by J B Hawker
Dawn managed to slip out during one of the many joyous hymns and walked toward her home, puzzled and contemplating all she’d seen.
Could one person’s life really make so much difference to the people around her?
Dawn had been convinced her own life was meaningless, except as a burden. Even her own mother hadn’t wanted her, so who would ever have the kind of love for her that she had just seen?
All her life, she’d only gotten attention by being rebellious and outrageous, but Sister Moses seemed to have become beloved by leading a simple, ordinary life. Although she’d been housebound for a long time, those people were going to feel a loss. It didn’t make much sense.
Still musing about the funeral, Dawn opened the door of her home and was immediately hit by a flood of misery; the babies were screaming upstairs and, downstairs on the sofa, Yvonne was screaming louder still.
“Shut up! Shut up, you brats!” she cried with her hands over her ears.
Seeing Dawn, she sat up and pointed, “Get up there and make those kids stop howling. I can’t stand it another second.”
When Dawn was on the stairs, Yvonne shouted, “You’re late! You better have a good excuse!”
Upstairs, the baby was soaked, dirty, and hungry. The toddlers huddled together on one of the beds, frightened and exhausted from crying.
Dawn picked up the baby, asked the little boy and girl to help her by bringing her the wipes, clean diapers, and a change of clothes for the baby, distracting them from their own misery.
When everyone was clean and dry, she herded them downstairs into the grimy kitchen where she made peanut butter sandwiches and filled a bottle for the still crying infant.
“Get that kid quiet!” Yvonne yelled from the living room.
When the children were fed, she took them back upstairs, comforting them as well as possible, while she cleaned up the room, stripped the soiled bedding, and made the beds. With the exhausted baby asleep in its crib, she took the other children with her downstairs to do the laundry.
Hours later, with the children bathed and safely tucked into bed, Dawn read them a story and then sat with them until they fell into fitful sleep.
She knew the little boy might wake up with a nightmare, so she got into her pajamas and robe and laid down at the foot of his bed to be on hand to comfort him before he could wake the others.
Lying in the dark, she thought again of how a single person can have such an impact on those around them.
Their foster mother’s influence on these children would be felt all their lives. What would they say as adults at the woman’s funeral? Good riddance, maybe. There would be no funny stories or fond testimonies, only acrimonious resentment at the powers that had placed vulnerable, helpless children into her disinterested care and neglect.
Before drifting to sleep, Dawn wondered what her own impact would be on these little ones and just what sort of memories she would be leaving behind.
Chapter ELEVEN
The sun hadn’t yet risen when Hope stirred and scooted backward in the bed to snuggle against Gideon. Encountering only cool sheets rather than her husband’s warm sleeping form, she remembered he had spent the night in Portland at the seminar.
Sleeping alone was nothing new for Hope, but it was the first time since her marriage, and she’d had a restless night without Gideon at her side.
She stretched, thinking about how much had changed since uniting her life with this loving man of God.
Saying a heartfelt prayer of thanks, she threw back the covers, switched on the bedside lamp, and slid her feet into her slippers.
Her bedroll and backpack leaned against the wall, ready for last-minute additions.
Hope smiled to herself, happy the long-awaited day had finally arrived.
She hurried through her shower and a hearty breakfast of hot oatmeal and yogurt, gathered her equipment, and drove to the church where the kids would soon be arriving.
She wanted to make a final check of supplies before their departure.
Even though the campsite was less than two hours away, unnecessary trips into town would spoil the sensation of roughing it in the wilderness. She wanted these kids to feel isolated from their everyday lives as they learned to adapt to a more primitive environment.
Faint rays of sunlight were appearing over the mountain as Hope arrived at the church.
Filling her lungs with the cool morning air, she unlocked the door, made her way to the empty social hall, switched on the lights, and began dragging equipment and supplies out of the storeroom.
