by Beth Goobie
Jason’s
Why
Beth Goobie
For Val
chapter one
I am at our living-room window. I’m waiting. I can hear my mom. She moves around our house. She goes up and down our stairs. She carries green garbage bags to the door. All my stuff is in those bags. There are three of them.
My name is Jason. I’m nine. Last week, Mom took me to an office. It had a big desk in it. A social-worker lady sat behind the desk. She said, “Hello, Jason.” Then she told me her name, but I forgot it. She mostly talked to Mom. I looked out the window, where there was a tree. Birds flew in and out of the tree. Then they flew away.
Mom talks nice to grown-ups. She smiles and uses her nice voice. This makes me nervous, because then she’s like someone else. When she’s someone else, I don’t know what she’ll do. I try to be real good when Mom is like this.
The social worker and Mom talked a long time. They talked mostly about me. Mom said I was a problem. She said I yelled and screamed. She said I stole things and ran away. She said I fought with my sister Linda. “I don’t know why,” Mom said. “Why is Jason like that? Linda doesn’t do those things.”
The social worker told me something. She said I was going somewhere new to live. It was called a group home. There were other kids my age there. They had problems, too. The staff at the group home would teach me things. They would teach me how to handle my problems. Then I could move back home.
My voice was gone. I wanted to say, “No.” I wanted to say, “I’ll be good.” But my voice just went away. I never knew I could be kicked out of my own house.
Mom looked happy. She smiled at the social worker. The social worker smiled at Mom. Then the social worker smiled at me.
“You’ll see, Jason,” she said. “The group home will be nice. You’ll make new friends there. And you’ll get to visit your mom and Linda. You’ll call them on the phone.”
My voice was still gone. I wanted to say, “I like the friends I have now. I like my house. I’ll be good, I promise.” But my voice wouldn’t do what I wanted it to do.
Mom and the social worker talked some more. Then Mom and I went home.
So now I’m waiting by our living-room window. Mom drops the last garbage bag beside the front door. “That’s all your stuff, Jason,” she says. “Now, you listen to me. I don’t want you calling and bugging me. You have everything you need inside those bags. Where is that social worker?”
“She’s outside,” I say. I can see the social worker through the window. She gets out of a blue car and walks toward our house. She looks the same as in her office. She wears the same pure white shirt. I’m sure it never gets dirty.
“No fooling around now, Jason,” says Mom. “You behave, you hear me? No screaming.”
I know right then it won’t help to kick or scream. I think, Maybe I can hold onto the sofa arm. Then I know that won’t work either. The social worker is here. She’ll help Mom pull me off the sofa.
The doorbell rings and Mom opens the door. I can see her—the social worker in her pure white shirt. She’s standing on our front porch.
“Hello, Jason,” she says. She smiles at me.
I’m scared of her pure white shirt. It’s too bright. I stare down at the floor. There’s a piece of Lego beside my foot. I pick it up.
“Look, Mom,” I say. “Here’s part of Linda’s Lego. I can take it to her room if you want.”
Mom grabs my arm. She takes the Lego. “No, Jason,” she says. “You’re going now.”
She holds my arm so I can’t get away. With her other hand, she gets my jacket out of the closet. I want to kick and scream. There are many screams inside me, hurting to come out. But I stand still and let her put on my jacket. Then I bend down to pull on my runners.
Now I smell all the house smells. There’s the peanut butter we ate for lunch. There are Mom’s cigarettes. I see the color of the sofa. It’s brown. I never really looked at it before. I want to go to all the rooms in the house and look at them. What if I never come back?
I have to remember, I think. When I’m in the group home, I’ll my close my eyes and come back. I put on my runners as slow as I can.
“Hurry up, Jason,” says Mom.
I see the hall floor is a real light brown. Slowly, I tie my laces. The social worker’s feet are close by. They’re wearing purple shoes. I hate purple shoes. I don’t want purple shoes in my house. I want to tear them off her feet. I want to throw them out the door and into the street.
I’m scared of those purple shoes. They’re here to take me away.
