“Shut up!” Amanda heard the bottle hit the wall, but before she could be grateful the cleaner was gone Mrs. Graystone slapped her across the face even harder than before. Amanda fell flat on the floor. There was something wet running from her nose and mouth, and she ran her fingers over it. Forcing her burning eyes open, she saw blood.
God, help … I’m bleeding.
“I hope you’re ready!” Mrs. Graystone jerked her up from the floor by her hair again, and Amanda’s entire head flamed in searing pain. She scrambled to her feet and realized she was crying. Big, gulping sobs. Her blood mixed with tears and bright red drops began to fall on the floor.
“Please, s-s-stop!” She continued to shout, terrified now that the only way out of the room alive was if someone heard her. “Help me!”
Mrs. Graystone’s face grew hard and hateful, and her eyes blazed with something scary and evil. Amanda closed her eyes. Her entire body hurt and she was sick from the cleaner, struggling for every breath. The blows just kept coming, making her feel dizzy.
She was going to die.
Mrs. Graystone paused and glared at Amanda where she was huddled on the floor now. This time her voice was barely more than a whisper. “You better be ready, little girl, because it’s time for your punishment to begin.”
Carol Jenson stared out her window to the house next door.
Many times she had wondered about the goings-on there. Too many children under one roof for one thing. But she almost never saw them playing outside. She’d heard from other neighbors that the Graystones were foster parents. Well, what kind of parents kept their children indoors every day, even when the sun was shining?
And there was something else, a feeling or sense of some kind that she couldn’t put her finger on. The children were sometimes bruised and withdrawn …
Carol was almost sure they’d been beaten, but she’d never said anything. After all, bruises could be caused by a fall on the playground, a fight at school.
Still, whatever was happening at the Graystones, it had kept Carol up at nights on many occasions praying for the children who lived there.
Sometimes she would bring Mrs. Graystone baked goods or stop by with a piece of misdirected mail, hoping to catch her in the act if there was indeed abuse going on. That way she could report the situation and rest assured that the children would be taken care of.
If Carol had been concerned before, she was doubly worried now after reading the series of “Maggie’s Mind” columns in the Gazette. Carol and her husband had one child, an infant, who at the moment was sleeping soundly in her crib. They were churchgoing folk, who lived a quiet, clean life and enjoyed the weekly wisdom in “Maggie’s Mind.” When Carol had caught the words “Children Sometimes Abused in Foster Homes” in a recent column headline, she had read it twice through. Foster homes, the article said, were often every bit as abusive as the homes children were taken from.
It was for that reason Carol was particularly sensitive to noises or actions or anything out of the ordinary coming from the Graystone house of late. Earlier, just after putting her baby down, Carol noticed a sad little girl making her way slowly to the house next door. She was fairly new, but Carol had seen her before.
This time something about the girl’s walk caught Carol’s eye. In that moment she’d had the desperate desire to intercept the sweet-faced little thing and ask her point-blank if there was someone hurting her or making her afraid of going home. But then Carol had to remind herself that it was none of her business—at least until she had more than suspicion to go on. Maybe the children didn’t like playing outside. Maybe they were little couch potatoes who preferred video games and television programs to outdoor play.
With a sigh, Carol went to finish folding a load of laundry. But no sooner had she pulled a towel from the basket than she heard a sound that sent chills through her. It was a scream. She was sure of it. A muffled scream, coming from next door.
She dropped the towel in her hands and hurried to the nearest window. Unlatching the lock, she raised the glass pane and listened.
A woman was yelling, probably Mrs. Graystone. Carol couldn’t hear everything but she was able to understand key words. “Shut up!” and “brat” sounded loud and clear. And in between the angry words Carol was sure she could hear the faint screams of a child. As she listened, the exchange grew more heated, the child’s cries more desperate.
Should I call, Lord? Is this really what I think it is?
The response came with a sense of urgency unlike anything Carol had experienced.
Call now, daughter. Call!
