I Know You Do<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI love you,\u201d she whispers so softly it could be mistaken as a loud breath, the kind you exhale when practicing yoga. Lips to downy forehead, she rocks the side to side sway inherent to mothers everywhere while the muslin-covered football-shaped bundle squeaks and occasionally throws up a tiny, shaky hand either in rebellion or as a constant reminder that they\u2019re still here. The jury\u2019s still out on which it is.<\/p>\n This moment, the first greeting between a mother and her baby\u2013lifegiver and progeny, lover and beloved is so intimate that I press my back against the chair in a futile battle against my own presence. If only I had a cloak of invisibility that could shroud me from view, I could disappear into oblivion leaving these two enraptured by the other one\u2019s gaze. I can\u2019t help but feel like I am in a hospital ward as I sit, back pressed to chair\u2013the sterile room empty but for the woman, hunched and rocking and the uncomfortable metal chair on which she perches, babe nestled in the crook of her arm, and a recently discarded car seat. The woman murmurs as dark hair falls around her face encapsulating her and the baby, too low for me to understand. As she gazes at the mass of blankets I can see the similarities\u2013a small nose, beautiful eyes\u2026just a hint of olive skin. The rosebud lips under the blanket are an echo of an absence\u2013another adoring adult, missing. I tap, tap, tap on my laptop swinging my cursor between checking my email, responding to a message, eyes constantly darting from my screen to the pair and back again. I scribble a note, \u201c Mother interacting appropriately.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCan I stand with her?\u201d the woman asks. I look up and smile.<\/p>\n \u201cSure you can. Do you need any help?\u201d She scowls, her fringe of bangs shaking as she shifts the bundle to her left arm and pushes herself up with her right. I see her wince and my body tenses preparing to lend an arm, but she turns as she stands shielding the infant with her body, her ragged, flannel-covered back now facing me. Step, step, step to the wall, turn and step, step, step ten times to the other wall and then back again. The soft scuff-scuff of her shuffle creates a rhythm and I imagine this woman, barely more than a girl swollen and almost limping as her frame is overtaken and her balance undermined with the basketball-like sphere that every woman\u2019s midsection resembles once they make it past that thirty-two week mark of pregnancy. The remnant of that too-full-let-this-be-over soon waddle lingers and a mewling sound escapes from the bundle of blankets. Small animal or infant, either could be the source of the pitiful sound and the woman presses her hand to her chest, pressing and grimacing as the infant cajoles herself into a cry that quickly becomes a full-blown wail of need.<\/p>\n \u201cShh, shh, shh,\u201d matches the scuff-scuff-scuff of the mother\u2019s shoes as the baby wails, demanding and insistent. I scribble another line, \u201cMother is appropriate. Attempts to soothe the infant when upset.\u201d The woman scuffs to the metal chair and sits once again. The baby wails and she groans, hand to her chest.<\/p>\n \u201cSarah, did you bring a bottle?\u201d I ask. She gives me a firm side eye and mutters, \u201cI wanted to breastfeed,\u201d even as she rummages through a small bag on the floor. Water, formula and shake shake shake, the powder melting into the nutrient dense, horrible smelling formula and tickles the infant\u2019s mouth with the nipple. The infant greedily latches on as she audibly gurgles and swallows until her sounds relax into satisfied grunts. Her mother\u2019s lips almost curl into a smile and she rocks humming a tune that I don\u2019t recognize.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re new. I haven\u2019t seen you before.\u201d A statement of fact, not a question. Startled by her voice I stammer, \u201cNew to the case, not the agency. I\u2019ve been here for over a year.\u201d My chest swells thinking of the colorful paper pinned behind my desk in my cubicle, \u201cThank you for lighting up DSS for one year.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou got kids?\u201d she asks, shifting the infant to her shoulder where she proceeds to pat the baby\u2019s back. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. A pint-sized burp eeks out of the tiny bundle. I parrot the department approved answer, \u201cIt doesn\u2019t really matter if I have kids.\u201d The woman harrumphs and cleans the spit-up from the corners of the baby\u2019s mouth. A sneeze makes the infant\u2019s body jerk and Sarah seems frozen. Previously focused on her interrogation about my status as a parent, her attention has shifted to the pile of blankets and the tiny human now laying on her legs, blinking slowly.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s what all the workers who don\u2019t got kids say,\u201d her disdain was palpable. I write, \u201cMother fed infant and burped appropriately.