Ghost No More (Ghost No More Series Book 1)

by CeeCee James

  Meanwhile, my emotions churned inside of me, bloated and toxic. But I tamped them all down and pretended everything was okay. I had the strength to do that because of my immense relief that Grandpa would never, ever touch me again.

  September brought cooler weather and colored leaves blowing behind the school bus on my way to eighth grade. School was my sanctuary, a place where I could escape to be around people who saw and talked to me. The new wardrobe Dad had purchased helped with my confidence. For the first time in my life, I felt a little bit cute.

  I took cross country running for my physical education class that year. Every day Amy and I spurred each other on to run a little farther. “Come on, just to that horse’s pasture and then we’ll walk. You can do it!”

  On this particular day my friend said, “You’re so fast. Why don’t you try out for the track team? It’s awesome! You’d love it.”

  My lungs were on fire from the two mile run, but there was a feeling of elation that made me feel like I could run forever. I imagined running on the team, the instant camaraderie and the challenge. Mama’s face overshadowed the picture; there was no way she would pick me up after practice. I shook my head, “Naw, I have too much homework to ever have time for a sport.”

  As the autumn months bled into one another, I earned the best grades I ever had in my classes. The principal read the names on the honor roll over the loud speaker during first period. I blushed and picked at my fingernail when I heard mine.

  Christmas was a few weeks away, and the dreaded semester finals weighed everyone down. My science teacher stood in front of the class with a text book in her hands, reviewing for the final in an endless drone. She was interrupted by an office aide opening the classroom door and handing her a pink slip. The teacher glanced at it for a moment and called out my name.

  “CeeCee, gather your things together and head down to the Principal’s office.”

  My skin felt clammy as I stood up. It felt like I was moving underwater, my books turning into leaden weights as I shoved them into my backpack. Students turned in their seats to look at me. I heard whispers, “ooooh, what did she do?” The teacher rapped on the desk with her knuckles and said, “All right! Quiet down now.” I followed the aide out of the room.

  As I hurried after the aide I asked, “Hey, do you know what they want?”

  She shook her head no and quickened her steps. We walked past the cafeteria, and the smell of spaghetti wafted passed me, making my stomach growl.

  I followed her around the corner and walked right smack into my parents. I actually let out a gasp and grabbed the wall for balance. It was surreal to see Mama there, staring straight into my eyes with a solemn expression on her face, as if she hadn’t been treating me like I was a ghost for months. She looked so foreign. School was a place where my parents didn’t belong, a place that was mine, where I didn’t have to worry about them.

  Mama cleared her throat and gave a quick glance over at the Principal before looking down at the floor.

  Adam told me, “Need to take you to the Police Department, CeeCee.”

  The bell rang with a raucous clatter announcing the end of class. I jumped at the sound, my eyes darting around at the students crowding near us. I suddenly was desperate for privacy as I struggled to comprehend what Adam had said. The Police Department? Was this still about the stolen mail?

  During the car ride, Mama spoke from the front seat. “Ok, so during the time I was in my room I called a counselor. I thought she’d help me, but instead the counselor told me that she had to report what I said to the police. I couldn’t believe it. Some confidentiality. So it’s because of her do-gooder nosiness that we have to do this.” Then she turned in her seat to look at me, “You need to be careful what you say. Maybe only tell them about the dirty magazines.”

  I wanted to throw-up, caught in a nightmare that wouldn’t end. Did I not already tell my secret? It didn’t go so well the first time I told it.

  Adam parked across the street from a tall building, and we got out. I paused on the doorsteps for a few heartbeats, as Adam waited with the door held open. The steel doors appeared powerful, like they were going to lock together and not let me back out. I tried to sift through my story while I stood there. What parts were safe to tell? What parts were supposed to stay a secret?

  In the background, little kids were being let out for recess at a distant school. I heard the bell, and screams of, “Tag! You’re It!” A lump grew in my throat.

  A dark haired woman in her late twenties met us at the entryway. She spoke with my parents for a second and then walked over and laid her hand on my arm. The roar in my ears reminded me to slow my breathing. With her hand still on my arm, the social worker separated me from my parents and led me down a long hall lined with metal doors shut tight on either side. Glaring overhead florescent lights reflected off of the yellow hallway walls reminded me of the prison scene in the TV movie. The beige carpet had a red stripe down the center like a red arrow. I felt sick, wondering what it pointed to.

  She opened one of the doors on the left with a metallic click and guided me into a cold, little room. I looked around, and the first thing I noticed was the large mirror on one wall. There was a camera up in one of the corners with a blinking red light. It pointed down to a Formica table with two metal chairs. Behind the table I saw a shelf where boy and girl dolls leaned lopsided against one another.

  She gestured to one of the chairs. We both sat down at the table, and then my curiosity got the best of me.

  “Why the dolls?” I motioned.

  “Oh that’s to help the younger kids show us what happened.” she answered.

  The social worker folded her hands in front of her on the table and in a calm voice said, “Why don’t you tell me what happened that brought you here today.”

  I stared up at the camera. She reassured me that our meeting was confidential, and my parents wouldn’t find out what I shared with her. “This is a safe place,” she said, “Take your time.” I took a shaky breath. Can I trust her?

