Etched in Sand

by Regina Calcaterra

  I ride the late bus to Centereach High School, keeping my hair down so it covers my face. It takes all of my concentration to ignore the stares I get from the other students. A long-sleeved sweatshirt covers my arms and back. After second period, Mr. Brown, my social studies teacher, pulls me aside.

  “Now, Regina,” he says, trying to hold my eyes while I stare at my shoes. “I don’t want to have to ask you about your personal life—that’s between you and your family. You flunked the last test though, and unless some miracle happens between now and the quarter-end exam, I’m going to have to fail you. So whatever’s going on, it has to stop.”

  I continue staring at the floor.

  He softens his voice. “If you tell me where all these marks came from, there’s a chance I can give you a passing grade.”

  Mr. Brown is bigger than my mother but not at all threatening. He keeps his hand resting softly on my arm, as though he thinks I might run. But I can’t tell him. When I finally raise my head to look at him, he blinks to suppress a flinch. “I’m fine,” I mumble. “I can’t be late for my next class.” Then, I bolt.

  When I arrive home from school that afternoon, there’s a car I don’t recognize in the driveway. The front door is hanging wide open. Oh no!

  A social worker is rooting through the kitchen cabinets and drawers. She’s young and blond, wearing khakis and no makeup. Her face holds a flat expression: She’s definitely on a mission. When she notices me, she stops, openly looking at the bruises on my face. I can see she’s trying to control her expression when she introduces herself. “Regina,” she says. “I’m Ms. Davis.” She motions for me to let her look at my arms and gasps as she pushes up my sleeves. “Your school called my office today. I need to know what happened.”

  My first thought is to give her what’s become my natural reaction when I’m confronted with how we live: I lie. I lie for us. I say, “My sisters and I were roughhousing,” or “I fell out of the tree I was climbing,” or “I fell off of my friend’s bike onto the gravel.” I know if I tell her the truth, we’ll all be separated. “I fell down the basement stairs holding an iron,” I tell her. My toes wiggle inside my shoes, embarrassed to look so awful while she looks so wholesome and pretty.

  She looks at me crossly, then comes at me and lifts up my sweatshirt. I don’t flinch or fight her—it will only make the pain worse. There’s heartbreak in her face when she looks up from my ribs. “C’mon, Regina,” she says. “Make this the last time that you fell down the stairs, or into a stove, or out of a tree. I read your file, honey. You are almost fourteen! You can be in control soon—you know what that means, don’t you?”

  I know. It means I could leave my mother permanently. I’ve heard this many times before from my social workers, truant officers, guidance counselors, and other street kids. When you turn fourteen, you reach the age of reason. That means you can choose whether you want to stay with your biological parents or choose to emancipate yourself and become a ward of the state. If I opted to become a ward of the state, my mother would no longer have any control over my decisions or me.

  All of them—the counselors, the officers, the social workers—seemed well intentioned at first, asking if our mother hit us; if she fed us. They’d give the impression of wanting to help, but then they’d talk to Cookie, who seemed to have a sixth sense about these things and usually returned home when we were in danger of being taken away. It wasn’t hard for her to convince them that we brought the bruises on ourselves: For social services, it’s easier to keep children with their mother than deal with all the logistics, paperwork, and drama of putting kids in foster homes. And then the cycle would start all over again: Cookie would move us into a different house, using a new combination of names to delay the state in tracking us down, and things would be really bad for a while.

  “Regina, she’ll kill you if you stay here. Your siblings aren’t safe, either.” She pauses, watching me, then leans over and puts her arms on the counter. “If you tell me everything, we can get you away. She will do to them what she has done to you. Do you want Rosie to look like you in a few years, to feel like you feel? You owe it to them to tell the truth. Stop lying for their sakes and tell me what has been happening here.”

  “What if I did tell you? What would happen to the kids?”

  “They’ll be taken away from your mother and go to a foster home, too,” she says. “I promise you they will be kept safe.”