\u201d I look up and begin, \u201cDon\u2019t forget\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know, I know. I have to change her diaper. Don\u2019t rush me.\u201d she interjects.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat did you name her?\u201d I offer the question as an olive branch.<\/p>\n \u201cShould be in your paperwork.\u201d Sarah sneers, her eyes never leaving the infant. She peels off layer after layer of blanket and I see the tiny shaky movements of the infant\u2019s hands. Sarah gently manipulates the baby\u2019s stiff appendages through the maze that is the zippers, clasps and clips that make sleep-deprived parents curse in the middle of the night as they grapple with diapers, wipes, excrement and bottles at 2 AM. The baby\u2019s stiffness makes it a slower process and as Sarah proceeds to undo the velcro of the diaper, I resign myself that I\u2019m not going to get a response.<\/p>\n I can see the tremors from my seat. THe rigid shake that speaks volumes. A testament that babies don\u2019t need to be born before irreparable harm can be done. \u201cOh baby, let\u2019s get you dressed,\u201d Sarah croons.\u00a0 \u201cYou should make sure she is dressed better. Look at her. She\u2019s cold. She\u2019s shaking.\u201d Sarah addresses me, sweet to sour demeanor in as much time as it took to turn her head.<\/p>\n \u201cThere was a hat in her seat, I think.\u201d I rustle in the car seat, triumphantly brandishing the small pink hat embroidered with flowers. Sarah snatches it from my hands and I see the scratches and the scabs the size of the head of a thumbtack on her fingers. I\u2019m vigilant for any tell\u2013nodding off, slurred words, falling asleep, but Sarah offers none.<\/p>\n \u201cSarah, there\u2019s ten minutes left.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know how to read the clock.\u201d she retorts. I breathe deeply and try to think about how I would feel in her place. Empathize. That\u2019s what the department calls it.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s still cold.\u201d Sarah says and offers me a view of the baby.<\/p>\n \u201cSarah, you know she\u2019s not shaking because she is cold.\u201d Sarah\u2019s dark eyes, the ones mirrored in the babe she holds, meet mine. She seethes as she says,<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not a bad mom.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know you\u2019re not a bad mom. I think you love her very much.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI do love her. She\u2019s just cold because you people aren\u2019t taking care of her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe you\u2019re right, Sarah.\u201d I want to nip this line of discussion before it can escalate. \u201cShe probably is cold. I\u2019ll make sure she has an extra layer next time. It\u2019s time for\u00a0 us to get ready to go. Do you want me to put her into the car seat?\u201d I hold my hands like Oliver Twist begging for some more.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll do it.\u201d Sarah insists, her anger rolling off her in waves.<\/p>\n I once watched a documentary about mother wolves and how fiercely they protect their young. The same look behind the yellow eyes of that mother world when a predator got between her and her cub is the insistent, desperate gleam I recognize in Sarah\u2019s eyes. I gesture to the car seat and she lowers the sleeping infant into the car seat, fumbling as she threads the infant\u2019s arms through the straps, her hands beginning to shake. One click. Two clicks. The restraint is in place securing the infant into the seat as Sarah murmurs, \u201cI love you\u201d to the tiny infant whose twitching arms are the only indication that her sleep is less than peaceful, interrupted by symptoms of withdrawal.<\/p>\n \u201cIt was good to see you, Sarah. I hope I see you at court tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n Sarah doesn\u2019t meet my eyes as she picks at her fingers. \u201cI really do love her,\u201d Sarah whispers and as I walk out the glass doors and buckle the car seat into the county car to return the infant to her foster home I think to myself, \u201cI know you do.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n “I Know You Do” was selected by Raul Palma as a finalist in the Distinguished Voices Short Story Contest\u00a0<\/strong><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n Kristina Petrella<\/strong> is a non-traditional student who received her BA in psychology from SUNY Cortland in 2020. She is currently pursuing her MS in Community Health also from SUNY Cortland and is looking forward to her graduation in Spring 2024. When she\u2019s not writing or devouring novels she spends her time raising her five children and caring for her three dogs, Grim, Greg and Ruth. Kristina currently works as a Community Response Team Coordinator at Cornell University. \u201cI Know You Do\u201d was written after Kristina\u2019s experience as an investigator and caseworker with Cortland County Child Protective Services.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
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