Dear Evie: The Lost Memories of a Lost Child

by P. J. Rhea

  One of the many things I have learned these past few years is that so many things can change who we become. It’s as if we are all born an innocent ball of clay. We are smooth and cool with no dirt or bumps to change our appearance. But then as we roll through life we may pick up stones or glass. We may be kicked or thrown. Someone may decide to reshape us, and we are no longer what we were originally intended to be. We may still become something very beautiful and useful, but under the outside layer are the things that changed us. Others may not notice them. They will only see the beautiful vase formed with the clay. But because of the pebbles in the clay that make it weak in spots, we can break easily.

  It is now our job, Evie, to be the glue to help hold them together. And should they break any way, we can try to piece them back together. They may not be exactly as they were, but they can still be beautiful and useful. That’s what we are, Evie. We are a beautiful vase with a few chips and maybe a crack or two, but now that we have been remolded we can be useful.

  Thank you, Evie.

  Katherine

  I smiled to myself when I finished writing in my journal. I couldn’t help but remember the story of the clay Vanessa had taught me. She was right, and I knew it more than ever now.

  I realized that I still had a long way to go and lots of training to experience before I could be of much help to others, but I wanted it more than I could express. I knew my healing would continue by helping others to heal.

  As a part of my education, I had been working through the local hospital for about a year. It wasn’t what I wanted ultimately, but it was a start. My job for now was to talk to the people who ended up in the emergency room as a result of accidents that didn’t quite add up. I would talk to them, ask questions, or just make conversation in an effort to determine if they were victims of domestic violence or abuse of some type.

  I comforted rape victims and held their hands while they went through the humiliation of the exam. I had been so naive for most of my life. Even after remembering my own rape I didn’t stop to think about how often a rape is not by a stranger. A person could be raped by a loved one, even her own husband. I also had to overcome the prejudice that said victims were only women or children. Men were also raped and would rarely come forward. Even those who admitted to what happened to them would often run out before the crime could be reported.

  If a child was brought in with injuries that did not seem typical, or if an x-ray revealed several old fractures, it became my job to talk to the child to determine if a social worker should be brought in. Of course it was required that the police be called in those situations, and it was usually as traumatic to the child to be pulled, screaming, from a weeping mother as the abuse had been. I would always think about my own mother and how I might have felt if I’d been taken from her if Ralph’s excessive punishments had ever been reported.

  I think the hardest cases for me were the ones where the mother was the abuser. It was so hard for me to accept that not all mothers were good to their children. Some hurt their children and some even abused them sexually. Those were the times when my training was really put to the test. I complained to Anna often about the stress of my job and how it wasn’t what I really wanted to do.

  “I want to do what you do, Anna. I want to have an office in a house where both women and children can come and seek help. I want it to be a place where they will feel safe enough to talk about what has happened to them and they can start to heal from it. I want it to be a welcoming place the way your clinic was for me. I always felt at home there.”

  Anna was so supportive and willing to advise me when I asked for her opinion. I had wanted to work with her, and she had promised I could someday, but first I needed to pay my dues.

  “I appreciate what you are saying about me and my clinic, Katherine. I understand that you want to give to others what you feel you received, but there are things you can’t learn from me. I didn’t start out there, you know. I also worked in a hospital in a social worker role and in a mental health hospital. The experience you receive at those places will give you so much to fall back on when you start to counsel individuals. You will see for yourself just how many different ways people can hurt each other.

  “Even working with children as I do, I often meet them after their rescue. They come to me after the worst of it and at the point where they are out of the situation and in a position for healing. But it is important to understand what led up to that point. You need to be aware of the possible denial, the trips to the emergency room, the fear and humiliation that brought them to be in your care. It isn’t pretty, but it will make you a better doctor. Katherine, this may sound strange, but you have been equipped with insight that few doctors possess. Be patient and learn all that you can. Your time will come, and your dream will come true in good time.”

  I had no way of knowing it then, but my dream would come true, but at a price.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Carla Wilson had always seemed to me to be ageless. She was so strong physically, and she was as sharp as a tack mentally. Her large home had always been clean and well kept. With the exception of a cleaning service that came to her house once a week, she did everything herself. I had asked her once why she had such a big house.

  “My husband and I wanted a big family. He came from money, you see, and was brought up to run his father’s business. His only brother had died young, and so it was up to us to pass on the legacy,” she said then smiled sheepishly. “We had this house built when there were no other houses around. Three stories and a full basement seemed silly for a young couple, but we had every intention of filling it with children.

