Chapter 12: November 15, 1975: Part II

I expect Marc to start his questioning during dinner, but he doesn’t. We share a pleasant meal, mostly talking about school, Eva and Naomi, Marc and his wife, the adults’ jobs, and shul. No one mentions the Russells, and I’m glad to have the distraction.

After dinner, everyone helps to clean up. Simone places leftovers in Rubbermaid containers and makes room for them in the avocado-colored fridge; Rich and Marc wash the Corelle dishes, and I wipe the table with the blue and pink sponge. For just a moment, I feel as if I’m part of a real family, but every thought like that sparks a pang of guilt and loneliness.

When the kitchen is clean, we go into the living room, and I almost smile at the lack of scattered toys that would definitely be here if the girls were home. Simone sits on the left side of the velour sofa, where she keeps her knitting, and picks up her aluminum needles, continuing the peach pom beanie she’s knitting for Naomi. Rich sits on the right side of the sofa and gestures for me to join him.

Marc angles the overstuffed armchair so he can look at me, then sinks into it. “Whenever you’re ready, can you tell me what happened the week before they took you away?”

“About a week before,” I swallow, unable to say the actual words, “you know, a woman came out to our land, and she had a law enforcement officer with her. She demanded to look around the house, and my mother was too afraid of the officer to stop her. My father was still at work. They planned it that way on purpose.

“The woman came in with a clipboard and made notes as she looked around our house. She asked about me and my sister too. She wanted to know our ages, grades, medical problems, all sorts of things. She wanted to know where all the “normal” food was. My mother later explained that she was looking for traditional Western food like meats made of beef and pig, condiments, and processed bread.” I shrug. “We don’t eat things like that. When we eat meat, it’s usually venison or rabbit. We eat vegetables and fruits that we grow ourselves, nuts, and beans, and we bake our own bread.”

Rich casually drapes his arm over my shoulders, lending me the strength to continue. “She questioned our clothes and shoes; when she saw some mending, she asked my mother if she was ‘too poor’ to buy her children new clothes. She said our wood stove was a fire hazard. She wanted to know why we didn’t have carpet, and when my mother showed her our beautiful rugs, she said that rugs weren’t the same as carpet. I heard her tell the officer that we weren’t properly civilized, that clearly our parents neglected us.

“I told her that wasn’t true, and my mother became very angry. She told the woman and the officer that she wanted them to leave, and they did… I guess at that point they had all the information they wanted anyway.”

I sigh, and Rich squeezes my shoulder. Simone is looking at me rather than her stitches, and Marc is giving me all of his attention.

I take a deep breath. “Then she went to my friend Dakota’s house and did the same thing. They visited five families that day; then they left.”

“Had social workers ever taken other children?” Marc asks.

I nod slowly. “The same woman took three siblings away in March, and we had heard that other social workers were taking kids from nearby communities. I guess the adults knew that this happened, but I hadn’t heard about it until March. It seemed too crazy to happen to me.”

I snuggle against Rich, and he pushes the bangs away from my face.

Marc leans back. “Did you ever feel neglected, Deere? Or abused? Did you ever feel like you were in danger?”

I shake my head. “I just felt loved. My family loves me very much.”

Simone takes a shaky breath and returns her eyes to the beanie, and Rich rubs my shoulder.

“Can you tell me about the day the woman took you from your family?” Marc asks. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“That’s right,” confirms Rich. “You don’t have to tell anything you don’t want to tell.”

I don’t really want to talk about it, but I want to tell them something. “The woman came back with three other social workers and two officers. They made us pack quickly, and then they took us away. It was me, my sister, Dakota, and three siblings, including a baby.”

I stop talking, thinking about my mother’s screams, the baby’s wail, and the cacophony of shrieks, bellows, cries, and hurtful words that penetrated our usually tranquil community.

I know I can’t tell them any of that; I don’t want to tell it, and they don’t want to hear it, even if they think they do. No one wants this memory, no matter how many times they ask.

I take a deep breath and skip to the end. “They drove us to a large office building in Vancouver, then divided us up. They placed my sister and me in the same foster home. She’s a year older than me, but we don’t see each other as older or younger. We just crawled under the covers of her bed and cried until we didn’t have any more tears.”

I do my best not to picture that scene, but there’s a clawing in my gut that nauseates me.

“Three days later, the same social worker came back. She said she’d found me a home, but my sister would have to stay.”

I can’t force the memory away, and I hear the cries and screams. The officer restraining my sister. The social worker prying me from her grip. My sister and I screaming, promising to find one another.

I shake my head to send away the memory. I can’t tell them that part either.

“A few minutes after we left, she told me to stop crying, that she was doing me a favor, that I was going to live with a nice family who would love me despite my heritage. That was the only thing she said to me, even though we drove for nearly twelve hours before we arrived at a lawyer’s office.

“Mrs. Russell hugged me, and Mr. Russell shook my hand. They signed some papers, then told me we were staying overnight in a hotel. I didn’t think I’d sleep, but somehow I did. We woke up early, went to the airport, and flew here.”

I shrug. “That’s it.”

Marc gently smiles at me. “Do you want to tell me anything else?”

I shake my head.

“Okay. Well, thank you for telling me all of that. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“Did I help?”

He smiles, but a heavy sadness fills his eyes. “You helped a lot.”

Rich strokes my forehead, continuously pushing the bangs away. “Can I ask you one question, Deere?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you remember the lawyer’s name?”

“I read it on his nameplate and diplomas over and over while they were signing the papers. His name was ‘Gene Lorez’.”

Simone and Rich exchange a look that is far from subtle, then they both look at Marc, who raises his eyebrows. Clearly, whatever Simone and Rich know, they haven’t shared with Marc; I wait for him to ask, but he doesn’t.

“Did I say something wrong?” I ask Rich, everyone.

Rich half-smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “You are one of the most observant people I’ve ever met–kid or adult. Do you know what it means to ‘read someone’?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You do that well too… Both of those skills will serve you well in life, no matter what you choose to do.”

Simone places her nearly-finished beanie and needles in her basket of yarn. “Time for bed. Brush your teeth and change into your jammies, and then we’ll read a story. How about A Wrinkle in Time? I think we’re on Chapter Five.”

I force the real-life nightmares back into their box and allow myself to think of the sci-fi adventure awaiting me. “I love Charles Wallace.”

Rich smiles, and Marc laughs. “Of course you do,” Marc comments.

Rich gently pushes me off the couch, helping me to regain my balance, and Simone follows me to the girls’ bedroom.

“Something you want to tell me?” I hear Marc ask Rich, but no matter how hard I listen, I can’t hear Rich’s response.