Heart Scars

by Jeanette Lukowski

  In December of 2009, we started receiving news. First came the letter from the East Coast District Attorney’s office on December 11, 2009: Nicholas had finally pled guilty to the charge of enticing a child under the age of sixteen. He was sentenced to two and a half years in prison, and must register with the Sex Offender Registry Board. Allison and I would not have to go to court, and when Nicholas was done serving his sentence there, he would be shipped back to his home state to face the charges of sexually assaulting an earlier girlfriend’s young child. The second letter, this one from the local district attorney’s office, came about two weeks later: Gregory had pled guilty to the charge of gross misdemeanor indecent exposure/lewdness to someone under the age of sixteen. He was sentenced to one year in jail, but only served about thirty days. He was also told to attend a sex offender program. Once again, neither Allison nor I would have to go to court.

  By the time we got a notice taped to our front door on February 2, 2010, that the sheriff’s office had some paperwork for us, I had forgotten about court cases. My focus had returned to my job and the start of a new semester for myself and the children. Allison and I walked back into the sheriff’s office together, told the woman behind the glass that a note had been left taped to our front door, and were told to have a seat in the waiting room.

  Thirty minutes later, Allison and I were being served subpoenas to testify in court, as witnesses for the prosecution.

  Two days later, the children were both in the living room watching television while I was in the kitchen making dinner. The doorbell rang, Tommy jumped up to answer it, and I heard a man’s voice asking him, “Is your mother home?”

  I went to the door to be greeted by a gray-haired gentleman holding a manila envelope. “Are you Jeanette Lukowski?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said somewhat cautiously. I had been thinking he was just a solicitor or political campaign representative, but was thrown by the fact that he already knew my name.

  “This is for you,” he simply said, as he handed me the envelope.

  I looked down at the envelope which was now in my hand, then back up at him. I was about to ask him what it was, when he said, “Sorry, ma’am, I’m just the delivery guy.”

  It was another subpoena. This time, it was to testify as a witness for the defense—the defendant being the father who had driven Allison to the bus station, given her travel money for her trip, and talked with the woman behind the counter at the bus station in town. From my perspective, Allison would have never gotten onto the bus in the first place if he hadn’t facilitated her running in that way.

  More irritating, though, was the question of how I was supposed to be testifying for both sides. Didn’t the defense attorney understand that I was the mother of the victim in the case? I called the district attorney’s office in town and left a message asking for an explanation.

  Two days after that, I got another piece of mail: I had been selected for jury duty. There was a two-day lag between the date on the subpoenas and the date I was being told to report for jury duty. I thought this was some insane malfunction by a computer, and that I could get out of the second in light of the first, but that was not to be. I really did have to report for jury duty two days after I sat in the courtroom testifying as a witness in a case that involved my daughter. The trial was scheduled for a week after the one year anniversary of Allison’s running away.

  * * *

  That week of court activities will always be the oddest education I ever got. Since I was a witness before I was a juror, I saw how the jurors were often sent out of the courtroom before information that might sway their verdict could be presented. In our case, it was the fact that Gregory, who was also subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution, came to court on drugs. The judge noticed this because of his inability to follow the prosecutor’s questions and instructions. She sent the jurors out of the room before she told the bailiff to take Gregory out for an immediate urinalysis, as he was in violation of his probation. When they returned to the courtroom, thanks to the line of questions presented by the defense attorney, the jurors were left with the impression that Gregory was simply manipulated by my daughter, rather than the other way around.

  When it was Allison’s turn to testify, the defense attorney continued with a line of questions that presented her as a manipulative, story-telling mastermind who used Alex, Gregory, and then his father to get what she wanted. In spite of where the questions were leading, and the picture I knew was being painted of Allison, I was proud of the way she calmly and clearly answered every question with the truth. Then it was my turn on the witness stand.

  I was thankful Allison was taken back out of the courtroom by the district attorney’s assistant for my turn on the stand. I had been nervous about how my honest answers to some of the anticipated questions would sound to her. What I didn’t expect, however, was the twisting and turning nature of the questions the defense attorney asked. Or the outright attack he made on me during his closing argument. According to the defense attorney, everything was all my fault. The fact that Allison was talking with older guys was my fault because I provided her with the cell phone, the fact that Allison had a history of talking with older guys was my fault because I didn’t monitor her movements more closely, the fact that I asked Allison about the need for two backpacks the morning of April 16 meant that I was aware of her intentions to run away, the fact that I had talked to the predator myself on the afternoon of April 16 meant that I was responsible for letting their relationship continue.