Without hesitation or worrying about the ramifications if she were somehow mistaken, Carol grabbed her cordless telephone and dialed 911.
Officer Willy Parsons and his partner arrived at the home less than five minutes later. He had been investigating a nearby breaking-and-entering when the call came in: Suspected child abuse.
Parsons gritted his teeth, yelled to his partner, and ran for the patrol car. The idea that anyone would be deranged enough to harm a child was almost more than he could stomach. When he’d joined the police force ten years earlier it had been because of an article he’d read in the paper stating that child abuse was on the rise.
The two officers parked and ran to the front door. Parsons knocked sharply. “Police! Open up!”
A woman answered the door looking disheveled and overexerted. “Whaddya want?” She ran her tongue nervously over her bottom lip, and Parsons noticed a layer of perspiration on her face and arms—and the strong smell of alcohol on her breath.
“We have a report from one of your neighbors of domestic violence, ma’am. We’d like to come in and take a look around.”
Anger flashed in the woman’s eyes, then faded as she laughed lightly. “It’s just me and the children.” She motioned to the dining room table, where four children sat quietly doing homework.
“Ma’am, our records show this is a foster home, is that right?”
The woman attempted a smile. “Why, yes. I like to help out whatever way I can. All my children are from the foster system.”
Officer Parsons squeezed his way past her. “Then since you have wards of the state in your care, I’m sure you know the rules. We’re able to check out your home environment whenever any concerns arise.”
“Well, yes, but … ” Her voice faded. “The children are all here.”
At that moment, from the back of the house, there was a strange noise. Parsons cocked his head. What was it? The sound was a moan or a cry, like something from an animal. One that was wounded …
Or dying.
Chills passed over him and took up residence deep in his soul. There it was again. The sound echoed through the hallway, and suddenly Officer Parsons was propelled by a terrifying thought. He pushed past the woman and ran down the hallway, shoving bedroom doors open until he saw her.
“Dear God … ”
At first glance, it looked like a bundle of red-stained rags lying in a heap on the floor, but then the bundle moved. And moaned. In that instant it became horrifyingly clear that what the officer was looking at was a child … a small, frail child in torn, blood-covered clothes.
He hurried to the little girl’s side and looked intently into her eyes. “Hang on, little one. Everything’s going to be okay.” Then he turned around and yelled for his partner. “Get an ambulance here quick! And cuff the suspect! I don’t want her to run.”
He turned his attention back to the girl. She was six, maybe seven years old, and she lay in a pool of blood and vomit. Her face was swollen and cut beyond recognition, and grotesque, hand-shaped bruises covered her arms and upper torso. Wads of the girl’s hair lay on the floor nearby, and the room reeked of household cleaner.
Parsons knelt over the girl, feeling for a pulse. It was rapid and shallow. She was in shock; each breath was labored. The child’s left eye was swollen shut, but Parsons thought she could see something through her right eye. “How are you doing, sweetheart? Ca
n you hear me?”
The girl groaned softly and muttered something about her head. She struggled for every breath.
“Your head hurts?” Parsons wanted to go back in the other room and tear the woman limb from limb. But right now the battered girl needed him, and he tried to keep his thoughts focused on her.
She moved her head slowly up and down, and Parsons could see fresh tears falling from her eyes. “Help me … ” This time the girl’s words were clearer. “I can’t … breathe.”
Parsons ran his fingers gently over her hair and leaned his face closer. “It’s okay, honey, we’re going to get you help real quick here.” His eyes searched the room and spotted a bottle of cleaner on the floor near the bed. “Did someone spray cleaner at you, sweetheart?”
The girl coughed and winced in pain. “My head hurts.”
“I know … it’ll be better soon, I promise.”
She moaned again, her breathing dangerously strained. “She sprayed it … in my eyes … and mouth.”
Parsons felt his heart constrict. How could anyone …? He couldn’t finish the thought. There was no telling what horrific things the woman had done to this girl. She looked like she was suffering from a concussion, possibly several broken bones. Stitches would be needed to close the gashes on her cheek, forehead, and arm. On top of everything else, she was in dire need of oxygen, suffocating from the effects of being forced to inhale the cleaner.