Tears hurt my nose and eyes. They burst out my eyes and run down my face.
“Jason, stop crying,” says Mom. She hands me a garbage bag. “Carry this,” she says.
The social worker takes a bag. Mom picks up the last one. “Let’s go,” she says.
The social worker pats my head. I jerk my head away.
Mom opens the door. “Come on, Jason,” she says.
I look down the hall. I look at the sofa and TV. I sniff hard to get one last good smell. I want to remember everything.
I pick up the garbage bag. It makes a crinkly noise. The bag is heavy. So are my legs. I walk out the door on my heavy legs. Mom follows me out and closes the door behind us. Now we’re out of my house, and it’s not my house anymore.
We walk down the sidewalk to the blue car.
chapter two
The blue car drives across the city. It drives far from my house. It drives far from my school. It drives far from the park where I play with my friends. The blue car drives past downtown and the day camp I went to last summer. I’ve never seen any of the streets we’re driving through now. I get scared. What will happen to me in a place far away like this?
Finally, the social worker stops the car. She and Mom get my stuff out of the trunk. I sit in the back seat and stare at the closest house. It has a gray roof and a purple front door. Purple again, I think. I hate purple front doors.
Mom opens the car door and tells me to get out. I don’t want to get out. I don’t want to go into the purple-door house. It isn’t my house.
“Hurry up, Jason,” says Mom.
We walk into the house. Right away, it smells wrong. There’s no peanut butter smell. And the floor is yellow, not brown. But there’s a TV in the living-room. I like TVs.
The social worker smiles at me. Beside her, I see another lady. “Jason, this is Sue,” says the social worker. “Sue works here. She’s going to show you the house and your new bedroom.”
Mom says, “I have to go. Linda will be home soon.”
She hugs me goodbye, but not very much. I hug her tight. I don’t want to let go, but she pulls my arms away.
“I have to go, Jason,” she says. “You be good now.” Mom and the social worker go outside. I watch through the living-room window. They get into the blue car and drive away. Mom doesn’t wave goodbye.
“Let’s go see your new room, Jason,” says Sue.
I’m scared to look at her. There’s no one here but her and me. I think, What if she’s a bad lady? She’s a stranger. Mom told me never to talk to strangers. Some strangers are very bad. They kill kids.
“Come on, Jason,” Sue says.
I’m skinny and small for my age. But I can run fast. I get ready, in case Sue is going to do something bad. Then, real slow, I look right at her. What I see surprises me. Sue is on her knees. That makes her the same as me—not so big.
“You’re scared, aren’t you, Jason?” Sue says.
“Yeah,” I say. I feel stupid.
Sue has nice eyes. She talks nice and quiet. “Why don’t we take your things to your room?” she says. “Then I’ll show you the house. You can tell me what you like. And you can tell me what you don’t li
ke.”
She stands up again. This time, she doesn’t look so big. We walk down a hall, past two bedrooms full of boys’ stuff. Then we go into another bedroom. Here I see a bed, a dresser, and a toy box. The walls are white. They’re pure white. Sue puts my garbage bags beside the bed. Then she shows me the rest of the house.
I’m real careful when we go to the basement. It’s dark down there. I stand away from Sue. She looks nice, but you never know. I can see a pool table and a washer and dryer. It looks okay, but then I see some closed doors. I get scared by these closed doors. What’s behind them? I think. Anyone could be hiding in there.
Sue gets out some keys. She unlocks one closed door and shows me a room with canned food and a freezer. The other is just a closet with footballs and soccer balls—that kind of stuff. That makes me feel better. But then I think, Maybe they lock bad kids in here. I don’t say it out loud.
Sue tells me three other boys live in the group home, too. They’re all nine or ten years old. She tells me to go to my room and unpack. Then she says she has to write everything I have on a list. She says I have to show her every single thing.
“Do you remember my name?” she asks.
Of course I do, I think. But I just look down. My voice is gone again.
“My name is Sue,” she says. “Can you say that, Jason?”
