Page 145 of Headstrong Like Us

Empty bookshelves linethe library walls. Emerald-glass lamps cast soft light and shadows around us. Maximoff crosses his arms over his bare chest, readiness cemented from head to toe. We both had enough time to throw on some sweatpants and walk down the hall.

That’s it.

Whatever the police have to say—bad news or good—I just don’t need to hear the words spoken in our new bedroom.

I answer the call on the last ring and quickly put it on speakerphone.

“This is Farrow Keene.”

“Dr. Keene, I’m Sergeant Collins with the PPD.” His tone is stern and direct. “You’re the legal guardian of Tina Ripley and Scott Donnelly’s child. Correct?”

Shit.

I glance at Maximoff, and his cheekbones sharpen, jaw clenched. My head spins a little, and I clutch the phone tighter.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’m the guardian.”

“There’s no easy way to say this…” Sergeant Collins takes a deeper, strained breath. “An officer found Tina’s body. She died this morning.”

My chest caves in. Maximoff turns around and walks to the window, dark drapes pulled closed.

I blink to focus my searing eyes. Not wanting to stare in the distance.

I’ve been around death enough to be used to these kinds of calls. Ones that end with simple facts: time of death, cause of death.

You leave the hospital and you don’t want to carry grief home with you, that’s what my father taught me. But I also never wanted to become desensitized to a life ending too soon, sometimes violently, sometimes unjustly. And there’s nothing I could do but try and save them, and when that didn’t work, I had to back away.

Maximoff likes to help people. I like to heal people, and knowing that Tina was out there suffering and we couldn’t find her—that’s going to stay with us.

And this will change Ripley’s life.

I intake a breath, calm as I reply to Sergeant Collins. “Is there a cause of death?” I wonder. “Where did they find her?”

I know the questions Ripley will ask when he’s older. Because I remember the questions I asked my dad about Cassidy Keene, maiden name Walsh.

My mom.

What’s her name?

How did she die?

Can I see pictures?

Did she love me?

I asked him what my mom was like only a few times. My father said she was intelligent, a good baker, methodical and practical—I had a hard time ever asking him again. I couldn’t make sense of what I felt. His happiness as he described her brought on jealousy that I hated to meet. And as he listed qualities and told stories, I just saw what he valued in my mom. I didn’t like the idea that his perspective would completely shade mine.

Mostly, I enjoyed seeing pictures. Any of her and me.

On the phone, Sergeant Collins gives me a street address in South Philly and says it was in the alley behind the Quickie-Mart. “It was an OD,” he explains further. “Meth.”

I rub my lips, my piercing cold. “What does this mean for the guardianship?” I ask and eye Maximoff.

He still has his back turned to me, and he’s pushed aside the drapes. City lights twinkle in the black night.

“Um…” It sounds like Sergeant Collins is shuffling paper around. “It says here that the birth father is still alive and hasn’t relinquished his rights. As far as I know, nothing should change. But a social worker will be in contact with you to give you more information.”

“Thanks.” After a few more words, we hang up.