Reaching back on a high shelf to pull down the last of the provisions, her fingers touched something soft and hairy. She snatched her hand back and climbed onto a step stool to see what up there.
In the dim light the still, furry form looked exactly like a rat. She pulled on her gloves and poked it. When it didn’t move, she picked it up.
Closer inspection proved that it was a realistic stuffed toy. There was a tag hanging around its neck with the word, “GOTCHA!” handprinted in bold block letters.
“Come on, TyVon,” Hope groaned, exasperated.
As fond of TyVon as she was, she was getting a little tired of his practical jokes.
She tossed the toy onto an empty shelf and finished lining up the supplies just as the first carload of sleepy-eyed youngsters was being dropped off in front of the church.
…
After a wakeful night spent caring for her foster brother and sisters, Dawn was still deeply asleep when the doorbell broke into her dreams.
A bleary-eyed glance at the cracked alarm clock on her dresser showed her it was a quarter past eight in the morning.
The camping trip! She was supposed to meet the group at the church by eight-thirty.
Fully awake, now, Dawn jumped up, gathered her clothes from the day before and tugged them on.
Careful not to rouse the little ones, she flew down the stairs.
She threw open the door and stopped abruptly. A short, stout man and a gray-haired, extremely tall woman, both in business suits, were standing on the doorstep.
“Hello,” the man said. “Is Mrs. Jones in?”
Dawn took one look and decided they were social workers. No way was she going to let them spoil this trip for her.
“She’s in there,” she said, pointing to the living room where her foster mother lay sprawled on the sofa.
Opening the door wider to let the visitors enter, Dawn slipped past them and ran down the sidewalk.
“Hey!” the woman said, but Dawn ignored her.
“Let her go,” the man advised, stepping into the room where Yvonne was beginning to stir.
…
Hope paced on the sidewalk in front of the church, peering up and down the street with a worried expression.
The church van was packed and full of restless campers, each attired in a bright orange Mount Zion Youth tee-shirt matching the one Hope wore.
TyVon poked his head out.
“Hey, Mrs. H., let’s get this show on the road. We’ve got wilderness to conquer, places to go and people to see, you know?” he teased.
“In a minute. Dawn isn’t here, yet,” Hope replied. “Just be patient a little longer.”
“Aw, man, we’d be better off without her, anyway,” Aleeshia said to Ty’Nisha who sat beside her in the bus.
“My mom says we should be nice to Dawn, because she’s had a rough life,” Ty’Nisha replied.
Aleeshia rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“We’ve all had a rough life,” she said. “But we don’t do half the stuff she does.”
“What’s rough about your life?” Ty’Nisha asked, turning to look at her friend.
Aleeshia looked out the window with a frown of concentration.
“I have to share a room with my little brother!” she exclaimed. “You don’t know what ‘rough’ is until you sleep in the same room with a nosy, smelly brat like him.”
“Really? That’s the worst thing yo
u can come up with? We’ve got amazing lives compared to Dawn. She’s been living in foster care her whole life, for gosh sakes! Can you imagine?” Ty’Nisha asked.
“Hey, here she comes!” TyVon cried, seeing Dawn running along the sidewalk.
“She looks like she just crawled out of bed, or from under a rock,” Aleeshia murmured. “Look at her hair.”
“Hi, Dawn!” Hope called out, smiling with relief. “I’m so glad you made it.”
Dawn skidded to a stop beside the van and bent over, panting, with a stitch in her side.
“Sorry I’m late,” she puffed. “My, uh, my alarm didn’t go off.”
“Not a problem. You’re right on time,” Hope said. “Have you got your backpack?”
“Shoot!” Dawn swore.
“I had my stuff in a plastic bag, but I forgot it... can I still go?” she asked, looking frightened.
There was a story here, Hope was sure. Observing the girl’s distress and disarray, she quickly decided that returning to Dawn’s house for her things would be a bad idea.