  Before I can think twice, I give in. Without Camille here to run interference, and now, faced with the idea that my silence could put my little brother and sister in danger, Ms. Davis’s invitation to finally free us from this hell is too tempting to resist any longer.

  Through calm breaths I tell her that the kids cannot go back with our mother. “You need to promise me that they will be safe, no matter what.” And then, before I can stop myself, I’m talking and talking and I can’t shut up. The stress and exhaustion of the past two years of parenting the kids on my own; the cars, the shelters, and the struggle . . . they break me. It’s dusk by the time I’m finished spilling the truth. I don’t leave anything out.

  The kids arrive just as Ms. Davis is getting ready to leave. Norman eyes her timidly as she places a dime in my hand so I can make a call on the pay phone. “Norm, can you hold down the fort for a minute?”

  He watches Ms. Davis exit, still tentative. “Yeah.”

  I walk to the corner phone booth and dial Kathy’s house. “Cookie was about to beat Rosie and I stepped in,” I tell Camille.

  “Why would she lay a hand on Rosie?”

  “Because she accidentally dropped a glass, right next to where Cookie was sleeping. I couldn’t hide the marks and my teacher must have called social services.”

  “Social services came?”

  “The social worker was standing in the kitchen when I got home!”

  “You didn’t tell, did you?”

  “Camille—”

  “Gi, did you tell?”

  “You weren’t here and I couldn’t let Cookie hurt them!”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Cookie’s beating didn’t make me cry, but losing Camille’s faith in me has. On the walk back to the house, it sinks in: This did not save my family. Instead, I have violated a pact among our siblings by telling the truth. I’ve separated us again, and worse, I have exposed Norman and Rosie not only to our mother, should she succeed in getting them back from foster care, but to whomever they’ll find in the home they’re sent to.

  I’m overwhelmed with guilt. When Camille shows up, we stand on the porch facing each other. Tears start flowing until I shake. Because of me, none of us are safe now. Rosie won’t survive if I’m not there to protect her; she’ll be the only “little slut” and “whore” Cookie will have left. She doesn’t stand a chance.

  The thought makes me cry harder, hating myself for my selfishness that will make my baby sister completely vulnerable. Camille and I put our arms around each other, both sobbing. “Do you think there’s any way for me to take it back?”

  She shakes her head. Says nothing. We both know there’s no going back. I’ve said too much.

  That night I do not sleep. I go to the couch where Rosie sleeps and watch her breathing. I cuddle and kiss and pray for her all night, knowing as daylight pushes into the room that I’ve crushed any chance of her being protected.

  Camille and I put the kids on the early bus in time for the school’s free breakfast. I take the late bus. Camille takes her post at home, waiting for the inevitable.

  It takes every ounce of concentration for me to get through school. I don’t eat my free lunch, nor do I notice whom I’ve sat next to in the cafeteria. I pay no attention in class, especially Mr. Brown’s, where I keep my head down and pretend to write in my notebook. I wonder if he was the one who sent social services to the house, and if they told him what I said.

  Three cars fill the driveway when I reach home: two gray sedans that I know belong to social services;
in each, a man sits waiting behind the wheel. I hurry into the house. The third car is a familiar orange rust box.

  The front door of the house is standing open, and from the upstairs I hear the creak of a closet door followed by the slam of an empty drawer.

  My siblings are packing.

  In the kitchen I find Ms. Davis and another woman with my mother. Cookie doesn’t even look in my direction. “Why don’t you go upstairs and pack your stuff,” she says in a sickeningly singsong voice. This is the act she always puts on in front of the social workers. I race upstairs, aware of what’s about to take place.

  I find Camille in my room. When our eyes lock, I break again into angry tears. Working fast, I throw my clothes and two Jesus figurines in the green Hefty bag that I keep under my bed. Then I sit on the bed with my siblings. I embrace Rosie, who’s also sobbing. “It will be okay, baby, I promise. We’ll take care of you.” Camille consoles Norman through his heaving tears.

