by Julie Dewey
She hadn’t known true love a day in her life. It was no wonder why then as a young girl she was loud and boisterous. She wanted someone to notice her. Isn’t that what we all want, to matter to someone in this world? To be seen and heard? I paid extra attention to my family when I returned home. Touching everyone and hugging them so they knew they were dear to me. When James and I settled in for the night I rubbed his back and kissed him fully, and deeply as he liked.
“Thank you, James. You saved my life.”
“That scoundrel never would have gotten away with you, all the men in town were coming to help.”
“That’s because they all respect you. I am grateful you snuck up on him, but I meant thank you for loving me. Without you and the children I would feel empty and I owe my happiness to you. Cat has never known what that feels like. I should have asked you first, but I told her we would take the baby.”
“I figured you would say that.” He said tucking a tendril of my hair behind my ear.
“Are you mad?”
“No. That child deserves a chance at a normal and happy upbringing from the beginning. I can’t help but think Cat knew this would go down just like it did. I think she wanted you to take the baby, think about it. She could have run towards Freeville or Canandaigua, but she ran to you. She knew they would follow and she’d be put in jail too. She thought it through, Iona, and as angry as I am at her for getting you involved and putting you in harm’s way, she was right to come here.”
“I told her there was a way she could live. But now even I see the idea was haphazard. I suggested she admit herself to Willard once more. I was thinking she could give birth and then stay on as a lifer. She would be placed in a strict ward I have no doubt, but my thought was she could receive updates about the baby. Maybe even see him one day for a visit.”
“It’s not a bad idea, I just can’t fathom she would willingly go back to that place. If Patty were still there she’d be in trouble from day one. I suppose the alternative, though, is worse. If she had the baby in jail and handed him to us, she’d be led to trial and found guilty, then hung. I guess it comes down to how much more she is willing to take.
“And how much she loves her baby,” I said with mixed emotions.
Chapter Sixteen
Daniel
“Cat, I came as soon as I got word.” I heard Cat was in labor and ran to the jail to help her bring the child she carried into the world. The sheriff agreed to keep her prisoner until she gave birth as a personal favor to us. It would have been easier to send her off to Willard, but this way I could see her daily and nurse her back to health during the pregnancy.
I found my friend, if you could call her that, in the throes of labor. She was squatting and rubbing her lower back with one hand while the other was placed firmly on the ground to stabilize her. I didn’t have back labor with any of my children, but Jennifer had and said it was dreadful.
“Get this thing out of me!” Cat screamed at her wit’s end.
“Okay, lay back on the cot and let me have a look.”
I lifted Cat’s skirt and noted that she was fully dilated. I ordered her to push when she felt the need and as she did she began to tear ever so slightly. With each successive push the baby’s head crowned until finally I could see his eyes, his nose, mouth and then shoulders. I cradled his shoulders and pulled him into the world.
“It’s a boy, Cat.”
“I don’t care.” She said, turning her head away from the newborn. She was sick and tired from nearly seven long months in jail and felt it was best not to create ties with the child that would be taken from her anyway.
“He is crying for you, he needs your comfort,” I said handing her the swaddled baby boy.
“He is going to be ripped from me in a day or two so what good will my comfort do him?”
“Here, just hold him. Look at him, Cat, this is your son.”
She turned her head shyly towards the baby and awkwardly held out her arms to receive the bundle. She cradled the baby for a moment, weeping all the while. After five minutes of studying his features Cat pushed him back into my arms. She then curled herself into a ball on the cot, facing the cinder blocks.
“What do you want to name him?” I asked gently.
“He is your child, Iona, you name him.”
“Oh, no. Surely you must name him. He needs a strong name to carry through all his days.”
After much deliberation Cat settled on the name Daniel James for her son. The adoption took place the following afternoon, Cat signed the child over to James and me and we took him into the folds of our family, making Jennifer and her husband the god-parents.
Cat had one day left with her child before being transported to Willard. She didn’t want to die or rot in a jail cell for the remainder of her days. Instead, she agreed that by living out her days at Willard she would at least have the chance to receive news of Daniel’s growth and progress. She could receive photographs and letters too. She decided she didn’t want the child to know her, she would take a back seat to his upbringing, instilling her trust fully in me.
Part 2
Chapter Seventeen
Present Day
When my granddaughter was born, the family was delighted. Jenna was the first girl cousin among a gaggle of boys. She was born to my daughter, Camille, and was her only child. As she grew from a toddler to adolescent, her tendencies towards the dramatic were attributed to her gender and the fact she had been doted on since birth. Everyone clamored to hold her when she was little and bestowed all kinds of lavish gifts upon her just because. Jenna was in the spotlight and she grew to relish and expect it.
Jenna’s only stumbling block as a small child was her speech and language delay along with her short attention span. A speech pathologist worked with Jenna once a week over the course of a year and eventually she caught up to her peers. Jenna’s pediatrician suggested that she may have had a mild case of Attention Deficit Disorder. This would account for the difficulty she had in a classroom setting paying attention to the teacher.
