Hannahwhere

by John McIlveen

  “None were ever discovered. Every poor child in our neighborhood was put through physical examinations and counseling,” Brandon said. “You were in the hospital for weeks suffering multiple surgeries and a lifetime of agony, battling infections and fighting for your life. It haunts my memories and it never slackens.” Brandon’s distress was apparent in his eyes and the wringing of his hands.

  “I used to sneak into the hospital to visit you. They’d let me in some evenings, but Glen was never able to cope. The more we tried to help him, the deeper his desperation got. He was an addict by fourteen, begging, borrowing, stealing, and selling himself to feed his pain. The police tried to be understanding, but they could only look away for so long. He did six months for breaking and entering when he was seventeen. At nineteen, he held up a market, and when a patron tried to restrain him, Glen panicked and stabbed him. The injuries were superficial, but Glen was deemed dangerous. He earned a five-year stay at Ohio State Pen, but was released in three. His demons wouldn’t let him go, or maybe he wouldn’t let them go, but he had a bottle in his hand by the time his feet hit the pavement. He hanged himself three months later.”

  Debbie felt an enormous sense of compassion for Glen. Her emotions jostled and volleyed within her, and what was most prominent and so huge and weighted that it felt like it would crush her was, oddly, the emptiness she felt. It wasn’t an entirely bad feeling. There was an element of relief in the nothingness, in not knowing what would happen, how she’d react, and not knowing what her next step would be if she survived it. Now that the monster had a name, she found it wasn’t that scary after all. It was vile and diseased, and it left many scars, but like a tornado, it had raged and left a disaster in its wake, only she had survived. All that was left to do was clean up the mess and forge ahead.

  “Debbie? Are you okay?” Essie asked.

  The words reverberated within her. Are you okay? Not “all right”, Debbie was certain things would never be “all right”, but “okay” was within reason. It had been more than twenty years since the events Brandon disclosed had transpired, and as horrific as they were, Debbie realized that she was okay—damaged… but okay.

  “Yeah,” Debbie said. “You know, they didn’t just steal a little boy’s future… they shattered it… and a huge part of a little girl’s.”

  Debbie wiped away a tear that had settled on her upper lip. Essie retrieved a box of tissues and handed them to her. “Stolen things can be recovered and returned, but shattered things cannot,” she continued. “I can’t remember those men, but I can still hear them and smell them.” She put a hand on her lower abdomen. “I can feel them ripping and tearing at me and inside of me, and sometimes I swear I can even taste them.

  “I cannot have a wholesome relationship. I cannot make love to a man properly because it is excruciating for me both physically and emotionally. The only man I’ve ever loved left me because I couldn’t give him those things that were stolen from me. I can never have my own children. Internal scarring won’t allow it. At first, my gynecologist thought I had Asherman’s syndrome. She tried doing a diagnostic hysteroscopy and I nearly went through the roof. She knew what really caused it, but I wasn’t about to listen to her. I knew about the scarring. I just pretended it wasn’t real. Ignorance is a great defense system. Looking back, Kenny wouldn’t have been able to handle the truth… not that it mattered in the end.”

  “They’ve made great strides with surgery,” Essie said.

  Debbie smiled softly and shook her head. “No. My reproductive system is too incompetent to carry a child, and if I could, I’m not so sure I would. I‘d have to live with the fear of what he or she might have to endure in life.”

  “So, will this affect your ability regarding Hannah?” Essie asked. “You want to be a mother to her.”

  “Hannah’s different. I didn’t bring her into this. She existed before I got involved, so I’m not accountable for what has already happened to her, only what will. I’m prepared to protect her by any means to assure that she never experiences what I have.”

  “You could call it karma, but most of these men died ugly, dishonorable deaths, exposed as the monsters they were,” Essie said. “Even though they did those horrendous things, they weren’t able to destroy you. Before you learned of your past, you consciously—and I’m sure unconsciously—chose to become a social worker who specializes in child advocacy. What you’ve become is the greatest testament to you, and it shows that the strongest part of you knew how to survive. Can you accept that?”