  When the four of us come downstairs with our belongings, the social workers lead us outside. They place Norman and Rosie in one car, Camille and me in another. A social worker’s cheap guarantee was all it took to lose mia bambina—my baby. What kind of big sister gives in so easily?

  As they start the cars and prepare to pull away, Cookie lumbers down the steps, pushing her hair back from her face. She’s breathless and pale, attempting to maintain her version of composure. At the bottom of the steps, she hoarsely calls after us: “Don’t worry, kids, I’ll get you back!” Other mothers whose children are being ripped from their homes might proclaim such a promise because they love their kids but I know: That’s not Cookie. “I’ll get you back!” she’s screaming through the car window, but not because she’s lost what matters most to her. It’s because she’s lost her meal ticket.

  Norman and Rosie’s car pulls out first. Cookie runs toward our car and stands staring through the back door of the driver’s side where the only thing that protects Camille and me from her is a locked car door. Looking directly at me she yells: “I’ll get you back!”

  “No,” I mouth to her through the glass. “No you won’t.”

  And then we’re gone.

  5

  Failure to Thrive

  November 1980; 1971 to 1974

  MS. DAVIS AND the driver have set the mood with a stiff silence from the front seat of the car. A quick glance from Camille puts me more at ease, but when I turn to look out the window again, the trees and houses grow fast out of focus as tears collect in my eyes and drop down my cheeks. Social workers usually have a sixth sense; almost the ability to hear tears fall . . . but when Ms. Davis keeps her eyes locked on the road in front of us, I know she realizes that we’re too old for the “This is all for the best” speech. At this point in our foster care career, we know it’s not.

  We’re separated again, and it’s because of me.

  Because I told.

  Until now, we’ve only ever been put in foster care for slips—for committing tiny errors that gave away our situation. By now, Norm, Rosie, and I have learned that we’re stronger together than apart. We’ve sharpened our instincts and it’s kept us together for six solid years, from the time I was in third grade. When I use my sleeve to wipe my eyes and nose swiftly and in silence, Camille reaches across the seat and gently sets her hand on my shoulder. We both understand that our years as a family will probably end today.

  As the driver makes a right off Middle Country Road,

  Ms. Davis finally turns to face us. “You’ll be at this next placement for two weeks,” she says, “until we figure out another home for you both.” For you both. Does that mean Camille and I might get to stay together for good? Ms. Davis explains that this temporary foster family has had kids coming and going for more than twenty years, and they’ve decided not to foster children permanently anymore. But when they heard we were teenagers who lived in the same school district that they did, they agreed to take us until social services found us a new home. I prop my elbow against the car window, partly to block my ear from Ms. Davis’s next topic. Through half a muffle, I hear her say:

  “This family didn’t want young children.”

  Why would she say that? As if it’s not excruciating enough to think of Rosie and Norm on their own—most likely holding each other, sobbing inconsolably, their eyes focused in terror out the car windows, completely unsure of what kind of questions to even ask the social workers.

  What did I just do?

  Within ten stifling minutes, we pull into the driveway of a tidy, red ranch house sitting on a manicured corner property. Camille nudges me out of the backseat and we edge around to the trunk to unload our Hefty bags. We follow Ms. Davis to the porch, keeping our eyes to the ground all the while. When I look up to the stoop, I’m met by the gaze of a blue-eyed, blond-haired lady, very proper and petite. She appears to be near fifty. Her forced smile turns to a look of horror, then a gasp escapes from her mouth. I suppose this is the first time she’s ever met a walking white Ethiopian with cuts and bruises covering her face.

  Ms. Davis gestures for Camille and me to stand next to her. “Girls, this is Addie Peterman. You’re welcome to call her Aunt Addie.” I stare at the clean cuff at the bottom of Addie’s pants, at her shockingly white Keds sneakers. It takes all my will to stop from blurting, “Why don’t we call you what you are to us: Mrs. Rent-a-Kid.” I always hate this Foster Mommy Dearest baloney.

