by J. L. Drake
The ladies at the rehab center took me in and kept me for sixty days. They relieved my symptoms with a medication called Suboxone. It provided cool, calming relief to my dreadful withdrawal symptoms. I said nothing to no one about my kidnapping.
The first thing I did when I felt well enough was lift two sets of prints from the boombox using tape. I had Jeanna’s fingerprints, even if I wasn’t ready to go to the police. Someday, I would handle this on my own, I decided, bagging up the printed tape in a Ziploc. I hid it all in my personal cubby space, guarding it like a precious gem.
In the meantime, I couldn’t take the risk of going home. Even if I’d wanted to, I no longer had a choice. I’d already told them my make-believe story about my parents’ overdose, and my case manager there had contacted the proper authorities.
After my sixty days was up, I was whisked away from the inpatient center by social services, and Elsie McClain became a ward of the state.
Chapter 11
I arrived at Saint Mary’s Home for Children two days after my fourteenth birthday. I’d come to the realization at the rehab clinic that I’d spent half a year in that house of horrors in Flocksdale. It was hard to believe that so much time had passed, and I’d spent all of it in a drug-induced stupor.
I missed my family. When I thought about my mom and dad, I tried not to imagine the looks of devastation on their faces when they concluded I was a runaway. Maybe someday I’d feel safe enough to go to them, but until then, I was stuck living in a foster home.
Never in a million years had I imagined I would live somewhere like this. There were five boys and four other girls in the home at first. The four of us girls slept together in a cramped twenty by fourteen room. We slept on worn out wooden bunk beds barely an arm-length apart. The floors were dusty, the ceiling covered with outdated, peeling wallpaper.
Even though the space was cramped and sparsely furnished, I felt safer than I had in a long time. The more people around me, the better I felt. I was afraid of being alone with my thoughts, or venturing out into the world. It’s a strange feeling being afraid of yourself and other people. It leaves you in a constant state of limbo.
I avoided talking to anyone the entire first year I lived there. I was afraid to get close to anyone for fear that Jeanna and her cronies were watching me. It seemed crazy and paranoid to think they could reach me here, so far away in Albuquerque, but I believed it nonetheless. Sometimes, especially when I first arrived, I would peek through the cracks of the window blinds, making sure that limo wasn’t parked outside, and none of Jeanna’s cronies were surveying the foster home. I was scared all of the time, living on the edge of a bottomless pit of fear.
I didn’t want to get anyone hurt, like what happened with Claire. If I’m being honest with myself, I also felt afraid to talk to the others because I felt like I couldn’t trust them either. Suddenly, everyone around me looked unscrupulous and capable of malicious behavior. I was nervous and on edge, and every little sound made me jump out of my skin. I woke up every night sweating and panting, sometimes screaming. There was a doctor and a therapist that visited often, and they prescribed me a small handful of anxiety pills that the ladies handed out to me morning, noon, and night.
The doctors and foster care staff knew something was seriously wrong with me. I was exhibiting classic signs of post-traumatic stress. However, with the story I’d told them about my parents, they probably thought the drugs and “death” of my parents was to blame for the night terrors and anxiety symptoms. The therapist urged me to talk about it, but I said very little, only giving out information when I had to. Even when I did talk to them, the information I gave was false.
At Saint Mary’s, we received three meals a day in a group mess hall. It was the only time we saw the boys, with the exception of scheduled group outings. The boys were always catcalling at the girls when they saw us. Most of the girls relished the attention, but I kept my head down low. I never wanted to touch a boy again. Or talk to one for that matter.
The lady who ran the place was Ally Mason. Everybody called her “Miss Ally.” She was old, nearly seventy, but she had a thick head of black hair and a lovely, still youthful, face. She was kind to me. You hear all these horror stories about the foster care system, but despite my internal fears, I was safe at Saint Mary’s. It was the outside world I feared most.