I’m not sure. “Sue,” I say. I sound like a frog. “Sue,” I say again, louder.
“That’s right,” says Sue. She’s smiling. “That’s good, Jason.”
She helps me put my stuff on my new bed. She writes everything I have on a list. She writes down how many socks I have, how many pants and shirts. Then she tells me to put my clothes in the dresser and closet.
I get to pick where things go. I like this. But then Sue puts my model car into the toy box. I don’t like her touching my model car. My hands go into fists. If she touches something else, I’m going to hit her. But, for now, I look at the floor.
“Hey, Jason—why don’t I let you put your own stuff away?” Sue says. I’m surprised by this. How does Sue know what I’m thinking? She smiles and it makes me smile, too. Then I feel okay.
A door opens at the back of the house. “Hey, Sue!” calls a boy. He sounds happy.
“Hey, Joe!” calls Sue.
A boy comes running to my door. He’s native. He hands Sue a notebook. Then he looks at me. I’m not too sure about natives. Mom told me to stay away from them. She said they were trouble. I look at the floor.
Sue reads the notebook. “Your teacher says you had a good day today, Joe,” she says.
“Is that what she wrote?” Joe asks. “Awesome!” He grins.
“She wrote that you had a very good day,” Sue smiles. “And Joe, this is Jason.”
“You the new kid?” Joe asks.
I keep looking at the floor. I don’t want to be a new kid.
“Doesn’t he know how to talk?” Joe asks.
“Give him time,” says Sue. “Remember your first day.”
“Okay,” says Joe. “Can I go play outside?”
“Change into play clothes first,” says Sue.
“Can he come, too?” asks Joe.
“Jason still has some things to unpack,” says Sue.
I’m glad she says this. I’m not too sure about playing outside with Joe.
“Do you want some snack, Jason?” asks Sue. “We have snack here every day after school.”
“No,” I say, even though I’m hungry. I just want everything to go away—Sue, Joe, the group home, everything. Then, just like that, Sue and Joe do go away, and I’m alone in the room. I sit on the bed and look at the walls. They’re real white—pure pure white. I’m scared I’ll get them dirty. Then someone will get mad at me. You never know what can happen when someone gets mad.
I don’t let any of my stuff touch the pure white walls.
chapter three
I put away all my toys. Then I don’t know what to do, so I sit on the bed. Sue comes to the door. I don’t like her in the door. There’s nowhere to run if things get bad. If I see somewhere to run, I feel better.
“Jason,” says Sue, “at 4:30, we have Quiet Time.”
I try to listen to her. But my heart pounds real hard because she’s standing in the door.
“This is what we do at Quiet Time,” Sue says. “The boys go to their rooms for one hour. They do homework.”
I look at the floor. I’ve never done homework before.
“Tomorrow, you go to your new school and meet your new teacher,” says Sue. “Today you don’t have homework. You can play with your toys.”
“Okay,” I say, but I just sit on the bed. At home, Mom sends me to my room when I’m bad. That’s what this feels like. I don’t know what to do, so I think about Linda. At home, Mom doesn’t give us snack like they do here. Sometimes we don’t get supper. Linda is only six. She’s littler than me. I think maybe she’s hungry now.
After a while, Sue comes to the door again. She says, “Everybody has a supper chore to do. Tonight you get to set the table. Come on—I’ll show you how.”
I’ve never set a table. I get real worried. I try to listen real good to what Sue says. My heart pounds hard. What if I break a cup? I think. Sue looks nice, but you never know. I bang some plates on the table. Not on purpose—by mistake.
“Try to be more careful, Jason,” says Sue. That’s all. She doesn’t yell—nothing like that.
Before supper, all the boys wash their hands. There’s Joe, me, and two other boys. One of them is black and one is like me. Sue tells me their names—Dave and Rob. We all sit on the sofa, real quiet, before we go to the table.
Supper tastes good. Sue made it. It’s pork chops, potatoes, and corn. I eat lots. I’ve never seen so much food. When I finish what’s on my plate, Sue lets me have more. My tummy hurts, but I eat it. After everyone else leaves the table, Sue lets me eat a third pork chop.
