LITMIR.BIZ

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Southeast Michigan in its frozen fist. And given that no matter how many times she shared moments like this with the teens, she’d never been able to escape her own private longing. But she brushed away the dampness, tucked the lock of hair that had escaped from her braid behind her ear and stepped right inside the circle of teens. One of her girls had invited her into this special moment, and she was determined to be there for every one of them no matter how much it cost her.

      It couldn’t matter this morning that Holly and the other girls entering their second trimesters weren’t the only ones intimately familiar with the butterfly flutter of life inside of them. Shannon’s secret was just another square stitched into a faded quilt of memories, and that quilt needed to remain folded away for another day.

      She bent over the sixteen-year-old and splayed a hand on her belly. It came as no surprise that she felt no motion beneath her fingertips other than the rise and fall of the girl’s breathing. When she shook her head, Holly’s smile fell.

      “Here, let me try.” Kelly, a recent Hope Haven addition with close-trimmed black hair and lovely café au lait skin, squeezed in closer. She held her fingers to the spot Holly indicated for several seconds and then pulled them away. “I don’t feel it, either.”

      Shannon patted Holly’s shoulder. “At first you might be the only one who can feel the baby’s movements, but before long they’ll be strong enough to knock a quarter off your stomach.”

      “She’s right. Believe me.” Brooke, in her thirty-third week, rubbed a spot where a foot or elbow must have been poking her rib cage.

      Holly’s smile returned as she traced a circular pattern near the hem of her oversize Michigan State sweatshirt. Still a child herself, she clearly was in love with her baby.

      Shannon could relate to that. As much to escape from her feelings as to hide them, she turned away from the sweet scene. Only then did she notice the three girls sitting in a row at computer terminals, focused on their online assignments while avoiding the excitement surrounding Holly’s pregnancy milestone. It seemed unfair that they couldn’t enjoy this celebration of life together since they’d all already chosen life for their babies. But for some of the girls who’d committed to adoption, becoming attached to the fetuses they carried was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

      Unfortunately, Shannon could relate to that, too.

      The girls’ varied reactions served as reminders of where they were. No matter how positive she and the other staff tried to make Hope Haven, it was still a Christian home for teen moms. The girls there would make more critical decisions than even the unfortunate choices that led to their pregnancies. Most would make those decisions with no input from their babies’ fathers, some without their families’ support. Shannon only prayed that the girls would be able to live with their decisions.

      “Miss Shannon, have you planned the menus for our Thanksgiving celebration?” Tonya called from one of the PCs across the room.

      “We’re all set, but the holiday’s still six days away, and you have midterms coming up, so don’t start thinking about turkey and dressing yet.”

      Tonya grinned as she tightened the band on her raven ponytail. “Then could you look at this problem for me?”

      “Absolutely.”

      The request for study help came as a relief from the intensity of the moment, that is until she recognized that the honor student was working on derivatives.

      “Are you sure you want my help? Can it wait until Mrs. Wright comes back to teach on Monday?”

      Her ponytail bobbed as she shook her head, her hand resting on the curve of her tummy. “Today you’re all we’ve got.”

      Tonya probably hadn’t intended for her comment to be a monumental statement, but their gazes connected with the truth of her words. While the girls were at Hope Haven, Shannon really was all they had. Well, she and a second social worker, a part-time classroom instructor, a weekends-only cook and a visiting minister, anyway.

      Still, her girls were relying on her to help them navigate this terrifying journey into teenage motherhood. They needed her to teach them about proper nutrition and prenatal care, help them keep up with their online high school classes, pray with them, cry with them. And yes, she would even help them with derivatives once she refreshed her memory on how to find those.

      “Well, let’s give it a shot.”

      She pulled over a chair and sat next to Tonya, studying the steps the teen had typed below the math problem.

      “Wait. You multiplied the coefficient wrong here.”

      Pushing her red wire glasses up on her nose, Tonya studied the screen and then smiled. “Maybe I should learn to multiply before I take on calculus.”

      “The simple mistakes are the ones that trip us up.” Shannon pushed back from the desk and stood, grateful that the answer had been easy to locate.

      If only the solutions to the challenges facing these teens were as obvious or as simple. Some of the girls and their families would choose to keep the babies, with real or idealized expectations. Several would choose adoption and become the answer to prayer for childless couples. Some would return to their former lives and try to forget this ever happened. But the truth remained that no matter what decisions they made, no matter what justifications they gave for their choices, none of these girls would ever be the same.

      Shannon understood that most of all.

      * * *

      The pungent scent of stale ice assailed his senses as Trooper Mark Shoffner passed through the frozen-food section on his way to the Savers’ Mart store office. The suspect hadn’t picked the most sanitary place in Commerce Township to hit, but he’d been wrong in assuming that the staff would be equally lax on theft recovery.

      Inside the office, the juvenile suspect slouched in a chair in a belligerent teen pose: arms and ankles crossed, a Detroit Tigers baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Mark stopped outside the door, sighing. He’d drawn the short straw again as the new guy at the Brighton Post, having to deal with another James Dean wannabe, especially so early on a school day. If only he hadn’t responded to the call from the area dispatcher.

      He had to be the biggest misery magnet on the Michigan State Police force. If his cheating ex-wife, who blamed her infidelity on his marriage to the force instead of her, wasn’t enough, then state cuts requiring the closure of the Iron River Post helped cinch the title for him. With setbacks like these, how was he supposed to build a decorated police career that could prove he wasn’t a juvenile delinquent anymore?

      Mark referred to his notes from the manager and looked to the boy again. “Blake Wilson?”

      “Present.”

      Blake lifted his hand and let it fall without bothering to look up. He was trying to appear tough, all right. But the coating of filth on his jeans, sneakers and flimsy zipper sweatshirt and the grime melding with the crop of peach fuzz on his chin hinted that the world was beating up on Blake Wilson instead of the other way around.

      “Well, good.” Mark stepped over the boy’s outstretched legs, pulled out a second chair from behind the desk and dropped into it. “I’m Trooper Shoffner of the Michigan State Police. Now, I’ll tell you how this is going to go. You’re going to sit up in that chair, take off that hat and look me in the eye. Then we’re going to have a talk.”

      “So that’s how it’s going to go, huh?” The boy continued to stare at a spot on the floor.

      “Unless you prefer me to cuff you now and take you on a ride in my patrol car first.”

      Seconds passed without any movement from the teen, but Mark folded his hands and waited. One of them had to win this power struggle, and it was going to be him. Though they’d only just met, Mark knew the kid well. He’d been that kid. But he wasn’t that guy anymore, whether others accepted that truth or not, and he needed to stick with the present if he wanted to show the suspect who was in charge.

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