Brea Mitchell
Brea was always soothed by the chatter of the office. The sound of the printer scanning billions of adoption agreements, foster applications, child crimes, and all of the other things wrong with the world. It was difficult for her, knowing that for every minor finally getting the chance of a lifetime by being adopted or for every little boy or girl that was rescued from an abusive home, there was another child killing his brother or running away from home. Being a social worker isn't easy, her mother would say before she died, and when it is, you know you need to find another job.
"Mitchell!" Her boss, Mr. Calvin, called from his office. She stood and pulled her ivory skirt down so it wasn't bunched up at her thighs and straightened her sheer pink blouse. Making sure her ginger-colored hair wasn't mussed, she grabbed her current file and purposefully walked into the office.
"Mr. Calvin, I have a file here that--"
"Save it, Mitchell. I have something else for you," he says. Brea looks up, perplexed. She hadn't had a new case in awhile, after Calvin had said that she needed to focus all of her energy on an abuse case. "The Pearl Family. Single mom, two boys, and a new baby girl. Someone reported the mom as being an unfit caregiver. I need you to go over there and check it out."
Brea nods, already turning to leave the office, when Calvin calls her back. "Hey, Brea. Be careful. Family that reported her said she can be volatile. If you need a police escort, don't hesitate to call." Brea nods, steeling her face and walking out. She grabs her jacket and notepad, almost forgetting her cell phone, and begins the semi-long walk to the Pearl home.
***
After her visit, she deemed that while the mother seemed to be handling the kids quite well on her own, the house itself wasn't deemed safe for three kids. She had seen cases like this before, and knew that her department could help arrange a separate living situation.
Walking home, because Brea never drove anywhere, she got a phone call and decided to take a detour through a small park that she always passed by. "Hello?" She said, but there was no answer. "Is anyone there?"
"Brea?" The voice said and she stopped in her tracks.
"Cam?" Saying that name, she choked on her own breath. All she could think of associated with that name was high school. All those weeks, trapped in his suffocating embrace filled with prescription medications and stolen vodka bottles. It was enough to drive a girl crazy.
"How ya been, babe?"
"I'm not your babe anymore, Cam. That's been over and done for many years, now."
"Oh, come on. Don't be like that. I seem to remember you enjoyin' yourself quite a bit with me now and again."
"Like I said," Brea says with an angry tone, "that's been over and done for many years now. Don't call me again." She hangs up her phone and shoves it in her jacket pocket. Just then, a strong gust of wind blows from behind and sends her notebook flying. "Dammit," she says, jogging after it. It lands right in front of a park bench and she sits down after she grabs it, shutting her eyes and leaning back with a deep breath.
"You ever think that God or whoever has something against you? Like, the minute everything is going really great all of a sudden is goes really bad?" She laughs miserably and sighs, looking at her bench companion and shaking her head. "Sorry. My name's Brea," she says, holding out her hand towards the stranger.
Brea was always soothed by the chatter of the office. The sound of the printer scanning billions of adoption agreements, foster applications, child crimes, and all of the other things wrong with the world. It was difficult for her, knowing that for every minor finally getting the chance of a lifetime by being adopted or for every little boy or girl that was rescued from an abusive home, there was another child killing his brother or running away from home. Being a social worker isn't easy, her mother would say before she died, and when it is, you know you need to find another job.
"Mitchell!" Her boss, Mr. Calvin, called from his office. She stood and pulled her ivory skirt down so it wasn't bunched up at her thighs and straightened her sheer pink blouse. Making sure her ginger-colored hair wasn't mussed, she grabbed her current file and purposefully walked into the office.
"Mr. Calvin, I have a file here that--"
"Save it, Mitchell. I have something else for you," he says. Brea looks up, perplexed. She hadn't had a new case in awhile, after Calvin had said that she needed to focus all of her energy on an abuse case. "The Pearl Family. Single mom, two boys, and a new baby girl. Someone reported the mom as being an unfit caregiver. I need you to go over there and check it out."
Brea nods, already turning to leave the office, when Calvin calls her back. "Hey, Brea. Be careful. Family that reported her said she can be volatile. If you need a police escort, don't hesitate to call." Brea nods, steeling her face and walking out. She grabs her jacket and notepad, almost forgetting her cell phone, and begins the semi-long walk to the Pearl home.
***
After her visit, she deemed that while the mother seemed to be handling the kids quite well on her own, the house itself wasn't deemed safe for three kids. She had seen cases like this before, and knew that her department could help arrange a separate living situation.
Walking home, because Brea never drove anywhere, she got a phone call and decided to take a detour through a small park that she always passed by. "Hello?" She said, but there was no answer. "Is anyone there?"
"Brea?" The voice said and she stopped in her tracks.
"Cam?" Saying that name, she choked on her own breath. All she could think of associated with that name was high school. All those weeks, trapped in his suffocating embrace filled with prescription medications and stolen vodka bottles. It was enough to drive a girl crazy.
"How ya been, babe?"
"I'm not your babe anymore, Cam. That's been over and done for many years, now."
"Oh, come on. Don't be like that. I seem to remember you enjoyin' yourself quite a bit with me now and again."
"Like I said," Brea says with an angry tone, "that's been over and done for many years now. Don't call me again." She hangs up her phone and shoves it in her jacket pocket. Just then, a strong gust of wind blows from behind and sends her notebook flying. "Dammit," she says, jogging after it. It lands right in front of a park bench and she sits down after she grabs it, shutting her eyes and leaning back with a deep breath.
"You ever think that God or whoever has something against you? Like, the minute everything is going really great all of a sudden is goes really bad?" She laughs miserably and sighs, looking at her bench companion and shaking her head. "Sorry. My name's Brea," she says, holding out her hand towards the stranger.