  Debbie gave a quick, gentle nod.

  ”I’m impressed by your strength, by who you are, and by what you’ve accomplished,” said Brandon. “I was thrilled to hear you got your degree in social work from Boston College… not too shabby.”

  “You seem to know quite a lot about me, Cousin Brandon,” Debbie said.

  “Yes… guilty. Glen and you motivated and inspired me. You did before we even knew Glen was a victim.”

  “How’s that?” asked Debbie.

  “So many reasons.” He took a sip of water and continued. “I think the enormity of it all hit me when I saw you on the stretcher. I knew you were dreadfully hurt—even life threatening—but I didn’t know how you’d been hurt until I saw Polevik being led away. Right then I understood how horrendousness it was, and the absolute wickedness of the demon that did it, but what came clear to me was how powerless I was to do anything about it.”

  “You were just a kid, yourself,” Debbie said.

  “Maybe. But I was old enough to recognize my weakness. You looked so tiny lying on that stretcher, covered in so much blood. It was so vivid and immediate that something within me died, yet something else was born. I wanted so badly to help you, to compensate for not being able to hide you and protect you. I would have done anything to take your pain away, but the truth was like a brick wall between us, exposing just how amazingly insignificant I was… how powerless I was.”

  “Which is exactly what the depraved feed on,” said Essie. “They target children, and even more so, children from broken homes or with disabilities.”

  “That night, I witnessed firsthand how unfair our world is and how those we trust most can be our greatest tormentors,” Brandon said. “When Glen died, I knew—regardless of how others perceived him—none of it was his fault. I wonder what he would have accomplished if these things had never happened. He might have still ended up a train-wreck, or he might have discovered the cure for cancer, but thanks to those bastards we will never know.

  “I’m now driven by the need to set things right. I want to do whatever necessary to prevent abominations like what happened to you and Glen from happening to others, and if they do, to make sure the perpetrators pay to the fullest degree possible. You and Glen became many things to me. You could call it an obsession, but I think of it as an inspiration.”

  After a moment of retrospection he said, “You know what else I remember from that night?”

  “What?” asked Debbie, not entirely sure she wanted to know. Essie gave her a reassuring smile.

  “Although you were in unimaginable pain and quite literally dying, you fought like hell not to go into that ambulance. You were sure a ride in the back of the ambulance was the same as a ride in the back of a hearse.” Brandon chuckled lightly at the memory.

  “That explains my fear of ambulances,” said Debbie.

  “And who could blame you?” added Essie.

  “You latched onto the door, howling, biting, and kicking as they tried to roll the stretcher in. You even hooked the door with your leg. It took four people to hold your arms and legs still and push the stretcher in. I found it reassuring that you had fight left in you, despite enormous odds. You’re a survivor, and you kept on proving it through the years. I know your story, but I can’t start to imagine what it must be like standing on your end of the looking glass, or on Glen’s.”

  Brandon’s depiction of Debbie’s valiant struggle at the ambulance brought Hannah’s and
Anna’s spirit to mind. “I appreciate that more than you know,” Debbie said. “I’m not through healing yet, far from it, but I’m determined to get there.”

  Fighter and Survivor were tags Debbie had never pinned on herself, they were always overshadowed by her self-assessments of being odd, unworthy, and unlovable. She now realized she was looking at it the wrong way. She had fought for independence, for Hannah and Anna and countless other abused children, against the demons of her past, and so far hadn’t lost. You have plenty of scars, Mr. Marciano, but you’re still undefeated.

  “It’s going to take time to process all of this and maybe I never will,” Debbie said. “Right now, I feel like I’m totally encased in gauze. When it wears off, I have a feeling it’ll hit me like a bomb.”

  Brandon reached down and patted the side of his briefcase. “I have a folder with copies of newspaper articles and court documentation regarding your case, and Glen’s, too. It’s an account with follow-ups, an extended case history of sorts. I figured if you ever showed up and wanted… well, like now, it’s in here. It’s yours to keep. You can open them or you can toss them in the fireplace. It’s your call. I also have Patricia Graft’s information, should you ever…”

  “Thank you. I’m not sure if I’m ready for any of that yet, especially confronting Patricia Graft. Possibly someday,” Debbie said. She sat silently for a few moments and then asked, “Is the shed still there?”