“Of course, you can still come along. I’ve got spare clothes and stuff. We’ve got more than enough equipment and supplies. Get in and we’ll be off,” Hope reassured her, trying to decide which of her own clothes might fit the slight, undernourished girl.
Dawn climbed into the van and found an empty seat beside a younger girl whom she’d never seen before.
When everyone was buckled up, Hope pulled the bus onto the street, her mind full of fun plans for the next three days.
She would get the camp set up and give the kids some basic wilderness training first thing. They’d have a fun campfire that night and the next day Gideon would join them.
It was going to be a great weekend.
…
Back at the Jones house, Yvonne saw the two strangers come in and cried out in alarm.
She rolled off the couch onto her knees and staggered to her feet, pushing her hair out of her eyes.
“Who are you?” she glared at the intruders. “Get out of my house!”
Yvonne ignored the baby’s piercing cries from upstairs while she confronted her visitors, swaying slightly.
“We’re sorry to intrude, Mrs. Jones,” the man said. “You are Mrs. Yvonne Jones?”
“Of course, I am. Get out, now, before I call the police,” she said, looking frantically for her phone.
“Calm down, Mrs. Jones. We aren’t trespassing. Your daughter let us in. We’ve come from the Child Welfare Department,” the woman said.
Yvonne froze, sobering instantly.
“Why?” she asked. “Your people were just here last week.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” the woman said, raising her deep voice over the baby’s high-pitched screams. “We are responding to a report of unsafe conditions. Why don’t you pull yourself together and take care of that infant?”
Marjory Merriweather was nearing retirement and had grown increasingly impatient with incompetent foster parents like Yvonne in recent years. Pulling herself to her full six-foot height, she dropped her briefcase on the floor and started toward the stairs.
“I’ll just see what I can do,” she said, stepping onto the bottom tread.
“No, wait! Dawn’s up there. She’ll take care of it. Dawn! Shut up that screaming kid!” Yvonne yelled, rushing to the foot of the stairs to forestall Marjory.
“Your foster daughter is not upstairs,” Brent Morris said. “After admitting us, she left the house... in rather a hurry.”
“She left?” Yvonne gaped. “How dare her...”
The baby’s hysterical cries changed to choking gasps and the lisping voice of a small child could be heard trying to give it comfort.
Marjory took the stairs two at a time and burst into the children’s room, recoiling at the squalor.
Seeing the toddlers’ eyes grow large, she knelt down to sooth them.
“Hello. I’m Mrs. Merriweather. You can call me Merry, okay? I’m here to help,” she said in a gentle voice, holding out her hands.
Four-year-old Becky took a tentative step forward.
“Baby’s crying,” she said.
“Where’s Dawn?” little Toby cried. “I want Dawn!”
“Your big sister has gone out, but I’m here, now,” Marjorie said, getting stiffly to her feet and approaching the crib. Ignoring the smell, she picked up the little one, whose cries changed to whimpers.
“Where are the baby wipes, do you know?”
Momentarily frozen in awe, looking up at the older woman’s height, Becky gulped and ran to the chest of drawers and held up the carton of wipes.
“Thank you, dear. You’re a helpful girl,” Marjorie said. “Can you show me where the diapers are?”
Toby pointed to a box under the crib.
“Thank you! You are a very helpful boy,” she praised.
“Can you tell me where I can find this little one’s formula? And a bottle?” she asked when the baby was clean and dry.
The children nodded, pointing to the door.
Marjorie carried the whimpering baby and ushered the boy and girl out.
Yvonne and Brian stood at the foot of the stairs.
Pausing on the bottom step, Marjorie frowned down at Yvonne.
“I don’t suppose you know where I might find food for these hungry children,” she snapped.
Yvonne flinched as though slapped and led the way into the kitchen.
Once in that room, Yvonne seemed disoriented.
In truth, she’d seldom entered the kitchen in the past few months, relying on fast food deliveries and letting Dawn feed the children and shop for their food.