She had a few neighborhood friends and when they got together they created short plays and musicals. They would raid their parents’ closets for costumes and set designs, and spend hours drafting elaborate, sparkly invitations and drawing posters. The kids would practice their show for weeks before the big day until it was perfect. Then my daughter Camille’s garage was transformed from a dark cavernous place used to store junk into a theater in the round. The audience was charged a dollar per person to attend and was offered paper cups of hot buttered popcorn when they took their seats. Jenna was often the star of the show, draped in boas, wearing heels and make up, not shy or fearful of having eyes on her in the least. So when she turned twelve and began to shy away from creating plays and other social activities that she used to love, I became concerned.
Besides her social withdrawal, other behaviors became more pronounced that I thought were cause for alarm. Jenna began wearing rubber boots in the shower to protect herself, but from what she couldn’t identify. She was more often forgetful, losing everything from her sweaters and coats, to her school books. She talked to herself incessantly, but in a language neither her mother nor I could understand. Most troubling and off-putting however was the licking and smelling of objects. This didn’t just occur in the privacy of our home, but also when we went out in public. My granddaughter was oblivious to the odd looks she received when she licked a wall, or sniffed the contents of a garbage can. She seemed to me as if she were in her own world at times. She would lick her palms several times an hour, drag them along the walls, and then raise them to her nostrils and inhale deeply to smell them. She smelled her feet, her armpits, and her hair. Chewing on her hair was not upsetting, because so many young girls did this, but Jenna could not stop. To my dismay, she would kneel on all fours and lap the cement front porch where we sat having lemonade on a sunny afternoon, or the driveway, or kitchen floor. It wasn’t until she lapped the toilet seat in the grocery
store that I admitted something was dreadfully wrong.
I accompanied Jenna into the bathroom at Wegman’s where I could see her through the crack. I had asked her to line the toilet seat before she sat to pee, but instead she knelt down and licked it. I gagged and held in the bile that formed at the back of my throat. Rather than shop, when my granddaughter came out from the stall, I took her home and called her mother immediately. Jenna needed an intervention. My daughter rushed home from work because I told her there was an emergency. She thought Jenna had broken a bone, was extremely ill, or worse. When I relayed the facts of my morning with her, my daughter was not surprised.
“She does that all the time, well not the toilet seat, but the licking.”
“She could get seriously ill. Honey, something needs to be done. It’s not normal.” I said, standing my ground.
“I don’t know what to do, Mom. She does well in school, and seems to be happy. It’s just a phase.”
“Do you really think so, Camille? I see a child who is lonely and sick.” More and more Jenna’s behaviors reminded me of my grandmother, Iona, who was mentally ill. I was concerned given my family history and told my daughter but she was dismissive.
“Mom, she is not lonely or sad, look how happy she is.” Camille was in denial.
We both looked at Jenna who was humming a familiar radio tune and staring into space. She did appear content, but I wouldn’t consider her happy. She didn’t invite friends over anymore, was often irritable, and had become increasingly difficult to please. The harder she was to gratify, the harder everyone around her tried to appease her and the more her mother ignored her odd behaviors. But I couldn’t ignore what I saw today.
“I think you need to see a doctor, Camille. Something is wrong.”
“Mom, back off. Nothing is wrong with my daughter. I would appreciate it if you’d stay with her the rest of the afternoon, I need to get back to work.” Today was a staff development day at Jenna’s school, which was how I came to be spending the morning with her. My apartment was only a few miles down the road and I was retired so I didn’t mind.
“Okay, fine. Have a good day,” I said to Camille as she left.
I watched my granddaughter scowl, then lick her hands, this time the palms and the tops, concentrating on her knuckles. Then she smelled her feet, spreading her toes one at a time and picked at the skin in between them. She stood up and twirled around three times before flopping onto the couch and claiming she was bored.
“How about if we go to the mall, Dear? We could buy you a pretty new outfit, or maybe see a movie?”
“Yes, yes, I want to go shopping!” She exclaimed as she jumped off the couch and clapped her hands like a little girl.
“Okay, what are we waiting for? Let’s go.” I grabbed my car keys and we left.
When we got to the mall, Jenna licked the glass panes on the doors to the entrance. Strangers glanced at her oddly as if she were demented. She was not concerned with strangers, and continued to skip along ahead of me towards the center fountain at the mall.
“Grandma, can I have a penny to make a wish?”
I fished through my purse and pulled out two pennies, one for Jenna and one for me. Jenna put the penny in her mouth and swished it between her teeth, sucking on the copper. Then she pulled it out, sniffed it and threw it into the water.
“Why do you do that?” I asked her.
“Leave me alone, Grandma.” She spewed rudely and abruptly before stomping away from me. Normally when we went shopping Jenna was a delight, but if this was an indicator for her mood it was going to be a long day.
I decided to ignore the antics and just press on. I followed Jenna into several stores where she tried on dresses, stretch pants, jeans paired with half tops, and more. Finally, she settled on a mini skirt with flower print and solid colored half top exposing her belly-button as was the fashion these days.