Even the boys, with their perverted remarks and roaming eyes, were essentially harmless. I began to feel more at ease with the place, and even started socializing a bit with the other girls. A few of the girls enjoyed reading and we passed around paperbacks like they were candy, enjoying the stories contained in their pages.
Ally and three other instructors taught us math, science, spelling, and other pertinent subjects. As much as I used to complain to my parents about having to go to public school in the past, now I sort of missed it. I missed seeing friends and teachers regularly. I missed the loud clatter of the lunchroom and the monotonous tone of my least favorite history teacher, Mrs. Martin.
I missed going to the movies and chatting on my cell phone. Most of all, I missed my family. Every Friday night, Miss Ally and a few other staff members took all of us on a group outing. Our outings always consisted of a trip to Walmart in a clunky white van that had ‘Saint Mary’s Children Services’ written across the side. People stared out their car windows, pitying us probably. I always kept my head tucked down low to my chest. I’m not sure if I was ashamed of being an orphan or afraid someone would recognize me. Probably both.
Each of us were given five to ten dollars of spending money, and we were allowed to go off on our own in the store as long as we stayed in pairs. The other half to my pair was always a girl named Georgie Mitchell, because she always had weed or pills to share.
When the group was out of sight, Georgie and I would leave the store and hide out in the parking lot, swallowing the pills without water and taking puffs of the pot. The pills she gave me were stronger than my own anxiety meds, and sometimes they revved me up. I still don’t know where she got them. We would roam around the parking lot, peering into strangers’ cars, laughing at the contents of their vehicles, or sometimes stealing things if the doors were unlocked.
Sometimes we shopped for a little while, buying small trinkets with our cash, but mostly I gave her my money for the drugs she gave me. When I did go inside, I would walk through the store, sometimes imagining that I would run into my mom and dad; in the fantasy, they would run toward me, scooping me up in their arms and taking me home with them. I’d pull away from Walmart with my parents, waving good bye to all of the sad Saint Mary’s orphans.
But sometimes I imagined seeing Jeanna in the store; she’d grab me and drag me out of the store screaming, shoving me back into that Blazer, my bloody hands leaving a trail through the parking lot.
Needless to say, I preferred to stay at the foster home. I felt safer there.
Every Tuesday, people showed up from the outside world. They gawked at us like we were circus monkeys. Sometimes one of the girls was adopted, but very rarely. Kids our age weren’t in high demand.
Whenever one of the girls would leave, another girl was right there to replace her. I tried to be friendly, but I didn’t try to make friends, if that makes sense. Nobody could replace Claire—that much I knew for sure.
I failed to meet the eyes of any of our visitors; the last thing I wanted to do was encourage one of them to adopt me. I was content living at Saint Mary’s until I turned eighteen. Miss Ally treated me fairly, and I’d fallen into a daily routine that provided comfort to me. Day in and day out, a monotonous—but relatively safe—sequence of tasks.
So, you can imagine my distress when a middle-aged couple turned up one spring afternoon and decided to take me in. Miss Ally came and told me the news in the mess hall. I was having chicken soup for lunch, and I nearly choked on a spoonful of noodles when she gave me the news. I stared down at the bowl, wondering if anyone had ever tried to drown themselves in a bowl of soup. Wouldn
’t that be a crazy way to die? Could you imagine reading that on a death certificate?
Adoption. What a strange, stupid word. I broke it down into syllables, saying it over and over in my mind until the word itself became meaningless and strange. It was a moment most of the other kids dreamed of, and I know I should have been grateful to be taken in, but going to a strange house with people I didn’t know was my worst nightmare.
Chapter 12
The Raffertons seemed like an all right couple, despite my previous reservations. They owned an adobe-style home in a small, picturesque neighborhood called ‘The Cactus Blossom.’ The streets were lined with similarly styled houses. There was a lovely bedroom set up for me with pink frilly curtains, a delicate doll house, and a twin-sized bed. They had no other children.
Baylor, my adoptive mother, confided in me on the first night that I stayed there she had always wanted a child. She and Chuck had tried very hard to have one for several years, but to no avail. Two years ago, Baylor learned she was infertile.
