Three More Words

  There were times when I had two or three women manipulating my baby and breasts at the same time. I remember once when Erick came into the room, he wasn’t sure where he should or shouldn’t look. All the massaging and pressing was embarrassing for someone like me, who is very private about her body. Growing up with so many strangers in foster care made me very modest. I also realized one reason why I didn’t know a single other former foster child who had breastfed their babies: You don’t end up in placement unless you’ve been severely abused or neglected, and some of those women had endured sexual abuse. Now I saw how exposed you feel during childbirth, postpartum, and breastfeeding and could understand that any of these situations could cause these women post-traumatic stress.

  “Erick,” I shouted one afternoon. He came running at the sound of my terrified voice. “My breasts are bleeding!” The pump was not as gentle as a baby, and I have the classic redhead’s fragile skin.

  He brought ice packs and sympathy. “Babe, you don’t have to put yourself through this,” he said. “We’ve given formula to all the other babies and they’ve thrived.”

  “I want to do this for Ethan. I need to.”

  “Then how can I help?”

  I never stopped trying to interest Ethan in the breast, and I will never know exactly why he rejected my attempts adamantly each time.

  Still, I determined he would only have my milk for as long as possible, and it turned out I was an excellent source of dairy. I produced so much milk that we had to buy an extra freezer just to store it all. With the excess, I contemplated sharing it with babies who needed milk, but I found that many milk-sharing programs are complicated and controversial. Ethan was also consuming more and more, and I did not want to deprive him of a single precious drop that I worked so hard to produce.

  Trying to breastfeed was one of the most emotionally painful and anxiety-producing experiences of my life. Travel made my commitment to nursing even harder. I had to go through additional security lines to have my stored milk and pumping equipment examined. Delays in the air or in traffic that ruined my pumping schedule caused physical pain and embarrassing leaks. Airport and hotel bathrooms are not set up for pumping or nursing women, but I had no other choice. And those after-speech huggers! I couldn’t push them away, but I cringed when they pressed against my hard, swollen chest and I prayed that I—and they—would stay dry.

  Because I still couldn’t sit comfortably enough to drive, Erick did the transporting. Ethan was home with us, and the boys went to one day care near our house. After Lillian was expelled for biting, she had to be taken to a therapeutic in-home provider twenty minutes away.

  The school also threatened to expel Denver, who didn’t hurt other children, but was sometimes impossible to soothe. One moment he would be playing happily, and then darkness descended like an eclipse and his features crumpled. Overwhelmed by whatever memories or feelings flashed through his mind, he would fall to the floor in a heap. This was not a tantrum brought on because he wasn’t getting his way, and no amount of cajoling or kindness helped. I thought it was more like an emotional seizure that had to take its course.

  “I think he remembers the day he was hurt,” I said to his therapist, who had never witnessed the meltdowns. “You can see the fear in his face.”

  Tiffany didn’t know who had fathered Denver. There were many men tested, but Jude—who never even knew Tiffany had had a baby—won the DNA lottery.

  “I was already with someone else when I found out I was pregnant,” Tiffany complained. “I assumed the baby wasn’t his.”

  Jude turned out to be a nice guy with a clean record. “I want to do the right thing,” he told the agency. He lived with his parents and was caring for an eight-year-old son from another relationship.

  After a few visits, he asked us about Denver’s bizarre behavior. “It’s like one minute he’s happy and the next someone Tasered him. Why does he fall and cry and act like a monster’s attacking him?” Jude asked. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What have you tried so far?” I asked.

  “I just sit down next to him so he knows he isn’t alone.”

  “That’s what we do. You can’t force him to stop, but eventually he does.”

  “I guess that’s just what happens during the terrible twos. My mother says he’ll outgrow it.”

  Because Jude and his older son lived with his parents, and all the supervising workers said they were supportive, we encouraged Denver’s case manager to let him move in with his father as soon as possible. State law requires six months of follow-up; so we knew they both would get additional counseling. We were sorry to split the brothers and agreed to facilitate visits, since Denver’s father did not feel like he could handle both boys on top of his other son.