  I told her my history the best that I could, but tried to be careful about what I shared, afraid that I might get Mama in trouble. She was patient and had me retell my story over, and over, and over again. We stayed in the cramped room for hours while the camera steadily blinked and recorded my statement. She asked me questions about Mama. I tried to be noncommittal with shrugs. But she pressed me for a “yes” or “no” answer.

  By nine o’clock that night I was exhausted. The social worker called for a break to give me a chance to get something to eat. I was drained, as though I had run a marathon and stumbled back out to the lobby to find Mama. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. My body felt weak and unsteady. Mama examined me from her bench, slowly shaking her head as I walked up to her. Her nose wrinkled, and she said with a sneer, “I saw three policemen come out of the room next to yours. They were standing behind the two-way mirror listening to you. They laughed at you while they were eating hamburgers.”

  “What? Why were they laughing?” My insides shuddered as though I were naked and on display.

  “I don’t know?” Mama answered in a sarcastic tone, “What did you say?”

  The Social Worker retrieved me from my parents after thirty minutes. We walked back down the institutional hallway again. “Did you eat?”

  I shook my head no. She rifled through her purse in search of the coins that I heard rattling at the bottom. We stopped at a vending machine, and she bought me a bag of chips.

  When we returned to the room, she asked a few gentle, nonthreatening questions about my favorite parts of school. She smiled at my stories, and I felt a wave of relief that maybe this whole ordeal would soon be over. My muscles unknotted in my neck as my guard lowered. Then, out of nowhere, she asked me if I was scared to go home. Alarmed, I tensed up again, and studied at the scratches in the table to buy some time. My head nodded, even though I was still undecided of what to say. I was shocked and yelled at myself, Stupid! Stupid! Stu
pid! Why did you do that?

  The social worker considered me for a moment with her eyebrows furrowed and folded her hands back on top of the table. “I’ve heard enough to warrant pulling you from your home. I’m going to place you into foster care.”

  I covered my face with my hands and cried, fat tears dropping to the table. I didn’t know how to make this nightmare end. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I am here to help you, CeeCee. Things are going to get better now.”

  Rubbing the tears off my face, I said, “Am I going to have to tell them I’m not coming home?”

  “No, no, of course not,” the Social Worker reassured me. She patted my shoulder, and we stood up. She led me out of the building by a different door.

  I was surprised by how dark it was when we got outside. The Social Worker walked with rapid steps to her little hatchback car, her shoes making a firm “Clack! Clack!” sound on the asphalt. She leaned over to clear out the passenger seat of books and papers so that I could have a place to sit down. Tipping my head back, I gazed at the full moon and was surprised to see how the city lights blocked out the stars.

  Our drive was slow. Every traffic light turned red when we hit the intersection. She pulled off at a fast food restaurant and bought us both burgers, foregoing the fries after I shook my head. We sat in the idling car in the parking lot to eat them. After all the hours we had spent talking in the little room, we didn’t say very much to each other the rest of the drive to the foster home. I felt like a person in exile. I didn’t have any of my belongings with me but the clothes I wore. She reassured me that the foster home would have pajamas and a toothbrush for me. She said, “This is a good move for you, CeeCee. Things are going to be better for you now. Change is going to happen, and we are here to make sure that it does happen.”

  It was late when we arrived at the foster home, and the other foster kids had already gone to bed. The foster mom met us at the door in her pajamas and bathrobe, with one finger on her lips to tell us to be quiet. The Social Worker waved goodbye to me, “You are in good hands now!”

  The foster mom shut the door and turned to me. In a quiet,matter-of-fact tone, “Ok, let me show you where you can sleep.” She led me down the hall, whispering to indicate the bathroom as we passed by the door. Once we were in my room she handed me a white t-shirt, some clown striped pajama bottoms, and a tooth brush, before she said good night and shut the door behind her.

  Clutching my new clothes, I sunk down to the bed feeling incredibly dazed. My mind felt like it couldn’t catch up to my body. My stomach gurgled over the greasy hamburger, while I rubbed my forehead, trying to adjust. This morning I had been gearing up for my finals at school, and now here I was, in a foster home sitting on a bed covered with a scratchy blanket. Guilt wracked through me, and my stomach flip-flopped. What have I done? Did I get my parents in trouble? Why did the police laugh at me? What was going to happen to me now?

  Even though I was struggling with crushing guilt and confusion, there was a tiny part of me that jumped up and down in joy at being free from Mama.

  The next morning when I woke up there was sunshine in my room. I pulled back the covers and inspected the strange striped pajamas and then rubbed my eyes. I wasn’t dreaming. I was in foster care.

  There were voices outside my door. With a deep breath, I walked out to meet the rest of the family. They were gathered at the kitchen table eating quietly, just clinks of the silverware against the bowls. I grabbed a bowl from the stack while one kid shifted to make room for me at the table. They said hi, and were nice enough. But, we all were guarded, circling our own vulnerabilities with a fake exterior.

