Nobody's Girl

by Barbara Amaya

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  My daughter’s birth was a blessed day. I read the nurse’s notes from a blue notebook at the foot of my bed the day after my little Samantha was born: “Mother bonding very well with infant.”

  Reading those words filled me with immense happiness. I felt as though I was finally doing what I was supposed to be doing and becoming who I was supposed to be become. But as I looked into my daughter’s gorgeous brown eyes, I thought, Good little baby, I am glad you’re so strong, because I don’t know what in the hell I am doing. The truth was that sometimes I was terrified of being a mother; Samantha was so precious to me and I was afraid of doing something wrong and hurting her.

  I was also afraid of something happening with Jose.

  During my pregnancy, I’d begun to notice that Jose was drinking more and more. Maybe he’d always drunk that much, and I’d just never realized, but it almost felt like he was angry that I was not drinking with him. I also realized that he’d begun hiding his alcohol around the apartment and staying outside in the parking lot to drink before coming inside.

  He had started to get in trouble for his drinking, too; he was accumulating so many traffic tickets, DUIs, and court fines that I had to keep all the paperwork in a thick file.

  When I was eight months pregnant, I had been called down to the police station because Jose had been arrested yet again for a DUI. That was the night I made up my mind to get a divorce if he didn’t get help and stop drinking. Jose was a good person, but I’d grown up with the words to the Alcoholics Anonymous Serenity Prayer ringing in my ears. There was no way I was raising a child in that environment.

  Jose knew what I was thinking, even though I hadn’t said a word to him about it. One evening, as I was getting ready to go to my part-time job at the nearby Giant food store, he said to our little daughter, “Your mother is planning on leaving me, baby.”

  I turned and stared at him. He was slightly drunk, and I didn’t want to leave the baby with him, but I’d changed my schedule so many times at work that I knew I was already on the verge of being fired. I had quit my job after Samantha was born, but we needed two incomes to make it in the high-rent area of Northern Virginia. At least the cashier job was close to our apartment.

  “How do you know I’m leaving you? And how much have you been drinking, Jose? You have to watch the baby,” I said as I grabbed my red work vest and headed out the door, trying not to think too much about my little girl. I didn’t know what else to do.

  Jose was right, though. I was planning on leaving him. It didn’t seem like he was trying to stop drinking, and I was terrified each time I left Samantha alone with him. But I didn’t want to leave her with a babysitter, because something strange had been happening ever since she was born.

  I had begun to have obsessive, recurring thoughts and detailed dreams about things that had happened when I was a small child—thoughts and memories of abuse that I’d never remembered before. I was having horrible visions of child abusers all around me, too. If a child happened to be in my grocery checkout line at work, I’d watch the adult with them intently and suspiciously, positive they were abusing the child in their care.

  Things grew worse, and soon I was unable to leave Samantha for even a moment with anyone other than Jose. When I took her for the very first time to visit my parents, I was horrified when I saw my father walking into the back bedroom where she lay sleeping.

  “What are you doing in here?” I asked him, running behind him into the dark room and snatching my small daughter up into my shaking arms.

  The strange thing is that he never answered me, not one word. To me his silence said a lot more. If anyone else noticed our interaction, they didn’t say anything. As usual, silence dominated the time I spent with my family.

  I visited my neighborhood mental health clinic to talk with someone about how I had been feeling. “I can’t leave my daughter with anyone, ever,” I told the counselor as I held Samantha in my arms. She listened quietly while I talked, taking notes as I described what I’d been going through since the birth of my daughter.

  “Barbara, sometimes if we have been abused,” she said, “we can find that big life events can cause us to remember things or trigger thoughts and memories that we might not have otherwise remembered at all.”

  She explained that if a person is very young when they are being abused, their mind will sometimes protect them by suppressing the details of the abuse. Later, if the person experiences a major event or trauma like a birth or a death, the person’s mind may recall the childhood abuse in great detail.

  I’d always remembered being abused by my father and brother—that was why I had run away from home the summer I turned twelve—but I hadn’t remembered all of what had happened to me. After my daughter was born, I recalled so much more. I remembered night after night in the family living room, our beautiful, safe room with its comfortable couch and family photos—nights when my father pulled me to him and hurt me, and everything changed for me forever. That room will always be split in my mind and my memories, just like my father was and still is.

  The mind is a mysterious thing, and mine had protected me all those years ago. I must have finally felt strong enough to remember everything that happened to me as a child, or maybe knowing I had to protect my little daughter gave me the strength I needed to really see my past. Even better, I’d remembered everything and I was still okay. I didn’t feel like I needed to numb my mind. I had no desire to use drugs. I suppose I understood on some level that I needed to keep my daughter safe from harm, no matter what the cost.

  The counselor at the mental health clinic handed me a book, The Courage to Heal, and told me to read it. That night I worked through the entire book, checking off symptoms until almost every single page was folded down. Overprotective? Isolating self from others? Nightmares and sleepwalking? Drug abuse? It was all right there in the book.