I suggested we eat lunch at Uno’s and she complied. “So are you happy with your new outfit?” I asked over our pizzas.
“I said, leave me alone, Grandma.”
“I’m sorry? Did you say to leave you alone? I just asked if you were happy with your new outfit. Goodness me.”
“You always bother me, just don’t talk.”
I had never, in all my life been treated so rudely by Jenna. It had been several months since we had a special day together, but this wasn’t her normal behavior at all. It was almost like there were two Jennas. The happy, twirly, jovial Jenna who licked everything, and this mean and nasty Jenna who was, simply put, rude and inappropriate.
I remained quiet for the rest of the meal, I observed Jenna as she sucked the sauce from her mushrooms on her pizza and then put them in a pile on her plate. She ate the pizza, licked the plate, sniffed her hands, and gazed into the distance with a half-smile on her face, seeming oblivious to my hurt feelings.
I paid the restaurant bill, grabbed the leftover bag and drove us straight home. Jenna pulled out the outfit we purchased and threw it to the floor, “Grandma, why would you buy me such a hideous outfit? It’s for a little girl, with the flowers, yuck, I hate it.” Then she began talking in her special language. She clicked her tongue and spoke so quickly it was near impossible to make out any meaning.
“Give it to me then.” I shook my head at her nonsense and I took the outfit, replaced it in the bag along with the receipt. Then I began jotting notes on the pad I kept in my purse. My daughter worked so much that she had no idea what was becoming of her only child or if she did, she wasn’t making any plans to rectify it. Divorced for three years now, she bore the burden of raising Jenna. Her ex-husband was not dependable and was only in and out of Jenna’s life sporadically. Camille worked two jobs to make ends meet and relied on me to help when she wasn’t available.
I often went to Jenna’s school open houses, to her chorale concerts and teacher conferences, so I felt I had a say in her upbringing. Next week was the spring concert at school and I was beginning to dread it. I feared Jenna would act out and embarrass us all, but Camille didn’t fret one bit. When the day arrived, Jenna came downstairs wearing black eye make-up and red lipstick. She was only twelve years old and was far too young for make-up.
“Oh, Jenna, go take that off right now.” I said knowing the kids were supposed to dress in spring attire.
“Mom, she is just experimenting. Gosh,” my daughter said in front of Jenna, undermining me.
“So, you are okay with her looking like that?” I asked my daughter.
“Well, no, but what can I do?” She asked me in front of Jenna as if she had no authority over her child, giving Jenna all the power.
I was fearful of going to the concert and bearing witness to Jenna’s strange behaviors. I didn’t want to be embarrassed but I felt I needed to be present for my daughter.
When the seventh grade took the stage, Jenna was front and center. Her smaller size, when compared to her peers, landed her in the front row. Her black attire stood out among the bright pinks, purples, and blues the other students wore to celebrate the season. When the group sang, Jenna looked far off in the distance, her mouth unmoving. I followed her eyes and noted she was staring at the clock, perhaps she just felt uncomfortable on stage and found the overhead lights to daunting.
Thankfully, when the fourth and final song was complete the seventh graders were led off stage. No outbursts or odd behaviors took place and I was grateful. When we arrived home Jenna seemed a tad confused, and sullen. We watched television for an hour or so and before bedtime Jenna looked utterly confused.
“When is my concert, Grandma?” She asked in front of her mother.
“Darling, your spring concert was tonight.” We were alarmed she forgot the past several hours and knew she was not okay.
“What? Why didn’t you take me? I am so mad at you. I hate you!!! You forced me into this horrible black outfit and why do I have eyeliner on?” Again, Jenna spewed made up words that were confusing and strange.
I looked at my d
aughter as tears streamed down her face. It wasn’t just the licking and smelling anymore, or the short temper, now it was as if Jenna were divided.
Chapter Eighteen
Genetics
My grandmother, Iona, was insane. She spent time in an insane asylum as a young woman for being demented. I had fond memories of Iona, however, because she was always a pleasure to be around. Iona was simply an odd duck with imaginary friends that she spoke to. As a child I used to laugh out loud when my grandmother had a running dialog going with an invisible person, until my mother told me it wasn’t kind to make fun.
“But, Mama, no one is there. It’s so funny.” I would retort.
“It might seem that no one is there to you, Shirley, but to Grandma, her friends are very real.” My mother said.
This was my first experience with mental illness and as a result it made me more observant of the people around me and how they interacted.
I saw Grandma Iona in Jenna at times, that distant, confused look that Jenna got worried me and took me back to my youth. Sometimes my grandmother would look lost and afraid, and her condition worsened as she aged, especially after my grandfather, James, died.
But Jenna was only twelve years old, true she didn’t seem to have any aberrations or people she spoke to, but her other behaviors pointed to something disturbing.
Camille made the appointment with her pediatrician, who after observing Jenna, phoned the psychiatric center at Syracuse’s premier Hutchings facility. It was a facility that took care of children as well as adults. It had beds for those that needed round the clock care, or offered day treatment options for those less dire.