“Why didn’t you get a baby, then?” I asked bluntly. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I wasn’t happy to be there, away from the foster home I’d grown accustomed to.
“Babies are always in high demand in the foster care system. I’m on the waiting list, but in the meantime, I couldn’t wait. I wanted a child now. I’ve learned teenagers are much easier to come by,” she replied honestly. I hated the way she talked about us, like we were items on the shelf of a department store. But I appreciated her shooting it straight with me.
My initial stay at the Raffertons’ was a trial period; if all went well, they would sign the papers and keep me for good. I was conflicted about whether I wanted to stay or go; at least I was at first. I liked them well enough, but like with most people, I was hesitant to trust them and scared to get close. I imagined sinister intentions in everyone, even the Raffertons. The first few months I was there, I kept waiting for them to pull out whips and chains. There had to be a real reason for bringing me there, some sort of evil plot…but as time went on, I realized they simply wanted me there.
In a way, I resented Baylor for wanting me. Her husband Chuck wasn’t so bad. Even though he was pushing forty and balding, something about him was attractive. He was a big, burly man with a barrel of a chest and thick arms. I flirted with him often, and went out of my way to be skimpily dressed whenever he was around. I don’t know why I did it. Looking back, I honestly think it was Baylor I wanted to hurt. I resented her more than any man. Perhaps it was because she sort of looked like Jeanna. Even though Jeanna wasn’t the one raping me, I hated her above all the rest. There was something about Baylor playing that mother role when I knew she could never be my mother that pissed me off beyond belief.
Despite my inappropriate behavior, Chuck was quiet and kind to me. He didn’t pay much attention to me in general; he was always working on his computer or watching the evening news. I suspected Baylor was the one who really wanted me, not him. However, he didn’t hurt me, so I appreciated that. Better to be ignored than abused, or so I thought. After receiving so much negative attention from men in my life, being ignored felt kind of nice.
Now that I was out of the foster home, I started to have even more frightful dreams at night. I dreamt of dark shadows lying on top of me, suffocating me in my bed. I would wake up panting, unable to catch my breath. I fought faceless phantoms in the dark. I thought about the lyrics of that damn song, the one they played over and over again in the house.
Baylor was always there to comfort me, but I often pushed her away. One night, she even sat down next to me, clutching a shiny hairbrush in her hand. When she leaned in to comb my hair, I smacked her hand away angrily. All I could think about was Jeanna brushing and curling my hair at the house of horrors, but I couldn’t tell Baylor that.
“I’m not some toy for you to fix up and play with,” I muttered under my breath. One night, I even shouted, “I’m not your daughter!” and pushed her away from me forcefully. I expected them to send me back to Saint Mary’s, but they just kept on trying. I had to admire Baylor’s patience and tenacity. Every time I even halfway considered liking her, I thought about my own mother, and I hated myself for it. I was so conflicted, angry, and distant one minute, and then needy the next.
At the end of summer, the Raffertons enrolled me in high school. At the foster home, Miss Ally had homeschooled us, so this was going to be very different for me. I was nervous, but also excited. At least this way I could get out of that house, the place where people pretended to love me.
Chapter 13
I walked through the halls with my head down. My locker was down a narrow, secluded hallway, and I hung out there by myself at lunchtime most days. I read old paperbacks from the library and camped out in the bathroom a lot. I felt antsy most of the time, a sick feeling in my stomach, like something bad was around every corner.
It was on the third day of school that I met Robbie Simms. He was a twelfth grader with brown, spiky hair and a cool blue jean jacket. “Wanna get high?” he whispered, tickling my ear. I was leaning against my locker, reading a Dean Koontz paperback. A shiver ran up my spine. The last “relationship” I’d had, had begun with those very same words. I say “relationship” because what I had with Joey was certainly phony and insincere.
I should have run for the hills—from Joey then and Robbie now. But I didn’t. “Okay,” I said, following him outside to the school parking lot, where his beat up old truck was parked. I climbed into the passenger seat and sat with my hands in my lap. The smell of marijuana filled the cab. Unlike the first time I smoked it, this time it smelled strangely sweet instead of acrid.
