash.

She looks up when I enter. Her eyes size me up in an instant. I know what she sees: second-hand coat, pilled turtleneck sweater, black jeans that are paper thin at the knees. Unladylike attire.

She, on the other hand, is wearing what I think of as the uniform of the happily subjugated. A blush silk blouse, unbuttoned just lower than is strictly modest, a pink lace bra visible beneath. Her skirt hugs her bony hips, and she's wearing heels in her own house.

I'd rather die than have to dress for someone else's pleasure every day, I think to myself.

She's holding the knife in mid-air with a look of annoyed expectation.

"Yes? How'd it go?" She asks finally—less out of interest than a desire to get me out of her house.

"Are you Charmaine's mother?" I ask, already knowing she's not.

"No. I'm her aunt. Her mom's not here right now."

I pull the strap of my bag off my shoulder and let it fall with a thump on the marble surface between us to show her I'm in no rush.

"That's fine. I'd be happy to speak with you first," I say, revelling in her clear discomfort.

She sighs, aggravated, and puts the knife down but doesn't move to sit. We face off across the kitchen island.

I begin.

"You know, of course, about the bit of trouble Charmaine's gotten into at school. I suppose I'd like your impression of when her 'acting out' might have started."

The woman makes a tight face.

"Look, I'm assuming you know the history, right? Her mother... well. She shouldn't have been allowed to have a kid, is my opinion. Of course, that was before Revolut, so it was a free-for-all. You'll remember. Anybody could go and get knocked up."

"Your sister-in-law, I understand she has addiction issues?"

"Pathetic," the woman confirms. She places her hand on her belly protectively. "My baby will never experience what that kid has been through."

I take a mental note. They've gotten permission to get pregnant. Of course. Fancy house, rich family. I'll bet they'd prefer Charmaine and her mother would get the hell out of their soon-to-be-perfect life.

"Congratulations," I say because that's what you say. "Your husband must be thrilled."

She smiles but doesn't comment.

"Is he around? I want to meet him as well if that's possible. Just to say hello."

There is just the slightest glimmer—an emotion I can't quite identify. Hesitation? Fear? Whatever it is, she looks more brittle and eager for me to leave than she already was.

"He's at work. He's very important. Can't just take afternoons off because a social worker is dropping by at no notice."

I let an awkward silence sit between us while I study her. Eventually, I take a long, slow look around the well-equipped kitchen as though assessing her adequacy as a housewife. That always gets them. Then, I turn back to her and say cheerily, "No matter. I can come back one evening next week when he's home."

Her shoulders lift in the tiniest suit-yourself shrug. I pick up my bag and, with some relief, make my way down the hall and out the front door.

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