Coming of Edge 15: Mother of Sorrows

Patrick left the small bakery with a bread roll and a cup of coffee and sat on a public bench. Dahlem was a small town with hills and plastered buidings.

As all small towns it seemed slow and under-complex to Patrick. He reminded himself, that this was not a bad thing, just a thing of expectations and acclimatisation.

There were primarily old people milling about in the morning warmth, which almost tipped into heat. He remembered how some opinions a decade ago had welcomed climate change to turn the Eifel into a second Tuscany and wondered if those people still would double-down on that view. Probably.

But the breakfast was good.

After he finished his meal he checked the directions on his route assistant and decided to go the rest of the way by foot. After the six-hour train-ride to get here it was a welcome activity. He walked down a long road which was gently sloping down a hill, offering him a view on wide vineyards and fields.

The clean air was nice and he thoroughly enjoyed that traffic was occasional. He could not imagine living in in the countryside, but it did have definitive upsides.

He arrived at the place. It was a family home with a neat, well maintained garden. The house itself seemed pretty large. He wondered what he would do with that much space but did not find an answer.

A small dog barked as he rang the bell. The door was opened and a young dog with fuzzy fur dashed out, greeting Patrick happily. “Lola. Sit.” The dog obeyed, visibly fighting with her inner urges but eagerly gobbling up the instant reward she received from the teenage girl who had opened the door.

It was the girl his agent had turned up. She was wearing casual pants and a shirt. Her belly showed a slight swelling. She looked at him with the innocent curiosity of being raised protected. “Yes?”

Patrick had played this through in his mind several times. He must not mess this up. He tried to reassure himself that if someone could pull it off, it was him. He was a caseworker.

“Good morning. My name’s Patrick Hainer.” He smiled genuinely at her, level and clear voice. “I am working for the Department of Health. We received a notification to make an informational visit to ‘Martha Bergmann’. Can I speak to her?”

The girl looked skeptical. “Do you have an ID or something?”

Patrick pulled out the one from work and handed it to her.

“Hamburg?” she frowned. “Isn’t that a bit far off?”

“Indeed, it is.” He tried to charm her with a smile. “There is a division for more complicated cases and we are chronically understaffed, especially since the EU-wide restructuring.” He raised an eyebrow. “I am bit surprised. My visit should have been announced beforehand. Still, can’t force anyone and I won’t try.” He smiled again. “But Martha or her parents could call the official number on the card and verify my identity. It was a long journey.”

It was a gamble of stacked and blatant lies. He started shaking and hoped she would not notice.

“Nah, it’s okay, come in. I am Martha.” She waved him in. The dog watched everything attentively. “Do you want something to drink? Tea, water, juice?”

“Water would be nice.” He felt bad about what he was doing, he could not ask for more than that.

She led him through the hallway to the living room. The room had a prominent cross in it. Then they went out again on the patio. He registered her confident gait, her natural movements. She felt safe in this middle-class, christian home of her family and Patrick felt relief. He feared this whole situation could resolve into a domestic-abuse case and it just had become a bit more unlikely. The dog followed them outside with a lolling tongue.

She served him a glass of sparkling water as they sat down on the chairs on the patio. The garden allowed a wide view on the adjacent valley and rolling hills while the sun bathed it all in warm late-spring glow. He pulled out his tablet and the stylus.

“Okay, let’s jump right into it, Martha. You were recently recognized to be pregnant and your are sixteen years old, right?”

“Yeah, almost seventeen.”

“The state offers support for underage pregnancies and we want you to know that we do care – for you and the child to be safe, yes. But most importantly you first.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know who the father is? He should be involved in this as well.”

“There’s no father. I mentioned that to the doctor.” She seemed annoyed.

“No father? My file just says that the father is not known.” he feigned ignorance.

“There’s no father. I never had sex with a man.” She was annoyed. It had to be a frequent topic she had to face. He decided to take the risk to push her on this.

“Okay, I am not going to question you on this. That’s not my job. I just have to tell you that it’s going to raise some flags and flags mean further investigation. We encounter scenarios like yours quite often in abuse cases. Victims often fear and face violence or social retribution on revealing the identity of their perpetrators and we need to make sure you are safe.” He used his insistent voice, clearly articulated and slow with hard pronounciation.

Then he deliberately pulled back, releasing her of the pressure. “Most times it’s just a relationship accident between young people and the girl tries to protect her boyfriend who would otherwise be punished.”

“It’s not like that.” she replied in a shaky voice. “I like girls.”

Patrick was dumbstruck. He remembered the cross in the living room. There was a social dynamic at play, completely different from the narrow, judgmental view he had thought would be obvious. A lesbian virgin daughter burdened with the expectations of a Christian family in a Catholic countryside who carried a child with no apparent father. He took a sip of water because he had no other way to process this.

She interpreted his silence as judgment. “I tried. I really tried. But most boys are so gross. And Noah–” she nearly fell apart. She started sobbing uncontrollably. The dog looked up at her, sympathetically.

“Who’s Noah?” Patrick felt anger gathering in his throat. His voice growled.

“I– I, we dated. A few times. It was not bad but I did not feel anything and then he wanted more–”

Patrick watched her. He needed to stay calm.

“But we didn’t do anything! We were just kissing!” The girl was devastated and crying. “He pushed for more, but he’s not bad guy!”

Then it hit him. She was not the potent, it was the boy. He wanted to press her for his name, his address. He wanted to spring into action and move on. He looked at the girl again. At her shaking body, tears streaming down her face, leaving wet, dark spots on her pants.

He felt guilty and selfish.

He walked over to her and knelt beside her. He then lifted the little dog into her lap which instantly tried lapping at her tears. He touched her upper arm very softly with all gentleness he could muster, resting his hand on her skin and swallowed hard.

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