Chapter 6: Where's The Heat
The social worker came in while the nurse was checking the baby's temperature. She was a woman in her forties with a clipboard and a county ID badge that said Department of Family Services, and she didn't smile when she introduced herself. I was still in the hospital bed with the white blanket pulled up to my chest. The bassinet was right next to me, transparent sides, light blue blanket tucked around the baby. My husband was standing by the window with his coat folded over the chair.
"I'm Janet," she said. "I'm here to go over discharge planning."
She asked me where we lived. I told her the apartment on the third floor, the one with the large windows. She asked if the heat was working. I looked at my husband. He didn't answer right away.
He said he would handle it and stepped into the hallway with his phone. My mom was sitting in the corner chair. She had brought a thermos and was pouring tea like we were just visiting.
Janet pulled the curtain half closed and lowered her voice. "We can't discharge a newborn to a home without heat," she said. "Especially not in this weather. It's ten degrees outside. I need documentation that the apartment is at a safe temperature and that you have a safe sleep setup. No portable heaters, no oven heat. Actual central heat."
I swallowed. My throat was dry. "We have a bassinet," I said. "The one from home, with the light blue blanket."
"That helps," she said. "But heat is non-negotiable. I need proof from the utility or the landlord before I can sign off."
Out in the parking lot, I could see my husband through the window. He was pacing next to his black suitcase which he'd left by the car and hadn't unpacked. He had his phone to his ear. Even from three floors up I could see how he held his shoulders up against the wind. He was on hold for a long time, then talking, then on hold again.
My mom leaned forward. "You don't need to make this complicated, Wendy," she said. "You were overwhelmed. I told you I'd handle the accounts."
"What did you handle?" I asked.
"I made sure nothing bounced," she said. "I canceled the autopays so you wouldn't get fees."
Janet looked at her. "Are you authorized on the utility account?"
My mom blinked. "I'm the emergency contact. I'm on everything. Her dad set it up that way when she signed the lease. It's easier if I help."
That was when I realized it wasn't just help. I asked Janet if I could call the gas company myself. She handed me the room phone and dialed the number my husband texted me from the parking lot. A recorded voice told me the wait time was over twenty minutes. When a woman finally answered, I gave her our address.
I said, "Can you tell me if the heat is on at our apartment?"
She typed. "Service was voluntarily discontinued on the 14th," she said. "Per account holder request. There's a note that authorized contact Carla Benson called in."
My mom's name is Carla.
I said, "I'm the account holder. Wendy. Can I turn it back on?"
"You can," she said. "But since it was a voluntary disconnect, we need the primary account holder to authorize restoration in person or by phone with ID verification. And there's a reconnection fee. Sixty dollars plus any past due balance."
I asked how much the past due balance was. She said zero, the account had been closed out clean. But to reinstate, we had to pay the fee up front and provide proof of occupancy.
I hung up and my hands were shaking. Janet was writing on her clipboard.
My husband came back in, his coat dusted with snow. He smelled like cold air and car exhaust. He looked at me first, then at Janet.
He said, "Gas company said the same thing to me. Voluntary cancel. They won't talk to me because I'm not the primary. Landlord said heat is tenant-paid gas, not building heat, so it's on us. He wants a utility confirmation before he signs any letter for you."
He showed me his phone. He'd tried to pay the reconnection fee through the banking app while he was on hold. The screen still showed the balances from that night. $3.00. $2.00. Green toggles that did nothing.
"There's nothing to pay it with," he said quietly.
Janet capped her pen. "Here's what I need for discharge," she said. "One, gas service restored with documentation from the utility showing active heat at that address. Two, you remove any unauthorized authorized contacts so this doesn't happen again, in writing. Three, the bassinet set up at home, I can do a phone verification or photos, but ideally an in-person check. Until then, baby stays here."
My mom stood up. "This is ridiculous. I was trying to protect her money. She was spending on things she didn't need."
I looked at the bassinet. The baby was making small breathing sounds under the white hospital blanket, wearing the light blue hat.
I said, "Mom, you canceled the heat."
She didn't answer. She picked up her thermos and zipped her purse.
My husband sat down on the edge of the chair and put his head in his hands for a second. Then he looked at Janet.
"So we have to get her name off the account and find sixty dollars we don't have," he said.
May you like
Janet nodded. "And the bank autopay. If she's authorized there too, you'll want to revoke that today."
The room was quiet except for the monitors. Outside the window the snow kept falling. The heat in the hospital hissed through the vents and I realized I hadn't felt warm in days.