  I began weekly therapy sessions with the counselor, who helped me tremendously. I wish I had been able to tell her the whole truth. Sadly, I still wasn’t ready to share the full story of my past, so deep was the shame and so strong the damage from my years with Moses in New York. But I did the best I could, and I will always be grateful for her wise words and understanding.

  Working through my childhood past also helped me to gain courage for the future, and to do what I needed to do to protect myself and my daughter. When Samantha was two, I finally left Jose. Alcoholism is such a sad disease for the alcoholic and the alcoholic’s family; I loved Jose, but I couldn’t bear to bring my daughter up in the toxicity of an alcoholic household. It was a violent, drama-filled separation and I knew I’d made the right choice when Jose continued to drink for decades.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  As time went by and I grew older, my missing years became a little easier to hide from people, and I didn’t have as much trouble explaining my past. But I was struggling on my own. Being a single parent in Northern Virginia was an expensive way to live. My lack of education meant I wasn’t qualified for many jobs, and I began to wonder whether I’d be able to go back to school but still support myself and Samantha. Then I decided to call Jean.

  Jean was a friend of my family’s, more my older sister’s age than mine. I had not talked to her in years, but I knew that she worked in a federal government personnel office. We met for coffee one afternoon and talked about what I could do next.

  I don’t know what led Jean to help me, but I was glad she did. She explained that on a federal government job application, you have to write out each and every minute detail of all the jobs you’ve ever held. My former computer operator job at Bowl America became a much better-sounding position after she was done rewriting it; on paper, I looked like some kind of fantastic administrative assistant.

  Thanks to Jean’s help, I got a temporary job at the US Small Business Administration (SBA) offices, working as a front-desk receptionist. I was so excited about my future that I cut off my long blond hair; for so
me reason, I felt like I was going into the military. I knew next to nothing about working for the government, but having a federal government job meant stability, and for a single parent, that was everything. I felt almost like I was a real person, like everything in my past was somehow less important now that I was finally doing something with my life.

  I shared my new job with my family in a rare phone call. My father had retired from the Pentagon, and I wanted him to know I would be working for the government, too. His only advice to me was “Don’t be a loose cannon”—whatever that meant. All I knew was that no matter what, I would make this job a priority and work at it until I had the best position I could get. The future looked bright: I had great benefits and a steady paycheck that was guaranteed to grow with each passing year. I planned on sticking it out and retiring with a secure future for myself and my daughter.

  After a few months, the director of the SBA’s payroll department stopped by my desk. “Hey, Barbara! Listen, I have a position coming open soon in my department. I was wondering if you would be interested in coming onto payroll?” He smiled at me expectantly, waiting for my answer.

  I was excited, especially because I’d heard through the office grapevine that someone else was getting the job. “Of course I’m interested! What do I have to do?”

  “Just leave it to me. I’ll give you the paperwork soon. We’re happy to have you join us.”

  Just like that, my future with the SBA would be secure. I waited on pins and needles for confirmation of my new job.

  A few days later, Jean, who by now had become my supervisor, came to the front area and asked me to follow her back to her supervisor’s office. She had a worried look on her face, but I didn’t give it any thought. I was too busy thinking about how I might be getting my new job that day.

  As I walked behind her down the carpeted hallway, a smile played across my face. I thought about how I’d call the few friends I had, and maybe even my sister, and tell them all about my new position at the SBA. Maybe my family could finally be proud of me! Maybe I would even have a small party to celebrate. I just knew that my supervisors had called me into the office to congratulate me on my new payroll position.

  But I was wrong.

  Jean went first. “Barbara, do you remember when you started to work here at the SBA? And you had your fingerprints taken? Well, we have some disturbing results here.”

  Jean turned to look at her supervisor, Cathryn, and let her take over the conversation. They were not smiling.

  “Barbara, I want you to look at these papers and tell us what all this is about. What is this?”

  I looked at each woman in turn, trying to gauge what their faces held.

  Cathryn handed me a thick pile of papers. I was confused at first, but as I began reading the words my breath seemed to stop. They were indeed my fingerprint results, and listed right there on the paperwork were the many arrests and convictions from New York City all those years ago.

  I couldn’t believe it. I’d thought all of that had gone away. I’d been just a kid, a child when I was arrested. I read the paperwork and the nature of the arrests and all of the false names I had given. There were dozens of them, and even five arrest warrants from over a decade before.

  I didn’t know what to do, so as my mind raced, I lied. “I have no idea what all this is! I really don’t! I don’t know.” I shoved the papers back as if they were burning my hands.

  Both women exchanged a worried glance, and I saw that they didn’t believe me.

  “Okay, then, Barbara, we are sorry about all of this,” Cathryn said quickly.

  For a split second a flash of hope spiraled through me. I thought she was going to apologize and say they would just forget all of the arrest records, but that did not happen.

  “We’ll have to talk further about this. Most likely you will have to leave the office because of all the names on these papers. You didn’t add them to your 171 application.”

