Bonds

This post has two parts.

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The first part is about this drawing.

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The second part is a first draft chapter from my new book, a memoir of sorts fueled by love, but tendered mostly by bonds.

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Part 1: I've written about her before. She is four years old in foster care, very aware and finally talking about how sad she is to no longer see her mother, her two brothers. This week I watched her doodle pretend letters to write a story that they are all together again. She asked me to write on the paper that I would not leave her, that I would always come back and she asked me to promise. Did I already say she is only four?

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Unless I get run over by a fourteen wheeler, there is no way in hell I will not come back. "This is my THER-A-PIST!" she tells anyone who will listen, a big smile on her face. And, did I mention I love her?

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Part 2: Book Chapter

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Tuesday are my long days: eight clients in a row, each seen at his/her home, meaning at least ten minutes of driving from place to place. I stack my sessions up this way so I can keep the job to three days a week. And actually, I like the flexibility and variety so much—I like the clients and their families so much—most of the time I don’t mind the wrapped up exhaustion I feel by the time I leave my last client.

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On this day I am driving to Yaddi’s house when a restricted call appears on my cellphone. Experience tells me it’s either Mrs. Molina, who enters the restricted code for reasons I do not know, or it’s the state Department of Children and Families. It’s the latter. It’s this solid social worker named Colleen calling to tell me that Jannie’s children are being removed that very moment. Colleen arrived at their decrepit first floor apartment and found Jannie and the three kids, ages 2, 4, and 5, huddled on the porch. The local sheriff had just blocked entrance to the apartment and locked the door and they were all being officially evicted due to Jannie’s failure to pay the rent over several months. According to Colleen, piles of their wrinkled clothes and worn decrepit furniture was strewn across the front lawn. Colleen said the kids looked stunned.
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“Jannie is taking the children to an Aunt’s house. I’m going to follow them there but I can’t let the kids stay. There are no extra bedrooms and I’ve done a search on the aunt. She’s known to us: she’s schizophrenic, not solid at all.”

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Colleen continued, “You should be prepared, Casey. I will pick up the kids unannounced. I’ll try to be in and out within five minutes. That’s the easiest way to do it. Jack and Alex will go to one foster home, Angelina to another. I couldn’t find a placement for all of them together.”
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I am new to this job. I am new to this situation. I know these three children and I know they will be frightened, will look to their mother, cling to her. I am particularly concerned about three year old Angelina. It was only five weeks ago that she was kidnapped by family “friends,” tracked down by the state police in North Carolina after three days on the road, presumably on their way to Disneyworld. The police stopped the car, arrested her “uncle Tito” and “auntie ZZ” and brought a terrified Angelina to the police station, where they arranged for her to be driven back to Massachusetts with a female police officer escort. As soon as she was back home DCF arranged for medical evaluation which showed conclusively that she had been sexually molested.

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It was not known then, and it has not become known for how many days or weeks or months. For several weeks after her return from North Carolina and just before the eviction, when I would see her mother Jannie for her weekly therapy session, I would see Angelina sleeping on the ratted out couch, her small arms outstretched, her face angelic. Not fucking fair, I would think to myself. Not fucking fair.

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I hear this news from Colleen and I want to cry. I know enough to know the kids will not be returned to their mother, not now, not for six months or a year. Probably never. I open my cell phone and call Isabelle. This is not unusual: we regularly call one another two or three times anyway during our workdays.

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“Oh Isabelle”, I moan, “the saddest thing is happening.”

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I tell her the story in abbreviated form. My voice is unsteady and I am close to tears.

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“These Americans,” she says.

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“Isabelle, I’m so upset. This is really sad.”

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“That woman shouldn’t have had kids. And it’s not the government’s problem to fix it. Where’s her family?” She is revving up for a conservative dissertation. I’ve heard it before.
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“There is no other family Isabelle.”
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“Well then that’s the way it is.”
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“Isabelle,” my voice pleading, “I am calling you because I need support. This is very emotional to me. It’s so painful to witness.”

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She continues. “Americans are so spoiled.”
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“Stop Isabelle,” I say. I am recoiling from her detachment. “I can’t hear this. I have to hang up.”

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.“Fine,” she says. And she is gone before I can say goodbye.

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A familiar emptiness rises from my stomach. It starts as an ache and finds its way to my heart, a pounding chill, as if I’ve been orphaned and I cannot find a language that can be understood.
God the fuck damn it Isabelle, I am shaking my head forcefully. I can’t say if I’m mouthing the words out loud or not, but I am enraged and afraid in equal huge measure. Why is she so insensitive? I ask myself. I don’t know anyone else who would react this way, who would seem so callous.

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Why do I love her? How many times has this happened: a hundred? Two hundred?

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What’s wrong with her?

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And what’s wrong with me?