Officer Parsons did not consider himself a religious man, but he liked to think God listened to him anyway. And now, as the sirens closed in and paramedics scrambled through the house with their equipment, he begged God to let the girl live. And to somehow help her find a real home.
“Sweetie, the medics are here now. They’ll take care of you, okay?” He took her small hand in his and stroked her knuckles tenderly. “Hang in there for me, okay, honey?”
The girl was breathing too hard to answer him, but from somewhere in her battered body she summoned the strength to squeeze his hand. Parsons had to wipe tears off his cheeks as he left the bedroom and searched for his partner.
Now that the woman had been caught, she was belligerent as they led her to the patrol car. His partner informed him that the girl’s social worker—a woman named Kathy Garrett—had been told of the girl’s condition and would meet them at the hospital. If the girl lived, she would be placed in Kathy’s home indefinitely.
Parsons helped his partner squeeze the woman into the patrol car, and then he stuck his face inches from hers. “You’re lucky you get a trial in this country … ” He spat the words, and she struggled to put distance between the two of them.
He studied her, this creature that was more beast than woman. “If I had my way, I’d—” He choked back the rest of what he wanted to say. His anger was getting the better of him. With a ragged draw of breath he shot her a final glare. “God have mercy on your rotten soul, lady.”
They were loading the girl into the ambulance, and Officer Parsons left the patrol car to check on her.
In whispered tones, the lead medic told him the news. “She’s in bad shape, but we’re hopeful. If we can keep her heart rate steady and if she doesn’t have too much bleeding in the brain she might make it.”
A woman walked up, and Officer Parsons saw that she was crying.
“I’m Carol. I live next door.”
“Are you the one who made the call?” Parsons stepped aside so they could talk.
“Yes … I feel awful. I should have called days ago, weeks ago. I always knew things weren’t right here and that something bad was—”
He shook his head, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “You can’t do that to yourself, ma’am. You called today; that’s all that matters.”
The woman nodded and looked wide-eyed into the ambulance, where the medics were still working to stabilize the girl. “Is she … will she be okay?”
There were tears in his eyes as he answered. Like most officers he did his best to stay detached from the crime scenes he worked. But this was more than a crime scene. It was a little girl clinging to life because of circumstances completely out of her control. He blinked back his tears and stared kindly at the woman. “If she lives, it’ll be because of you.”
A moaning sound came from the ambulance, and Officer Parsons was at the girl’s side in an instant.
“Kathy … want Kathy … ” The tiny voice quivered.
The medics shrugged and looked at Parsons as he nodded his understanding. The girl wanted her social worker. “Kathy Garrett? Is that who you want, honey?”
The girl moved her head up and down a few inches. “Listen, sweetheart. Kathy’s going to meet you at the hospital. She’s there now, waiting for you, okay?”
Through the blood and bruises and swollen tissue, Parsons thought he saw the girl smile. There wasn’t a reason in the world for this child to be happy, and yet she was smiling. Again she struggled to speak. “I’m okay … I know it.” Her words were slow and deliberate, punctuated with pain and raspy breaths, but she continued to speak anyway, and the team of professionals around her listened intently. “I prayed to leave here … and so … ” She took a deep breath and flinched from the pain. “Everything’s okay … because now … ” She moved her fingers to her face and lightly touched the broken areas. “I get to be with Kathy … ”
There were tears streaming down the faces of the three men as they huddled around the child, the medics working furiously to hook up an intravenous line while Parsons did his best to keep her calm. She was trying to finish her thought when Parsons saw it again—a hint of a smile on the girl’s broken face.
“I don’t have a mommy. I have Kathy. If I can be with her … then God must have heard my prayers … ” Fresh tears flowed from the girl’s swollen eyes, and Parsons had the feeling they were almost tears of joy. “And if He heard my prayers, then maybe … maybe He loves me.”