  Allison and I sat through ninety percent of the day and a half trial. We left the first day so that I could pick up her brother after school, drive him home, and return to the courtroom for the last ten minutes of day one. We left the second day after both attorneys finished their closing arguments, before the jurors were given their final instructions by the judge. At that point, I was too hurt to hear any more. Besides which, the state had pressed the charges against the defendants in each of the three court cases. I didn’t completely ­understand why charges had been pressed against Gregory’s father in the first place, so I didn’t have much interest in the outcome of the case.

  The district attorney called me at home two hours later; the jury had acquitted Gregory’s father.

  * * *

  Before April 24, 2009, I had never met or seen either of Gregory’s parents. I don’t recall ever seeing the district attorney, his assistant, the defense attorney, the judge, or any of the jurors. After the trial was over, they all had seen, and probably think they even know me.

  Allison and I each got paid twenty dollars for testifying for the district attorney. We received one combined check in July 2010.

  I also received a twenty-dollar check from the defense attorney’s office, paper-clipped to the subpoena I was served months before the trial began. I held onto that check, not wanting to cash it, until the trial was over. After receiving the painful and unnecessary verbal assault to my personhood in that courtroom in April, I made the decision to return the check to the defense attorney. I didn’t want their blood money. I wrote a simple note to be wrapped around the check, saying something like, “I realize that it is your job to defend your client by whatever means necessary—but you don’t know me at all, sir.”

  I have never received another letter from any of the offices after the cases were closed.

  * * *

  The only thing Allison has ever really said about our days spent in court is that, “It’s nothing at all like on TV.”

  I think she is saying both that justice isn’t always swift, nor is it always fair.

  When I walk around town, now, I can’t help but wonder if the jurors are out there somewhere, seeing me or Allison, and whispering quick explanations of who we are to their companions.

  I wish I could disappear back into anonymity again.

  14. Unanswered Questions

 
; Since April 24, 2009, I have felt surrounded by questions. Why did Allison run away from home? What should I have done differently, as a parent, to make her feel better about herself? What can I do now, going forward, to help her see that she is loved, and lovable?

  Where did it all begin to go so wrong?

  * * *

  I don’t remember the first time I heard it—maybe it was when he was in first grade, and a teacher said it, or maybe it was during one of the family gatherings my aunt and uncle would host at their home in central Minnesota during Christmas or summer vacations, I just remember the sweet expression that would cross over my son’s face when someone would joke with him about being the man of our family. First, his expression was curious, almost inquisitive, as if to ask, “What? What do you mean by that?” Then, his expression would change to one of pride, his little chest would puff out, and he seemed to grown an inch taller right before my very eyes. In those early days, Tommy seemed to think that being a man was the be all and end all, and I was thrilled to watch his sense of self glow with pride.

  Unfortunately, Allison was hurt by all of the attention her little brother was receiving. No one saw it that way at the time. Perhaps I’m the only one who even now sees how destructive that innocent teasing was for her. While the extended family thought that recognizing my son’s status as another male in the three-girls-to-one-boy ratio that had existed in our family for decades was important, Allison absorbed a different message. She retaliated by becoming the pretty one. “Oh, look how pretty Allison looks!” someone would announce whenever we arrived at the house. When the children were about eight and six, and one of my younger cousins was being married, my daughter wore one of her lovely Christmas dresses, and my son wore a hand-me-down suit with a clip-on bow tie. Once again, the focus was placed entirely on their outfits: “Oh, Allison, you look so pretty!” comments were followed by announcements of “And Tommy looks so grown up with that suit on! What a good-looking family you have there, Mom.” It wasn’t until the film from my camera was developed weeks later that I saw the sadness in my daughter’s eyes after being told that she couldn’t run and play with the “little” kids anymore. My mother had told her that playing would ruin her pretty dress.

  The next time I remember hearing my son referred to as the man of the house was when he was about nine and his sister was eleven. We were still living in the house that Frank and I had bought together, and the fascia above the garage needed to be replaced. That spring, I had innocently tried nailing a thermometer to the overhang, so that we could see the outside temperature from inside the house. I discovered that the wood was all rotten and needed replacing. Because I had no power tools of my own, I had to call in a professional. Fortunately, our church secretary knew of a member in the congregation who was a licensed-and-bonded handyman.

  Mark came out the next week to replace the wood. He drove up in his pick-up truck, jumped out of the cab, and cheerily greeted me. This was enough sound to peak Tommy’s interest and break him away from the cartoon he and Allison had been watching in the living room. Being in his early thirties, with a set of four-year-old twin girls at home, Mark enjoyed Tommy’s interest in what it was he was doing and enlisted my young son as his assistant on that and future repair jobs around our house. Once again, the attention was great for Tommy, but left Allison out. While I always needed to stay close by during all repair jobs, so that I could answer questions Mark would ask about the project he was working on, Allison was left on the fringes. She only received comments from Mark about being careful lest she get too close to the paint with her pretty clothes on or step on a piece of debris that might pierce through her flip-flops, hurting her feet.