After the pot, he gave me two tiny blue pills that made me feel spacey and relaxed for the remainder of the day. They reminded me of the pills Georgie had at Saint Mary’s. I enjoyed the numbness.
***
Three days later, I snuck out of the Raffertons’ house at midnight. I met Robbie two streets over, on Emerald Street. “Where are we headed?” I asked, taking a cigarette from him. “The ridge,” he answered vaguely. I shrugged, toking on the cigarette, missing my mother’s Newports. As much as I didn’t want to be, I was truly scared. There’s nothing like being alone in the dark with a boy to bring out those old, familiar fears.
“I was under the impression we were just going to get high,” I said stiffly, staring out the fogged up windows.
“We are,” he answered, chuckling to himself. He lit a joint and passed it over to me. I inhaled deeply on its end, and I didn’t hand it back to him until he looked at me, clearly annoyed. I sighed, passing it over.
Nearly ten minutes later, he pulled the truck over to the side of an abandoned road. “Look,” he said, pointing out over the cliff side. It was an awesome view, the city lights twinkling like tiny little stars far down below in the distance. I suddenly remembered sitting out on the back porch at my old house with my mom. When I was little I loved astronomy, even though I thought it was called ‘astrology’ for the longest time. Mom and I would lay back on a pair of flimsy lawn chairs, waiting, always waiting, to see a shooting star. I couldn’t recall us ever actually seeing one, but we enjoyed the sounds and sights of the night sky anyway…
I cranked my window down to get some air. The night air was chilly, but I was burning up. “You got any more of those pills?” I asked irritably. Cutting the engine off, he turned to face me. “Can I get a kiss first, at least?” he pleaded. I thought about it. A kiss would be okay, wouldn’t it? I nodded, swallowing hard.
He jumped at me, his lips clamping down on mine painfully. He kissed and groped me, his hands rough. I felt hot all over. Pissed off beyond belief. When he leaned in again, I brought my knee up quickly, driving it into his groin. He let out a feminine squeal, and jumped back frantically, clutching his hands around his man parts. I don’t know why, but deep down inside me, hurting him brought me some sort of satisfaction.
“What was that?” he yelled angrily. Before I could apolog
ize, he reached out and smacked me across the face. I fell back against the passenger door, shocked by the sting of it. I grasped for the door handle, wrenched the heavy truck door open, and fell out onto the dirt road below. Robbie pulled out of there, tires squealing in the distance, kicking up rocky dust. I was left to walk alone. Another dirt road on another dark night.
Chapter 14
I expected to feel scared as I walked alone in the dark, but strangely, I felt an odd sense of fearlessness. Maybe it was the pot or the pills, or maybe I just had nothing else to fear in life. After all, what worse things could happen to me than already had?
I walked for what seemed like an hour. I kept my head down, watching my feet pound the pavement, counting my steps. Abruptly, a flash of red and blue lights were behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was the police.
I took off running, veering off the road into a patch of prickly shrubbery. “Stop running!” yelled a man’s voice from behind me. But I didn’t stop. I picked up the pace, zigzagging through people’s yards haphazardly, jumping over yard gnomes and tearing up plants. I could hear the thump of his shoes, coming up behind me. He was gaining on me.
I darted through two narrow trees, and that’s when he took me down from behind. I went down hard on one knee, my face eating the dirt.
He had me pinned. I immediately started kicking and fighting, rolling to my back. Holding me down was about the worst thing that anyone could do to me. I cursed at him angrily, fighting against his rock hard forearms.
“Calm down,” a deep, breathless voice said in my ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He pulled me up to my feet, twisted me around, and held my hands behind my back. The cuffs snapped around my wrists. They were uncomfortable, to say the least. After I was cuffed, he sat me down on my bottom and stood over me with his hands on his hips. The tips of his fingers rested on the gun at his hip.