by Debra Moerke
When I got to Hannah’s bed, I tucked the blanket around her and prayed God would help her to be able to share what was in her heart and that he would take good care of her. I prayed for Karen as well. When I opened my eyes, I could tell Hannah had been staring wide-eyed at me during the prayer. I lingered a minute more in case she had something to say, but she was silent. I smiled, gently kissed her forehead, and whispered, “I love you, and Jesus loves you even more.”
Monday morning was cold, so I started the fire in the wood-burning stove. Al had needed to work late Sunday night and was still in bed. As I waited for the household to come to life, I poured myself a mug of steaming-hot coffee, holding it closely to warm my chilled hands. Alarms would start going off and hungry children would soon be rushing to get dressed, make beds, and then pile around the table for breakfast. Once everyone was fed, lunches would be packed and backpacks placed at the front door. The Moerke caravan would be ready to roll on its weekday route to get everyone to school and day care.
That morning as I walked Hannah into her Head Start class, her teacher immediately asked about the black eye. It appeared more swollen, more black-and-blue. Hannah stiffened at the question, then quickly repeated her bubbles and bathtub story. Her teacher looked at me with a wrinkled brow. I shook my head slightly, indicating I wasn’t so sure about the truthfulness of the story either.
After saying good-bye to Hannah, I drove to the pregnancy center. As soon as I walked in the door, I turned up the heat, started the coffee, and put three cups on the counter. My receptionist and counselor would be arriving soon.
I couldn’t get the image of Hannah’s bruised forehead and black eye out of my mind. Should I call the caseworker? I knew every bump and bruise didn’t need reporting. Yet, since this had been the children’s first overnight stay with Karen, I decided to call and leave the rest up to Ellen, the caseworker. She always seemed to care about the families she worked with, yet she stayed professional enough to keep an emotional distance.
I dialed her number. “Hi, Ellen. It’s Deb Moerke. I called because I’m a little concerned about the Bower kids’ overnight visit with Karen. Hannah came back with a bruised forehead and black eye. Karen and Hannah said she slipped getting out of the tub. I doubt them both. I can’t tell if it is actually true and they’re afraid that it will look bad, or if it’s not what happened and they’re trying to cover it up with a well-rehearsed story. I thought you needed to know.”
Ellen said what I thought she would say. “Can you bring Hannah to my office this morning? Once I look at her, I can let you know if I believe a doctor should see her. What do you think?”
Reporting my suspicions made them seem more real, and my heart began to race. “I will pick her up from Head Start shortly. I don’t want her to be scared, though, wondering why she is the only one of her siblings coming to see you.” I didn’t want Hannah to distrust me. She and I had become close, and I wanted her to believe she was safe with me.
“I will play it down. You can tell her you need to stop by my office to pick up a paper from me. I will be cool about it. We may put her in the playroom with the two-way mirror. How quickly can you be here?” I knew she wanted it to be soon.
“As soon as a staff member comes in.” I hung up the phone, put on my coat, and grabbed my purse. While I waited, flutters of anxiety rose in my chest.
I hope Hannah’s story is true. I want Karen to be the mother Hannah needs her to be.
My spirit was arguing with my heart and my mind. Tears pooled in my eyes and my hands became sweaty. What’s going to happen?
The moment the morning receptionist arrived, I flew past her. “Sorry, I have to run!” I didn’t even say good morning.
In the car, I fumbled with my keys to find the right one. My tears made everything blurry. Now that I was acting on my suspicions, I realized how strong they were. What’s happened to Hannah? Is she afraid, vulnerable, and alone? I closed my eyes and prayed, “Lord, help me to be calm. Don’t let me make Hannah worried or anxious. I want her to trust me. I want her to trust you! Calm my heart and prepare hers for the visit with Ellen.”
I opened my eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I am entrusting Hannah, Ellen, and myself into your hands, Lord.” I hoped that the black eye was an accident. But my instincts told me it wasn’t.
Chapter 4Inklings of the Past
“YOU’RE IT!” I heard Kyle declaring his victory, followed by Kyra’s giggles.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Helen’s voice rang through the house. She had organized a game of hide-and-seek to keep some of the children occupied on this frigid Friday afternoon in January 1997. From the kitchen where I was preparing dinner, I heard the stampede of little feet running toward the family room. After dinner, Karen would be picking them up for another overnighter.
“Kyra is It now,” Helen announced. “Kyra, count to twenty while everyone hides again. Don’t count so fast this time.”
Then I heard Hannah’s familiar giggles coming from Sadie’s room. “That’s perfect, Hannah. Now smile!” Sadie had set up a pretend photo shoot in her bedroom for Hannah in dress-up clothes—a favorite pastime.
Charles wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Hamburgers. Are you hungry?”
He nodded as he poured himself a glass of milk, then blurted out what he must have been struggling with for weeks.
“Mom, why is Karen still allowed to have unsupervised visits with her kids after Hannah got that black eye? I don’t get it.”
