Chapter 8: Welfare Check

Greg opened the door before the officer could knock a fourth time.

Two police officers stood on the landing, a man and a woman, in the yellow light of the porch lamp.

Behind them, at the curb, a white truck idled with its headlights off.

I knew whose truck it was.

"Sir," the male officer said. "We have a report of an infant in distress at this address."

"The infant is asleep," Greg said. "Come in. Wipe your boots, please."

He said it so calmly that the officer actually looked down at his boots.

I came out of the hall in my sleep shirt, with my arms crossed over my chest.

"I'm the mother," I said. "Kira Haskell. Who called?"

"The father," the female officer said. "A Mr. Ferris. He said you've had a mental health crisis and moved the baby into a stranger's apartment."

"I moved her into my neighbor's apartment, because my husband changed the locks on mine."

"Ma'am, I'm just going to look at the baby," she said. She said it kindly.

I led her down the hall.

Tilly lay on her back in the borrowed crib with her arms flung up and her mouth slightly open.

The officer stood over her for a full minute.

She checked the crib, the room, the heater and the window latch.

She asked if she could look at the fridge and the formula cans.

Greg opened the fridge for her.

It held eggs, a gallon of milk, my pumped bottles in a labeled row and three of the granola bars he buys in bulk.

"Is that your handwriting on the labels?" she asked me.

"Yes. With dates."

"Any weapons in the home?"

"No," Greg said. "I keep a trauma kit under the sink. You can look at that too."

She did.

When she stood up she said, to her partner, "The apartment's clean and the baby's fine."