  “We tried for ten years and had two miscarriages before the doctors told us it was best we not try again. My sweet Henry tried to convince me it was okay, and that he loved me so much I shouldn’t worry. We would adopt a couple of kids. But Henry started drinking a lot to cover his pain and we grew apart. I felt so guilty for not giving him a child, and he felt like a failure for not giving his parents a child to carry on the name.

  One morning I woke up to an empty bed. I could tell he had not been there all night. I went looking for him and found him in the garage at the back of the house. He was hanging from the beam in the ceiling. The note he left told me he was sorry and to find someone and be happy. I never looked for anyone else. He had been my one and only.” Carla smiled weakly. “I’d been so angry and resentful until I met your dear mother. Grace was a beam of sunlight. Once she lost her husband, I was compelled to take her in and take care of her… and of you. You see, Katherine, you always thought I saved her and took care of you, but it was really the other way around. You and your mother became my family.”

  I also found out that once new houses were built in the neighboring lots that Carla and her husband had purchased the one next to them to be sure no one moved there that might harm their future children. How ironic it was that the house that was purchased for safety reasons turned out to be a house of torture for a child. I guess you can’t hide from evil no matter how hard you try sometimes.

  The hospital called me at Carla’s request one Sunday just as we returned home from worship service.

  “Mrs. Wilson has had a heart attack, Mrs. Hunter, and she has asked us to let you know she is in the hospital.”

  Of course I dropped everything to go to her. I stayed with her day and night for three days. Suddenly she looked so old and helpless in that hospital bed, and I was shocked to find out she was almost ninety years old. She wasn’t able to talk to me much, but I told her how much I loved her and how much she meant to my family and me. I promised her if she would just get better, she could stay with us and I would take care of her. She patted my hand and agreed, but I knew she was only trying once again to comfort the little girl from next door.

  “I love you, Evie,” was all she said, and then she was gone.

  I was so proud of what I had, but it always made me a little sad to remember how it came to be. Carla had been work
ing in her beloved garden when she had a heart attack. I’d been so saddened by her loss. It was the first time I’d had to deal with the death of someone I loved since my memory came back. She’d been the first person from my past who I’d actually remembered knowing. I knew I would miss her terribly, and I knew she’d loved me as if I were her own child; but nothing shocked me more than when I received a call from her attorney letting me know she had left her house and the lot next door to it to me.

  Carla told me once that Evie was as close to having a child of her own as she had ever had. She also told me after we had been reunited that she loved me like a daughter. The lawyer gave me a letter from Carla instructing me to help others to heal in whatever way I saw fit, such as selling the house and contributing the funds to some charity or paying for someone’s counseling. The how was up to me, but she wanted to help some other child since she had let me down. I hated that she’d never fully forgiven herself, but in her own way this was making up for it.

  I decided to turn that wonderful old house into a safe house. A place where women who needed to find shelter and healing could come and find help. Anna was thrilled and offered to donate her time once or twice a week for those who wanted to talk to someone. Jason, Gracie, William, and Franklin had all pitched in to help ready the house. We made it as comforting and happy a house as was possible. The front room would be welcoming and feel like home. The furniture was overstuffed and cozy with lots of colorful pillows and throws. It also had toys for the children and a large book selection that not only contained stories for the children, but several self-help books and pamphlets with information on getting an education or career counseling for the adults. On a table by itself was a book I’d published, called Letters to Evie. The staff would encourage the women who came through our house to read the letters and hear the story of how Evie survived. In the book, I explained how I’d realized I was a survivor. I had been to hell and back, but I’d survived and they could too.

  “You will only stay a victim if you stay quiet,” I would tell them. “After all, you cannot heal if you aren’t heard.”

  I used the book to help them realize they couldn’t give up. That no matter how horrific the thing was that had brought them to the house, it was the very fact that they’d come there that should give them hope. I had Evie to take my pain and help me accept my worth, and now they had Evie’s Rest to help them. I felt like that was the perfect name for the place.

  Anna was so proud of what we were doing and of me for getting the education I needed to help even more. She rewarded me with a gift for the house. She presented me with a large monetary gift, and a new staff member. We have our very own kitten now, which we named Carla. The lot that had once held my childhood home was turned into a productive garden where the ladies could grow vegetables to help in feeding their children. It was a type of therapy for many of them, and they took pride in knowing they were contributing in some way. There was also a monument in the center of the garden. A statue of an angel with flowers planted all around the base and benches if they felt the need to rest for a while or just needed some alone time to meditate or pray. At the foot of the angel was the word “Grace.”

  My mother’s remains had been buried not too far from the house next to Frank Moon, but this was where I came to talk to her and to think about how she loved her children so much that she sacrificed her own life to give Stephen and me a chance at a better one. I have no idea where Ralph Dark is buried, and I don’t really care.