  Addie opens the front door, a wreath and a lace curtain hanging from its window. She leads us inside and I gawk around the living room. “Don’t touch anything,” Camille whispers. As far as foster homes go, this is one of the nicest we’ve seen.

  Addie looks down at our feet and I understand this is polite-lady code for Please take off your shoes. My feet leave imprints across the fresh-vacuumed nap of her carpeting. Addie’s décor is a quintessential 1970s housewife motif of gingham fabrics and lace; scalloped edges and spindle legs; braided rugs and silk floral arrangements. She leads us down the hall, suggesting for Camille to set down her bag while she shows us into my room.

  I rest my shins against the Hefty bag, taking it all in. Addie’s generosity with her space does not melt my numbness to her home, nor does her domestic perfection. What’s the point? I’ll only be here two weeks. A floral wallpaper covers the walls, which are lined with bookshelves and a single bed (that includes both a mattress and a box spring), a dresser and a closet. Next to the bed is a white vanity desk that makes me imagine sitting down with a stack of books and some homework, until my eyes scan up to the huge mirror that’s hanging over it:

  On second thought, why don’t I avoid mirrors for now.

  There’s also a window—complete with a lock and actual shutters, the wooden accordion kind, for privacy. When Addie leads us into Camille’s room, we find her space is just as Cottage Country–esque as mine, only a little bigger. I raise my eyebrows at my sister. Nice, but let’s not get too comfortable.

  After Ms. Davis tells us she’s posted her number on the pad hanging next to the yellow wall phone in the kitchen, Addie instructs us to make ourselves at home while she prepares dinner. I head back into my bedroom and plop my garbage bag on top of the flowered quilt before it dawns on me that my luggage will dirty the bedding. I take in the delicacy of the patchwork comforter, along with the matching pillowcase covering a cushy pillow.

  If Addie thinks she’s being generous with all these drawers and the closet space, I’d like to inform her how ridiculous it feels to be finished unpacking in two small armloads. In the bottom of my bag I find my other three possessions: One is a picture of the five of us when Rosie was just a baby, in which we’re all sporting matching T-shirts from Lake Havasu, Arizona. Then there are my two Jesus statues. The first is a plastic Baby Jesus from a Nativity scene. The other is the translucent Lucite head of the adult Jesus on the cross. I hold both my Jesuses and tap my finger against them, pondering which surface is the most polished for their display. I turn when Addie walks in and nods toward my han
d. “There’s a church two blocks away, if you’d like to go and observe,” she tells me.

  “Observe what?”

  “Your religion,” she says. “You’re Catholic, I take it?”

  I glance down at my Jesuses. “Not sure. I don’t go to church.”

  She eyes my figurines and looks back at me, confused. Now I get it. I jump in to clarify my position on God and religion for this clueless woman. “If there was a God, he wouldn’t let bad things happen to little kids.”

  Again her face moves from softness to a look of horror. “Regina, God does not do bad things to little kids—bad people do!”

  We look at each other in silence for a moment. I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to dare say more, before she turns on her heels and huffs down the hall.

  I’m strategizing the moment I can put Addie in her place when my stomach rumbles from the smells of melted cheese and toast grilled in butter. Camille comes to my room and says it’s time for dinner. “You think I can bring it in here?” I ask her.

  “I already asked,” she says. “She wants us to eat in the kitchen.”

  Addie’s husband, Pete, is seated with his back to the wall, facing the room while Addie buzzes around the kitchen, placing plates on the table. We join Addie, Pete, and their foster son, Danny, who’s clearly annoyed we’re here. It’s no accident that the seat I scoot into is the one that’s closest to the front door—anybody pushes my buttons, I’m outta here! As she sends the bowl of steamed broccoli around the table, Addie fills us in on the house rules. “Regina, your curfew is seven thirty every night,” she announces. That sounds fine—besides the library, where else would I go? Then she adds, “And we don’t approve of your having any boys in the house.”