  “The police cordoned it for a while, but then my father and some of the neighborhood men burned it.”

  “Good,” said Debbie. She wiped her eyes, looked at Essie, and smiled sadly. “As bad as it was, this wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”

  “Take time to process it,” Essie said. “You have a lot going on, so you haven’t come to a full understanding of it. It may become a lot larger when you’re by yourself or in the middle of the night.”

  Debbie stared ahead, unfocused, but thoughtful. She suddenly looked up and smiled. “I think I’ll be okay once I get past the anger.”

  Brandon looked at his cousin, shook his head, and said, “So what’s next? Climb Everest?”

  “Close,” said Debbie. “I need to request a new caseworker for Hannah.”

  “Why?” Brandon asked. “I thought you were her caseworker.”

  “I am, but I can’t be her caseworker and have any hope of being her foster mother,” Debbie said.

  “You have a license?” Brandon asked.

  “I do,” Debbie said. “Up to this point I’ve only done short-term stays during transitions, but I hope to foster and then adopt Hannah.”

  “Wow! That could be a challenge, considering Hannah’s history. Are you certain it’s something you’re up for, considering…?” Brandon hesitated.

  “Considering my history?” said Debbie. “Absolutely! For that reason all the more and I’ll be damned good at it.”

  “Amen,” said Essie.

  “I don’t have an ounce of doubt about that,” Brandon said, granting them his crooked smile. “And I know a damned good lawyer who can help you with the legalities. It’s out of my jurisdiction, but I know the dance steps, and I have a few colleagues in the Boston area. Interested?”

  “Things are starting to look good,” Essie said, and again she patted Debbie’s leg enthusiastically. Debbie wished she felt the same way.

  Chapter 31

  The DCF office occupied a unit in a small plaza in the befittingly small township of Fielding, a community of Riverside, Massachusetts. An exercise club took up the majority of the building, but there was also a dry cleaner, a Laundromat, a pizza shop, and an assortment of smaller businesses. Within two hundred yards of where Debbie stood, there were three restaurants, two fast food joints, two donut shops, a super-pharmacy, a post office, a computer repair shop, a gas station/quick-mart, a self-defense studio, a hair salon, a bank, and the ever-important liquor store, solidifying it as the center—and ugliest part—of town.

  Marjorie Faulkner was ordinarily in her office between two and four o’clock in the afternoon. Her door was open and the light was on, but it was her remarkably loud voice that betrayed her presence.

  “No, no, Ms. Bale,” she said. “We cannot act on assumption… that’s libel. If we assumed that every child with a thumb-sized bruise was being abused by their father, we’d have to remove nearly every kid in town. I know, Ms. Bale, but this is the fourth accusation you’ve made this year, the second about your ex-husband, and it’s only June. No, it’s June, Ms. Bale. July doesn’t happen for two more days. Yes, we’ve checked him out twice, and there is no evidence of abuse. Your daughter’s doctor said there’s no sign of abuse, and even your daughter said no one is touching or hitting her. I understand you feel you’re certain, but there has to be evidence, and a bruise on the arm could come from a table corner, a friend, or even from you, Ms. Bale. Ms. Bale, I would appreciate you not swearing at me, or I will end this call. Ms. Bale… Ms. Bale, please calm down.” Debbie heard the phone hit the cradle and Marjorie mutter, “Fucking nut-case.”

  Debbie stepped into the doorway and said, “Business as usual, I see.”

  Marjorie was leaning forward and massaging her temples, only her blonde, coiffed hair was visible. Adjusting her tortoise shell glasses, she looked up and said, “Oh, hi, Debbie. I tell you, these phones should come with a terminate button, and I’m not referring to the call. Lucy Bale, again.”

  “It’s odd that they were married for all those years with all those kids, and it never became a concern until he left her,” Debbie said.