“Well, it could have been an accident. We only know what Hannah and Karen told us.” Charles looked at me doubtfully, but I continued my less-than-convincing reasoning. “Ellen made a note of the injury, questioned Karen, and seemed reasonably convinced Hannah slipped in the tub. And Hannah did go willingly to the Christmas overnight at her mother’s. Our responsibility is to observe and listen to the children after their visits. Hopefully, nothing like that will happen again.”
Charles couldn’t hide his frustration. “It isn’t right, Mom. Why do these bad parents always get second chances? How many hurt kids have we seen over the years go back to these parents? How come they get away with it? It isn’t fair!”
I looked at my son’s troubled face. We’d had this conversation before, and I knew we’d have it again. In fact, I’d had many similar conversations with all my kids. Charles was very protective of the foster kids who moved through our home. He’d seen a lot in his ten years, as had all of my kids—children with cigarette burns, bruised bodies, and traumatized psyches. He wanted justice for each one, demanding punishment for abusive and neglectful parents and instant, permanent removal of the kids from their homes. Visitations and counseling and the complexities of rehabilitating and reuniting families were beyond his comprehension. I was proud of my son for caring so deeply and for his strong sense of right and wrong.
“The reason such kids wind up with us is because their parents are not getting away with it,” I tried to explain. “When the authorities discover a child has been abused or isn’t in a safe environment, they do intervene. That’s why they need families like ours who will welcome these kids and love and care for them while DFS tries to figure out the truth, what the problems are, if they can be fixed or helped, or if children need to be adopted by new families. It takes time and a lot of work for them to discover what’s really going in in these homes and what the best solutions are. It’s a difficult, messy process, isn’t it?”
“Do you think the Bower kids are safe with Karen?”
“That’s what their time with us is all about,” I said, aware that I was avoiding the question that was worrying me. “While DFS is figuring that out, we’ll keep doing our part. We report what we see and hear. And we show the children what a healthy family looks like. We love them and care for them and make sure they know they are special to us and to God. And as hard as it is sometimes, all we can do is play our part the b
est we know how.”
Apparently satisfied for the moment, Charles finished his glass of milk and left the kitchen, leaving me to ponder the Bower kids while I defrosted the ground beef.
In the nearly seven months since the Bower siblings had arrived, I’d come to love them all. It hadn’t taken long to decipher their family dynamics. Kyle and Kyra were buddies, doing most things together. At six and five they were both well-mannered and obedient. They were doing well in school and got along with everyone in the family, although I always sensed they had a strong filter in place, carefully choosing their words to make a good impression.
Kyle clearly held some sway over Kyra, Hannah, and Andrew. He had “the look” down and could often stop the other three in their tracks if their behavior disturbed him. He was the most serious and clearly felt responsible for what they all did—a heavy weight for a six-year-old to bear.
Kyra always wanted to be seen in a positive light. She flashed her “perfect child” smile often. In so many ways she reminded me of Karen. She could be soft-spoken and sweet, but she, too, used “the look” on her younger sister and brother when they got out of line. Sometimes, if Hannah cried or whined, Kyra would stand silently in front of her, her presence and demeanor communicating disapproval. Immediately, Hannah would go quiet. Kyra also had a defiant side, and would stand her ground if she felt she was being treated unjustly.
Hannah was by far the most affectionate, freely giving hugs. She loved holding hands, cuddling with us, and being tickled. Her giggles always made me smile. She had bonded deeply with each of us from the start, and that bond was growing deeper each day.
The night before, when Al was sitting in his recliner, Hannah had walked over with a book.
“Would you read to me?” she asked. When he pulled her up into his lap and started reading, she snuggled into him like a little teddy bear.
For all the ways that Kyle and Kyra seemed to have strong filters in place, Hannah had none. She was the most emotional of the siblings, easily hurt and brought to tears. Whatever she felt was evident for all to see—anxiety and excitement, fear and delight, joy and sadness.
Andrew was a bundle of playful energy. He always seemed to bounce through a room rather than walk—when he wasn’t bouncing on a bed. That morning I’d had to intervene in a tiff between him and Hannah because after she’d made her bed, he’d crawled up and bounced on it, messing it up to her dismay. But he was so adorable and smiley it was hard to be stern with him for more than a minute. He definitely had a mischievous and sneaky side. I’d catch him sneaking cookies from the cupboard or find crackers, cookies, even cheese stashed under his pillow or his bed. I wasn’t surprised. Many foster children hoard food, sometimes a symptom of having grown up with too little to eat, but often a sign of unmet emotional needs. They stock and hide things they find soothing, demonstrating their fear that their needs won’t be met unless they take matters into their own hands.
Baby Ally’s personality was still developing, but so far she was all cuddles and smiles.
Yes, these five unique children have worked their way into the fabric of our lives.
When dinner was ready I called everyone to the table.
After taking his first bite, Andrew announced, “Mmm-mmm. Debwa, you sure are a good cooker!” This was one of his favorite phrases at the table.
“I love cooking for you, Andrew, because you appreciate it more than anybody I know,” I said. He beamed.