The three men were speechless.
Parsons squeezed the girl’s hand in his. What could he say to a girl who’d been beaten to within a breath of her life, a girl who could still find it within her to smile—and beyond that … to feel loved by God? His throat was too thick to speak so he clung tightly to her small fingers—his tears falling softly on the girl’s long blond hair—while the medics completed their work.
Less than a minute later, they were ready to transport her and one of them checked her vitals. “We’re losing her,” he whispered to his partner. “Let’s get this thing out of here.”
Parsons released the hold he had on the child’s hand and pulled himself out of the ambulance, praying that the beaten little girl without a home or a mother or a chance in the world was somehow right.
That maybe God really did love her, after all.
14
That night, for the first time in a long time, Maggie wasn’t tortured by demons spewing taunts of condemnation and blackest darkness. The doom and fear were gone, and in their place was a meadow with endless acres of summer grass and wild-flowers. In the distance a child was frolicking about, chasing a butterfly or dandelion dust in the breeze.
Who are you, little girl?
Maggie squinted in the sunlight, and though her feet were not moving, her body was suddenly propelled to within feet of the girl. It was her! Of course it was! Sweet child, why are you here? How can I help you?
The little girl stopped what she was doing and turned. Her cotton dress danced on the gentle stir of wind in the air and she smiled at Maggie. “Hi.”
Maggie wanted to get closer but her feet were stuck and she looked down. What in the—? Who put shackles on my feet? Thick, heavy iron cuffs held her legs in place and prevented her from getting closer. “Who are you, honey?”
The girl tilted her head, and Maggie was struck by her face, innocent and so much like … No, it couldn’t be!
The girl opened her small mouth and said something, but Maggie couldn’t hear her. “What, sweetheart? I can’t hear you. I want to help … what can I do?” Maggie strained
against the chains until she felt the skin on her shins shredding.
Again the girl spoke and though she couldn’t hear her, Maggie could read her mouth. “I want my mommy … my mommy … my mommy.” Then the girl began to cry.
Suddenly, Maggie was sure that the child’s mother, or maybe even—It can’t be … it’s impossible. “Don’t cry, honey. I’m here.”
She shouted the words but they were lost on the breeze, and the image of the girl began to fade. No … don’t go. Not yet … I have to talk to you. I still don’t know who you are … Wait!
Then the scene changed.
She was in a hospital room and the air was filled with quiet strains of lullaby music. Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so … Maggie cradled the infant girl tenderly, and around her the entire room was painted in soft pastels. Gently, quietly nuzzling the baby’s cheek, Maggie rocked her back and forth, back and forth.
Then the music changed and became suspenseful, faster and faster giving Maggie the feeling something was about to overtake her and the infant, both. About that time someone burst into the room dressed in a black hooded gown. A quick glance told Maggie it was John McFadden, hidden by a cloak and carrying a hatchet in his hands. The music grew faster, more intense, more frightening as he moved closer.
In the dream, Maggie held the baby tighter and heard herself screaming. “I have to save her! Get away from me. Please! Someone help me!” But the figure moved closer still and raised the hatchet over his head. Maggie knew if it came down it would be on the baby in Maggie’s arms.
Suddenly another figure entered from the other side of the room, and Maggie spun around to see a nurse. She stared at Maggie with vacant eyes, her face utterly expressionless. Then, in a slow, robotic manner, she made her way toward Maggie.
Again the music grew louder, and suddenly the baby began to speak. “Mommy, don’t do it. Don’t leave me, Mommy. I need you.”
Her words were perfect and articulate, and Maggie felt herself flooded with confusion. The dark figure still loomed at her side while the nurse moved steadily closer, only now the face on the dark man beside her was not John’s, but Ben’s. Robed in midnight, her husband Ben held the hatchet over Maggie and the baby, but instead of John’s sinister expression, Ben’s face was filled with godliness, his eyes glowing with the light of the Lord.
A Kingsbury Collection Page 48