  I didn’t really hear what she was saying. Tears were running down my face. All I wanted to do was be alone.

  “Okay,” I mumbled. Not looking directly at either woman, I turned and walked slowly out of Cathryn’s office, down the long hall, and back to my desk. Colleagues in cubicles glanced out at me curiously, anxious to know what was going on—and perhaps happy that they weren’t the ones in trouble. No one reached out to me or asked me what was wrong, which was a relief. I probably wouldn’t have welcomed any sort of questions, given the state I was in.

  I sat down at my curved beige desk, hung my head, and cried silently. I felt totally exposed in the open area where I worked, and in that moment more than ever I wished for my own little gray cubicle where I could hide. But that was never going to happen, not after what they had just discovered about me.

  I felt like I was living some sort of horrific nightmare. How had my past come back to haunt me? I hadn’t been in New York in fifteen years. No one knew about me; I’d worked so hard at keeping it all hidden away. And I had been so young when I was arrested—just fourteen the first time. Why did I still have a record? Didn’t those just disappear when you turned eighteen?

  I did my best to pull myself together, my mind whirling with questions as I glanced around nervously to see if anyone was watching me. I picked up the office phone and called the court clerk in the New York criminal court system to see what I could do about those past arrests. I was in shock about the outstanding warrants, too. I supposed that Moses had thrown out the paperwork and court fine information—what did he care about me going back to court?—but I hadn’t been aware that I had to return and that I could have been arrested at any time for not appearing.

  The clerk in New York was no help; she seemed as confused as I was and said she had never heard of anyone being in my position. She told me that I needed to hire a lawyer and come back to New York to straighten out the whole thing. But the thought of returning to that horrible courthouse made my stomach clench. I couldn’t go back. Besides, I had no attorney and no money to pay one. I didn’t know where to begin to clear my name. All I knew was that apparently I was still a criminal. Moses had always said, “Them squares don’t understand you, girl. They will only hate you more when they know what you been doing.” Deep inside, I thought he was right.

  ***

  The following week, I was asked to sign a paper saying that I was leaving the SBA of my own free will, and even though I didn’t want to quit my job, I signed the paper quickly so I could get out of Cathryn’s office as soon as possible. That was the end of my federal government career.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I was jobless, with a four-year-old child, no education, and no future. Plus, all of my friends and family members kept asking me how I had blown my great federal government job, and I couldn’t tell them the truth. How could I? No one knew what I had been through in New York, so I added more lies on top of the mountain of untruths. It did little to help with the deep shame I already felt.

  Everywhere I looked, each job application asked the same question in some form or another: Have you ever been arrested? Do you have a criminal record? No matter how many times I told myself I wasn’t a bad person, the records were still out there, written proof that I was a criminal. I tried to stuff the thoughts of them down inside, but they were still there under the surface—and I knew it.

  I realized I had to pull myself together and find another job. My daughter had been enrolled at the Park Lane Baptist Church day care ever since I’d started at the SBA—I’d cried in the parking lot the first time I left her there—and this gave me an idea. Why not stay myself? I went to talk to the director of the day care the next time I dropped off Samantha, and soon afterward I began my new job as a day care teacher.

  It was ironic to me that while I couldn’t file papers for the federal government, I had no problem getting a job watching small children. All I needed to do was bring the director my Virginia police record and get a TB shot, and I was on board. Because I had no arrest record
in Virginia, I had no problems.

  Even though the pay was low, I loved being there and working with the children. They were so sweet and so undamaged. Each time I saw them at play or sitting at their small wooden desks, I would be almost moved to tears and would have to quickly keep my head down until I was able to wipe my eyes. Children that age see the world’s beauty clearly, uncluttered by the influences that will come into their lives soon enough. As I watched them I felt a deep sadness and a grieving for my own childhood that had been cut short and forever lost to me.

  I found I loved childcare work, and after working at the church for a few years, I went back to school to become credentialed in early childhood development. By the 1990s I had opened my own home day care, with several children coming to my home from six in the morning until six at night. Though it was hard work running a business. and sometimes it felt as if my home was being taken over, caring for children was so fulfilling. I felt like I was doing something important.

  I took my responsibility very seriously. I wanted the children to feel comfortable and also learn something while they were with me, so I furnished the basement with a small oak table and chairs that were just the right size, and posted bright, colorful ABCs and pictures of animals on the walls.

  Then I set up dress-up and reading areas filled with hats, scarves, costume jewelry, and lots of different children’s books. I was so proud that I was actually earning my own way. Not having to worry about being let go or fired was a huge relief, too.

  New York and all the things that had happened to me there were pushed further and further back in my mind as I replaced them with new thoughts and memories. Occasionally events, people, places, and even sights could trigger a memory of the past, making it pop up with no warning. But it was not the same as before. Those experiences were still there, but they didn’t stand out in my mind and my memory as strongly as they used to. Because I was happy and busy, it was easier to forget.