She blinked as she gazed into the refrigerator and was relieved to see that Dawn had left a bottle of formula on the shelf. She whirled around, poking it toward the infant, but Marjorie snatched the bottle from her grasp.
“Let’s just heat that a bit, shall we?” the older woman said, handing the baby to her coworker.
Brian took the infant into his arms and tried to comfort it.
“Boy or girl?” he asked.
After a moment’s hesitation, Yvonne replied, “It’s a girl.”
“Does it have a name?” he asked with a look of disgust on his usually benign face.
“Samantha... er, wait, no, that was another one. This one’s called Summer,” Yvonne replied.
“There, there, Summer,” Brian cooed. “Merry will have a nice warm bottle for you.”
Marjorie handed the warmed bottle to him and Brian sat down and began to feed the hungry baby.
Yvonne slumped against the door, seemingly unable to move.
Marjorie looked through the cupboards for something to feed Toby and Becky, finally resorting to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. There was no milk, other than powdered baby formula, so, after washing two small glasses, she gave the children water to drink.
While they devoured the sandwiches, Marjorie stepped out of the room to make some phone calls.
After the children had been fed, Brian took them upstairs to begin packing their things.
Marjorie stepped back into the kitchen to confront Yvonne.
“I imagine you know what’s going to happen, now,” she said, pulling out a kitchen chair, wiping it off with a paper towel, and sitting down.
“What do you mean?” Yvonne whispered before sagging onto another chair.
Marjorie leaned down for her briefcase and began pulling out papers.
“First, we’ll get some paperwork out of the way, and then we will be taking those children someplace where they will be properly cared for,” Marjorie said. “After that, we will get the investigators involved and decide what’s to be done with you.”
Yvonne swallowed, yearning for a drink, or a pill, or something to make this nightmare go away. Her eyes darted about, refusing to look at the social worker.
“Where did your older girl go?” Marjorie asked, scanning the records in her file. “Dawn Thompson. Age fifteen. You’ve had her
for almost a year, is that right?”
Yvonne nodded.
“And I see from these incident reports, you haven’t been a very good influence on her.”
“That’s not my fault! She’s a troublemaker. Your people told me when they brought her here that nobody else would take her,” Yvonne protested.
“That may be, but my concern at this moment is for her whereabouts. Do you have any idea where she ran off to this morning?”
Yvonne sat, mute and resentful, her arms crossed over her drooping chest.
Why should she help this woman? Or Dawn, either, for that matter? This was all that girl’s fault. If she hadn’t wanted to go on that ridiculous church campout, Yvonne wouldn’t have been caught off guard, because if Dawn hadn’t been doing all the work with the brats to earn her trip, Yvonne wouldn’t have gone on her latest binge.
It suddenly occurred to Yvonne that the stupid camping trip was this week, maybe even that very day. She’d bet that’s where the little sneak had run off to.
“She’s probably headed for the hills,” Yvonne said, smirking.
“I, for one, would not blame the girl for running away, but we need to find her. Do you really not have any idea where she might have gone?” Marjorie asked.
Yvonne clamped her lips shut and didn’t utter another word.
…
When the workers from Child Protective Services had carried out the last of the children’s few pitiful belongings, Yvonne slumped on the sofa, more sober than she’d been in days, attempting to grapple with the rapid turn of events.
That witch Merriweather had threatened prosecution for neglect, if not outright fraud.
Yvonne’s hands shook as she ran her fingers through her hair, frantically racking her cloudy brain for a way out of this mess.
It wasn’t fair! Just because her husband had taken up with that tramp in California, Yvonne would be charged with some stupid crime. No one appreciated that she had been willing to take care of those brats no one else wanted. Nobody cared how hard it was to try to do it all by herself. It’s not like she was getting rich on the measly money they paid, either.
Wallowing in self-pity, seeing herself as the victim of circumstances beyond her control, she vowed to herself that she would not be left holding the bag. Not this time.