  I hope that Evie’s Rest will help other abused children to deal with what has happened to them. I hope we will be able to make them understand it was not their fault and help them to stop the cycle of abuse. I know now that Ralph Dark had a sad and miserable childhood and took his anger out on Grace and on Evie. I think one of the reasons he was so cruel to Evie is because he was so jealous of the great love my mother had for her, and he knew from what Grace had told him that Evie’s father had loved her as well. It only made him more resentful of what he never had. I hope to teach self-worth at the house. I pray all who go there will be heard and can heal.

  One of my favorite responsibilities at Evie’s Rest was facilitating the group sessions. Hearing the other women talk about what they’d been through not only helped them, but it made me a better counselor. I was those brave women gave me tools that helped me understand myself more fully. I think even as a victim I had fallen into the idea that abuse is abuse, like it comes in some neatly wrapped package that explained why someone needed help. But as I listened to each one of the women tell their own story, they were as different and distinct as any life could be. Anna had lectured me often on how as a professional counselor I had to do my best to stay focused on the process of helping them. I was not to break down and cry every time they did. I had to control the reflex of gasping when something totally bizarre was shared. I had to work to keep my face un-readable. I remembered how she seemed unaffected by my memories in the beginning, and I wondered how she did it.

  “It’s not really taught in your textbook, Katherine, but you have to learn to walk a fine line with these patients. If you act too shocked or appalled at something they share, the shame and embarrassment they are struggling with may silence them. On the other hand, if you show no response at all they may think you just don’t care. It is a kind of empathy without emotion listening skill.”

  “Yeah, easy for you to say,” I said then laughed and she did too.

  I had to put that skill to the test almost on a daily basis as each person’s story seemed more horrible and sad than the one before. My biggest challenge came from a lady named Amber. She was in her late twenties but looked to be in her fifties. She had just been released from a drug rehab, and someone had recommended she come to the shelter until she could get established. God only knows how she’d survived. I was honored that she was willing to open up to us, but it was the most heartbreaking story I had heard so far.

  She told us she had been sexually abused from the age of two by several men who would come and visit her mother. It was bad enough that her mother knew what was happening to her, but she also told us her mother had taken money for drugs from those men and the only thing she had to do was allow them to abuse her baby. Amber’s mother was often in a room shooting up while they the men were assaulting her, and she would be left to comfort herself once they were gone because her mom was passed out or with the men herself.

  She lived like that until she was nine. Thankfully she was taken from her mom but spent several years in the child welfare system. She was so damaged that even the good foster parents could not handle her. The only way she knew to receive attention was to do sexual things to the adults that she wanted attention from. She would grab them in public and say things that would shock a biker. Most of them just refused to keep her out of fear that they might be accused of something.

  Once Amber reached high school she was always in trouble. She was often strung out on drugs and, of course, sexually active. She dropped out of school and out of sight. No one really cared to look for her. She ended up in a relationship with a man who beat her pretty much daily, and she felt she deserved it. After all, she was worthless. That’s what she had been told her whole life. He shared her with whatever guy he decided he owed a favor or who might have something he wanted. She woke up one morning in the alley next to the Dumpster. She had no memory of how she’d ended up there and wasn’t sure how to go back to where she’d been.

  “I looked across the street from the alley and saw a church. I guess it was Sunday or something because the doors were open and people were standing in the doorway. I knew they would probably tell me to go away. After all, I was a sight.” Amber looked up and offered the group a slight smile for the first time since she began to speak. “But they took me in,” she said with surprise. “They got me into the rehab program, and the minister and a couple of the ladies from the church came to visit me. They brought me clothes and personnel things, you know lotion and deodorant and such. They
were kind to me and told me about Jesus and how He cared for me. No one had told me that before. They were the ones who suggested this place. I think they have sent people here before.”

  I smiled and nodded to her to let her know she was correct. They had sent us many of the ladies we’d helped. She sat quiet for a while, and we noticed tears drop to her lap from her bowed head.

  “Dr. Hunter, you know that movie The Wizard of Oz?

  “Yes,” I answered a little unsure of where this was going.

  “That is what it was like when I came here. Before my life had been like when the movie is in black and white. No pleasure, no happiness, everything washed over in gray like when there is no hope. Then one day after the storm a door opened, and I saw brilliant colors. I found my rainbow.”

  She smiled at me and a look of pride came to her eyes that I’d never noticed before. It took all my effort not to burst into tears and run to her. I was thrilled when the other ladies did just that, and once they had all taken turns hugging her, I took her hand in mine and told her thank you.