  What I saw happening during those hours my son spent working with Mark was the nice role model, father-son type of bonding time he wasn’t getting with his dad. “Tom,” Mark would say. “Would you hand me that socket wrench over there?” or, “Hey, why don’t you come over and hold this piece of wood steady while I saw off . . .” I thought this was important for Tommy because my mother’s only brother had recently expressed a fear that my sister, my mom, and I were sending messages of negativity to Tommy, because of how my father had mentally and emotionally scarred each of us. I was happy that Tommy was getting so much attention from Mark.

  What I didn’t see was how Allison needed that same bonding time with a father-figure. She needed a man who could teach her to tolerate good-natured teasing, a man who would praise her for what she did rather than what she wore, a man who would still be her friend the next day. My father was dead, and Frank chose to be a deadbeat dad. I had grown up with no brothers, and my sister wasn’t married, so Allison had no uncles. Since I didn’t date, Allison’s exposure to relationships was limited to family and school. I thought I was doing a good job, keeping us emotionally sheltered from any more pain and rejection, but a visit with the psychiatrist made me question even that decision.

  On August 11, 2009, Allison and I were at a follow-up appointment with a child psychiatrist who had prescribed for her a very low dose of an anti-anxiety/anti-depressant medication a month earlier. While we were talking about her attitude since our last visit, the doctor made the most interesting comment. He said, “Kids are just more trusting, by nature, because they haven’t been burned like we adults have.”

  What a totally insightful statement for me to hear. The psychiatrist’s words had hit the mark. The most difficult thing for me to wrap my head around in the past four months had been the question of how she could have gotten on the bus in the first place. I had never let her see “bad” adult behavior.

  * * *

  I tend to take too much responsibility for my children’s behavior. But can I really hold myself responsible for Allison’s running away? I chose to remain single, thinking I needed to focus all of my energy on being a parent rather than on being some other adult’s romantic partner. But had that sacrifice been worth the pay-off? Some days, I wasn’t so sure. On the one hand, my children were physically healthy and getting a good education. On the other hand, my attempts to keep them safe from predators and those who would want to sexually assault them hadn’t gone as well. It’s true I didn’t bring the predator to our home, but would Allison have pursued a relationship with a stranger if our home had still been intact, with Frank and me still married? Obviously, that is something I’ll never know. Would she have felt safer in a two-parent home? My own experience growing up suggests otherwise. I made my choice to divorce Frank after he chose to move out. I made the choice to sever unsupervised visits with him when the children came home at ages six and eight reporting about the various activities they had engaged in while he was supposed to be in charge of them. I made the choice to uproot my children from the only home they knew in order to try and reach financial solvency with a job in Wyoming. I made the decision to move them back to Minnesota when they complained too much about life in Wyoming.

  But am I to be blamed for Allison’s decision to run away?

  * * *

  August 13, 2009

  Allison and I were at another counseling session. Unlike previous visits, where we would both go in, this was the first day I sat out in the waiting room by myself while Allison and the counselor met.

  Before I knew it, Allison was standing next to my chair in the waiting room, beaming. “Mom,” she said excitedly, “she said she doesn’t need to see me for six more weeks—and she wants to talk to you now.”

  Wow! I tried to mirror Allison’s smile, but I think I had more surprise behind my smile than she did. “Okay,” I said out loud. “Here, hold my book, please.”

  I remember walking down the long hall, towards the open door on the far left-hand side, wondering if I was dreaming. The counselor who I had become so familiar with in the past several months was sitting in her office chair with her back to the door. She turned her head to smile at me over her left shoulder when I entered the room.


  “Well, it looks like I’ve lost a client,” she said, after I shut the office door and took a seat in the closest chair.

  I was totally surprised. What made her think that Allison was already “cured”? Had the counselor found some hidden switch inside my daughter and flipped it to a “Nice” setting when I wasn’t looking? More importantly, though, did she think, after spending five or six hours visiting with us over the course of three months, that Allison would never do anything like that again?

  “She’s so different from when she started!” the counselor continued.

  While I had to agree with the fact that Allison was much different, I can’t say I was as confident as the counselor was. Sure, Allison was happier than she had been in quite some time. She was even interested in dating a football player she’d had a class with the year before, when they were both freshmen at the high school, but was she “cured”? Being interested in the football player, which required a level of confidence and self-esteem that she hadn’t displayed since our move from Minnesota to Wyoming, was great, but it didn’t explain why she walked out of school and got onto a bus to meet a stranger in April. I wanted to believe that the Allison who was sitting in the waiting room now was lightyears away from the “desperately seeking” lonely heart I pictured who began the telephone and text messaging conversations with the predator in the first place. Was she “cured”?