  After the kids left for school, I stayed at the kitchen table with a bowl of soggy corn flakes while the foster mom filled the dishwasher. I played with a drop of spilt milk, dragging it with my finger into designs on the table and reflected how I was caught between two worlds. There was the normal world where I attended school, and knew what to expect, and this world where I didn’t belong to anything or anybody. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t imagine what the next step in my life would be.

  I saw a new social worker that day, who said nothing meaningful to me to help me. We sat together in a little alcove off of the living room. I was bored while she shuffled through a clipboard filled with papers. Her pencil made a scratching noise as she checked off a list during her talk with me.

  I spent the rest of my time wandering around the foster home, trying to keep out of the way of the foster mom. I didn’t want to go home, but I missed school. I sat by the Christmas tree and examined the colorful wrapped presents. Even though I knew there were none there for me, I still felt a little pulse of pain when I didn’t see my name. Pushing a few gifts to the side, I scooted under the tree and lay down to look up through the branches at the twinkling lights. My mind was spinning a million miles a minute, but Christmas lights gave me my first little smile in a while.

  My parents fought with CPS for two weeks. Somehow, they were able to regain custody of me. I was supposed to be in foster care for a month, and the early release led me to believe that my parents were correct; I was a bad kid. I was confused why Mama would even want me back. Years later, I suspected that it was to keep Dad from gaining custody of me. I was still a pawn in her battle for control with him.

  Mama flew into her ferocious tirade the moment that I climbed into the back of the car. Her angry words burned me like a caustic acid. “We are going to get that Social Worker fired for believing a selfish kid like you! How could you lie about us this way? I can hardly look at the teacher I work for any more now that she knows CPS took you away. Oh, I told her all about you. I told her you were a liar. I’ve told anyone that asks that you’re an ungrateful kid who exaggerates and causes trouble.”

  Mama’s rebuke was endless, while Adam piped in like her backup singer, “Yeah! Why did you? Huh? How could you?”

  I leaned my head against the cold window and watched the snow hit the glass. I visualized the snow sucking me out the window, taking me into the black night and embracing me in its cold windy arms and numbing all my pain. I was shattered. I had thought I had escaped, only to be sucked back into hell again.

  After arriving at home I flipped on the light in my gray room. The ghastly yellow glow seemed to ridicule me, “You thought you could escape here?” I’d learned my lesson, there was no hope and there was no help. I was on my own.

  I had been home for a few days and just finished my finals, when I had to pack up my suitcase and fly back out again to Pennsylvania. It was time to visit Dad for Christmas. I tried to hide behind my phony happy face again, but almost didn’t care enough to fake it this time. I was too emotionally drained and physically exhausted from yo-yoing between the extremes in my life.

  Dark and gloomy weather greeted me in Pennsylvania, and the gloom carried over the entire visit. Dad and I were at odds with each other the whole time. At one point Dad became frustrated with me, because I didn’t brush my teeth before breakfast. He stayed moody the entire visit.

  We went over to his parent’s house for to dinner. I felt emotionless when Grandma hugged me. I craved their love and affection, but there was no place left in me to receive it anymore.

  Grandma’s house was festive with red and green Christmas decorations, but what caught my eye the most that visit was a picture at the end of their hall of Jesus. The painting was of his crucified face, and his eyes followed me no matter where I stood. Jesus looked angry. I stood in front of the picture with a weight in the pit of my stomach and silently pleaded for his forgiveness. Instead, his disappointed eyes followed me when I left my grandparent’s house.

  I spent most of my visit in the guest room reading The Lord of the Rings that Dad had given me as a gift. When I returned home, there was only more coldness. It felt like winter lived in my soul that year.

  The law required that Mama take me to a counselor. They found one in the next town over that they liked. The counselor had told Mama over the phone tha
t her specialty was, “training disobedient children with tough love.” She wanted Mama to know that she had not gone to school for counseling and was not licensed.

  A few days after I returned from Pennsylvania, Mama brought me down for my first appointment. I walked in to the office which was located downstairs of her split level home. The counselor sat in an office chair behind a maple desk and pointed to the empty chair opposite her with the pencil held in her hand.

  She gave me a small smile and said, “So, I hear you are having some trouble at home.”

  I nodded, uncertain what she wanted from me. I didn’t know what the rules were; did I talk about my family life? Were there still secrets?

  “So, why do you think you’re having trouble getting along with your parents?”

  I told her about the time my parents were angry with me when I woke up late for school. My alarm clock had broken. The counselor shrugged at me and replied, “Saying that your alarm clock broke is a lazy excuse. Everyone has an internal clock inside of themselves. You have to tell yourself what time you want to get up.”

  “Seriously?” I was baffled. I tried to do that every night afterward, but my internal clock never obeyed what I told it to do.

  In another one of our sessions I shared how I was worried about the health of Mama, and how I thought her life was hard because she was always stressed.

  The counselor laughed and responded, “You’re a kid. Quit acting like a grownup. If you’d quit worrying about your mom and started worrying about yourself, maybe you wouldn’t get into so much trouble.”

  I never talked about the sexual abuse, and she never asked.

  After the counselor and I met together I waited outside while my parents took their turn. There was no privacy; the counselor revealed everything I had said to her with them. My parents told her that I was trying to play mind games with them.