wasn’t really intending to drink it. I turned on the TV, and at some point I must have drunk it all, barely realizing what I was doing. Then I’d forgotten to set my alarm, although that wasn’t unusual since I’d never needed one with Dylan, but still, for the morning of the court hearing, you’d think I’d remember. You’d think I’d be on top of it, this morning that matters more than any other.
And now I’m here, racing just to be able to show up on time, never mind being organized and efficient and in control, showing the judge and everyone else that I am totally equipped to represent myself, and I should obviously have my son back.
I’ve already searched and copied down the bus route from here to the Juvenile Court in Hartford, and it takes thirty minutes minimum to get there, plus walking time from the station. If I don’t leave in the next five minutes, I am almost certainly going to be late.
“Damn it!” I practically shriek the words, because I’m so furious with myself. This wasn’t how today was meant to go at all. I force myself to calm down because I still have an hour, and panicking won’t help me—or Dylan. I need to stay in control.
I throw on the clothes I’d already picked out—a plain white blouse and a black skirt. It makes me look like a waitress, but it’s the most professional outfit I have. I drag a brush through my hair and shove some makeup into my bag to do on the bus. Then I grab all my notes and papers—fortunately I’d organized them all yesterday, with different color sticky notes and paper clips—and then I practically sprint out of my apartment.
I am breathless and sweating by the time I reach the bus stop on the corner of Farmington and South Main. There is not a bus in sight. I pace up and down, too jittery to stay still, and attract the suspicious looks of the handful of business-suited commuters waiting there.
Where is that bus? It’s already eight fifteen—only fifteen minutes since I woke up, and it shows. My hair is still in a tangle and I haven’t brushed my teeth. I’m a mess. What the hell was I thinking last night, drinking that wine? Stumbling to bed without setting the alarm? Feeling so damned sorry for myself?
I make a sound, sort of a moan, and a woman standing near me edges away. I take a deep breath and do my best to control myself, even though I feel like falling apart. I don’t have that luxury now.
A bus finally lumbers up to the stop five minutes later. As I join the line, I see how crowded it is, and I am terrified the driver will make me wait for the next one.
“Please…” I mutter under my breath, and I get another strange look from someone in line.
Thankfully, the driver waves me on wearily, seeming to sense my desperation. I must look panicked, maybe even crazed—carrying a sheaf of crumpled papers, my shirt untucked.
The bus ride to Hartford, although only a few miles, takes half an hour as the bus judders to a stop what feels like every few seconds. I manage to tuck my shirt in and smooth out my papers; I brush my hair and dab a little concealer and lip gloss on. It’s eight minutes to nine when the bus finally rolls into the Hartford station. According to my phone, it’s a fourteen-minute walk to the Court for Juvenile Matters on Broad Street.
Still, I tell myself, I’ll only be six minutes late. Five, if I hurry.
I half-walk, half-run down the street, stumbling in my heels. It’s four minutes after nine when I get to the Juvenile building, and I groan out loud, nearly a scream, when I see there is a security check at the front door, and a line of at least ten people waiting to go through.
“Please, I’m late,” I say a bit desperately to a man waiting in line. He has a baseball cap pulled low over his face and he wears baggy, low-slung jeans and an oversized T-shirt that hangs almost to his knees. “Please, can you let me go through?”
He gives me a dismissive look from under the battered brim of his cap. “We’re all waiting, lady.”
I take my place in line, biting my lips in frustration, tasting blood. They’ll wait, I tell myself. They must be used to people showing up late. They’ll