After supper, I clear the table. Then I vacuum under the table. This is hard because my tummy hurts. Joe washes the dishes and Dave dries. Rob has to clean the bathroom.
Joe asks if I can play ball in the back yard. Sue says, “No, not on Jason’s first day. He has to stay inside.”
I sit on the sofa and watch TV. The other white boy sits beside me.
“Remember my name?” he asks. “It’s Rob.” He holds up a toy snake and shakes it. “My snake’s name is Rob, too,” he says. Then he moves the snake near my face. “My snake doesn’t like you,” Rob says. “See—he wants to bite you.”
I think Rob is creepy. I want to punch him, but Sue is in the next room. She’ll get mad if I hit Rob, so I don’t. I just move my face away.
Joe comes inside and we play cards on the sofa. Rob doesn’t want to play cards with us. He doesn’t like what’s on TV, either. He yells at Sue about this. Then he throws a chair. Sue grabs Rob’s arms real quick and puts him onto the floor. Then she sits on him. Rob yells and screams.
My tummy hurts. I run to the bathroom and throw up. I was scared this might happen. This is where they hurt bad kids, I think. Sometimes I scream and yell. They’ll hurt me, too.
I see Joe standing in the door. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Haven’t you seen a restraint before?”
I wash out my mouth. “What’s that?” I ask.
“Sometimes staff restrain us,” says Joe. “It doesn’t hurt. They just hold you down when you get mad. I used to do that lots—get mad, I mean. I’m getting better now. Staff just hold you down so you can’t do anything while you’re mad. They don’t hit you—nothing like that.”
“Oh,” I say. Rob is still yelling in the living room. I like what Joe said, but my heart still pounds real hard.
“We have to get into pjs now,” says Joe. “After pjs, we get snack.”
I get my pjs on. Sue is still sitting on Rob. Rob screams and bangs his feet. Sue asks Joe to get a snack for us.
Joe gets out some bananas. We sit at the kitchen table and eat them. He and Dave tell jokes and laugh. They d
on’t worry about Sue sitting on Rob.
“Now you have to brush your teeth again,” says Dave. “You have to brush your teeth all day long around here.”
I brush my teeth. In the living room, Rob stops yelling. Now he sits on the sofa and cries. Sue tells me Rob is on a time-out. He has to sit real quiet and can’t talk to us.
Sue asks me to come to the office. The office is behind a locked door beside the kitchen. I get real worried about this.
“Come on in, Jason,” Sue says.
I walk into the office. Sue leaves the door open. That makes it feel better. I see a bed, a desk, and a closet. Sue unlocks a cabinet on the wall.
“I have your medicine in here,” she says.
I take pills at night and in the morning. A doctor told me if I took the pills, I wouldn’t be so bad. They’re blue and white.
Sue puts two in a small cup. That’s the right number. Sometimes Mom gives me an extra one. She says it makes me sleep better. Then I get dizzy and can’t walk good. I count to make sure. I’m glad Sue gives me just two. I take my pills.
I watch some more TV. I sit quiet. I try to be real good. I don’t want Sue to sit on me. She’s talking to Rob in the office. Everything seems to be all right.
At 8:30, we go to our rooms. Sue says I have fifteen minutes. Then she’ll turn out the light. But I forgot to call home, I think. I want to talk to Linda. What did she do all day? I’m scared to ask if I can use the phone, but I call Sue’s name. She comes to the door. When I ask, she says I can call home now. But from now on, I have to call home before 8:00.
Mom answers the phone. She sounds mad. I can hear Linda crying close by.
“Stop crying, Linda,” says Mom. “I can’t hear your brother, you’re so loud. What do you want, Jason?”
I don’t know what to say. I’m not used to talking to Mom on the phone. It’s like talking to my grandma and grandpa in Toronto—way far away.
“How are you?” I ask. “Did you have a nice day?”
“I had a busy day,” says Mom. “Very busy.”
“Oh,” I say. “Can I talk to Linda?”