After dinner, Sadie and Helen helped me make sure that each child had packed his or her toothbrushes, pajamas, and a fresh change of clothes in anticipation of Karen’s arrival. As usual, Kyle and Kyra were excited about their visit with their mom. Andrew grew quieter than normal but was compliant. Hannah, though she didn’t protest this time, moved slowly and was withdrawn. After she finished packing she attached herself to me, literally, by wrapping her arms around my legs as I finished wiping down the kitchen counter. I picked her up and hugged her close, and she buried her face in my neck.
“Mom’s here!” Kyra called out from the front door where she’d been keeping watch.
Hannah and I both stiffened. I set her down, knelt down to be eye-to-eye with her, and whispered, “I will see you tomorrow after dinner. I will come to pick you up, okay? Remember that I love you, and Jesus loves you more.”
I took her face in my hands and kissed both cheeks. She didn’t respond—just sadly looked into my eyes.
Kyle opened the door for Karen, and he and Kyra hugged her waist. Andrew followed their example. I took Hannah’s hand and walked her over to the door as Helen handed Ally to Karen. “Okay, everybody grab your bags,” I instructed. “Have fun!” I let go of Hannah’s hand as the family headed out the door, Hannah trailing last in line.
The children continued their unsupervised visits during February and March. While there were no additional “accidents” that raised suspicions, Andrew and especially Hannah continued to demonstrate reluctance before the visits and moodiness after them. Sometimes Hannah would plead tearfully, asking if she could stay home with me. It was agonizing to send her on those days, wondering what was behind her distress. Was she being mistreated? What was happening during these visits? Or was it the past that Hannah was responding to?
Several times when the children returned from the visits, the younger ones would start to blurt out something that was said or done and were immediately silenced by the older two’s threatening looks.
One evening while I was bathing Hannah, she chattered nonstop about all sorts of things. My ears perked up when she mentioned going to Mommy’s house. Suddenly, she clammed up.
“Did something happen at Mommy’s house?” I asked.
“I’ll be in big, big trouble if I tell,” she said.
I never pressured any of them to talk, not wanting to encourage them to go against something their mother may have told them. There is such a fine line for a foster parent between seeking the truth and disrupting the birth parent’s authority. There is a time to speak up and a time to be silent. I wouldn’t place the weight of pressure on them. I did discuss, however, each observation with the caseworker.
Though the children were mum about their visits, Karen had continued to open up to me about the past, especially her past with William—the man with whom, by the court instructions, she was not to associate. Karen had recently admitted to me that this man so hated the father of Hannah and Andrew, and so resented that Karen ever had a relationship with him, that far worse than shunning them, he’d usually been harsh and unkind to them, often screaming at them and wanting them sent to another room when he visited. She’d even revealed that he had an explosive temper, not only toward the children but toward Karen as well. Yet Karen had been so deeply enmeshed with him that rather than cut off her relationship with him she had worked hard to appease him, wanting him to be a part of her life. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was defying DFS and seeing him now.
One day when I was at the mall picking up a few things I ran into a friend of Karen’s named Lisa. I’d met Lisa a few times at Karen’s home when I’d dropped the children off for visits. I liked her. She seemed levelheaded and appeared to care about the children.
“How are things going with the Bower children?” she asked.
Not wanting to betray any confidences, I kept my answer light. “Just fine. How do you think they are going?”
Lisa’s face darkened. “Debra, to be honest, I’ve been relieved they are with you and that DFS is telling Karen to stay clear of William. He’s a wretched influence on Karen and has been cruel to Hannah and Andrew. He’s bad news.”
“Sounds like he’s been a real source of trouble. If you don’t mind me asking, how was he cruel to Hannah and Andrew?”
Maybe I’ll finally get some answers.
Lisa described a grotesque picture of abuse. If Hannah or Andrew would whine or fuss or irritate William, he would grab them, put duct tape over their mouths, bind their hands together, and put them into a closet and cl
ose the door, leaving them there, sometimes for hours at a time.
“Karen wouldn’t intervene,” she told me. “Her relationship with this man is so dysfunctional, so tragically misguided, that she’d rather placate him than protect her own children. I’d talk to her ’til I was blue in the face, but she’d never stand up to him. Recently, I warned her that she’d better not let anything like that happen again. I hope she is staying away from him.”
I wasn’t shocked. I’d heard much worse over the years and seen the results on tiny bodies. I hadn’t become desensitized to cruelty to children—I still felt a shudder deep in my soul—but I didn’t gasp or rage or rant. I closed my eyes for a moment and let the ugly truth sink in.
“Thank you for telling me,” I said. “This answers some big questions.”
I called Ellen later that day and told her what I’d learned. She didn’t sound surprised, which made me wonder if perhaps DFS had already known. Maybe this was one of the reasons they’d mandated that Karen not associate with William and not expose the children to him.
“William is trouble all around,” Ellen said. “It’s good that Karen seems to be keeping her word about not seeing him. Have the children reported any encounters with him?”
“No. The children say nothing about what goes on during home visits,” I said. “I heard this from a friend of Karen’s.”
“I’ll make sure it’s noted in the file,” she assured me.
Several days later, I drove the children to Karen’s house for their half-day visit, hoping for a chance to talk with Karen. Once the children were off playing in the living room, I had a few minutes alone with Karen in the kitchen.
“I have a question for you,” I said. “It’s about William and the kids.”