  “Poor bastard. I’ve known him forever. He’s a great guy. Coaches my daughter’s soccer team.” She shook her head and grinned. “So what can I help you with? You have the case review and discharge planning meeting for the little Amiel-Janssen girl today, right? How’s that going?”

  Marjorie was sixty-eight and as thin as a wire. She would have been attractive if she’d let her hair go gray instead of dyeing it what Debbie could only describe as ochre, and if she hadn’t spent so much time in the sun.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Debbie said. Her body was quivering with apprehension. “I would like to discuss something with you.” She self-consciously scratched her upper arm.

  “Certainly. Come in and have a seat. Shut the door first,” Marjorie directed. “And for Christ’s sake calm down. I’m not going to bite you.”

  Debbie nodded, took the offered chair, and said, “I’d like someone else to take Hannah’s case.”

  She pinned Debbie with intelligent, no-nonsense eyes that were so vividly blue she could feel them searching her soul.

  “She’s being placed tonight. Isn’t it a little late in the game for that?” she asked.

  “I’d like the opportunity to foster Hannah. I’ve thought it out, and I know I can handle it financially. I feel it’d be a good atmosphere for her.”

  “You’ve bonded with her?”

  “Yes. Hannah and I have bonded, but it goes so much deeper than that. She looks to me in a maternal way.”

  “Which is highly frowned upon, of which you’re well aware,” Marjorie said with enough accusation in her words to make Debbie’s heart sink. Despite what she knew would be the worst reaction, Debbie started to feel a panic growing inside her.

  “I’d be a great foster mother to her,” Debbie said defensively.

  “And what of the next child who comes along? And the next one? You are a compassionate person, Debbie. It radiates from you, and it’s evident in your work and your commitment to the children, but I feel you have let your emotions get ahead of you.”

  “But those are the qualities needed with any child. Hannah’s psychiatrist, Essie Hiller, will give me a recommendation.” Debbie felt as if she was whining, but couldn’t help it.

  “Essie is a great psychiatrist, but if this is true, then I feel she is wrong.” Marjorie put a finger to her desk to accentuate her point. “One, you have only known Hannah for slightly over a week. Two, yes, her story is heartbreaking, b
ut so are so many others. Three, just look at her. She’s heartbreakingly beautiful, and I stress the heart. Who wouldn’t fall head over heels for her?”

  “Please understand it’s more than you think. It has to do with Hannah’s condition and her dissociation,” Debbie said, feeling fear trump good sense. She desperately fought tears.

  “I’m going to be brutally blunt, Debbie. Are you letting your inability to conceive children get in the way of logic?”

  Debbie was stunned. Had she ever told Marjorie she was infertile? How could she know that?

  “No! She’s not an infant. She’s nine, and she needs me.”

  “Debbie, you’ve overplayed your importance here.”

  “So you just tear her life apart again?” Debbie asked.

  “Hannah has proved to be a very strong and resilient girl. She will survive. I am questioning your intent. I believe your attachment to her has become dangerous to her and to you.”

  “Love and compassion are dangerous?” Debbie asked.

  “Yes. In this situation, it’s the miscomprehension of love and compassion. Let me ask you this. Would you give up your job to have Hannah?”

  “Yes,” Debbie immediately answered, and at once realized her error.

  “And that seals it, Debbie. You have overstepped your boundaries and lost your scope of responsibilities. You have put your emotions ahead of rationality.” Marjorie folded her hands, preparing to dismiss her. “I cannot rightfully let that happen, nor will I transfer Hannah’s case to anyone else. This is in your best interest, and even more so, Hannah’s. You are right that she needs you, but as her caseworker. She does need that stability. Believe me… you’ll thank me for it later.”

  The words were bullets, each one killing her a little more than the last. Debbie knew a denial was possible, but she wasn’t expecting it. Feeling totally hollowed out, Debbie rose from her chair.

  “Have you decided on a suitable foster home or parents? I do hope you did that,” said Marjorie. “I would like a copy of the file and your selection on my desk before you leave for the meeting tonight.”