Once again in his car he circles a small park east of Tom’s garage. It’s not quite far east enough to hit my area of town, but far enough away from his area that I’m not terrified. Because of the cold, gray day, the park is relatively empty. Empty except for the woman with blond hair standing next to a car several spots down from ours. From the moment we pulled in, she’s stared at Isaiah and me. Also in the park is a middle-aged woman with short, dark brown hair. From the bench nearest the swings, she subtly watches us. Isaiah fell into a heavy silence the moment he placed the car into Park. “I don’t like being stared at,” I say quietly. Isaiah glances at me then to the two women. “She’s my mom,” he says with a short gruffness. “The one next to the car is my social worker.” His fingers tighten into fists as he rests the back of his head against his seat. “I asked to meet with my mom, but now I’m not sure I can.”