  November had been a momentous month. First came the election, then Ethan’s arrival, followed by Erick’s thirty-first birthday a few days later. We introduced Ethan to everyone at a large Thanksgiving feast with the Smiths and the Courters in Crystal River. I also had to finish all the coursework and papers for my MSW. I officially graduated in December but was asked to give a speech to my graduating class in Los Angeles in May. By New Year’s, Denver had moved in full-time with his father.

  We had been concerned about Lillian’s reaction to Ethan, but she was never curious about where this baby came from, and she never approached him, talked about him, or wanted to touch him—which was just as well. Because we were never sure when or if she was going to have an infectious outbreak, we considered her disinterest a blessing.

  Lillian always returned from day care ravenous. She couldn’t wait to jump on the stool at our kitchen counter and munch the treats I had waiting. One afternoon she was chewing cheese and whole-wheat crackers. When she finished, I removed her bowl to exchange it for her dinner plate. This set her off like a screaming firework. She manically kicked her legs and went flying off the stool onto the tile floor. Erick had heard the crash and came running. “Is everyone okay?”

  “Whoa!” Lillian said. Erick kissed her head. I came out from the kitchen and brushed her off. She was laughing because Loki was licking crumbs of cracker off her fingers. She climbed back onto the stool, and I handed her another slice of cheese. Though she was acting fine, as a precaution I called my aunt Robin to ask for a concussion checklist just to be safe.

  The next morning she woke up with a huge bump over her left eyebrow. I followed procedure and photographed her from several angles and then wrote up an incident report to all parties to the case. When we took her to school, we told them what had happened.

  “It was just a matter of time before she hurt herself with one of those tantrums,” her teacher said.

  By the following day, the bump had drained, resulting in a black eye. The day after that the bruising blossomed across her nose and darkened the other eye as well. We kept everyone informed, and the workers simply said they appreciated the updates.

  But then, later in the week, police and our agency director, Maya, were waiting for us in our driveway as we returned from picking up all the kids from their various schools. Two patrol cars idled with lights twirling at the end of our short street. I wondered what our neighbors—one a pastor and one a retired teacher—would think was going on.

  “Lillian had a visit with her mother and grandmother today,” Erick said, rolling his eyes as we got out of the car. “They are so hostile. I almost expected something like this.”

  “Hi, Erick and Ashley,” Maya said with false cheer. “I wanted to be here for you, since we were notified that an abuse report had been called in for Lillian.”

  “We sent everyone documentation and photos days ago, and no one has said anything to us,” I said stiffly.

  “I know, but the reporter claims that when Lillian was asked what happened, she said, ‘Mommy Ashley pushed me.’ ”

  After the questioning by forensics, the police, and child protection investigators, my anxiety went from zero to a hundred, as if someone had hit a stron
gman tester at a carnival. When the house finally cleared, I fell backward on our bed. Ethan was snoozing in the mini-crib nearby. If they believed I was guilty of child abuse, they could remove not only Lillian and Skyler but Ethan as well.

  My head pounded with the possibilities. I knew how the system worked. The more I protested, the more they would believe the child. I tried to calm down and think my way out of this web.

  “I should take Ethan to my parents’ house,” Erick said.

  “They claimed Lillian walked them through the incident and pretended to fall off the stool and bounce right up. She didn’t mention my name once. So unless someone wants to blow this up, it should fade away. The investigator said we didn’t have anything to worry about.”

  I tried to believe my own words, but my anxiety continued to escalate. I felt my face flushing with nervous heat as I recalled being awoken in foster care and questioned by a policeman. How could the Mosses get away with obvious child abuse while Erick and I were being put through hell when we were utterly innocent?

  I had a flash of clarity and doubt: Was I dooming myself to relive my life over and over by staying in the system one way or another? Maybe it was time to close that door and lead a nice, normal life with my husband and baby.

  When Maya called it was as if she had read my mind. “There have been changes to Lillian’s case plan,” she said. “The judge wants all the children reunified with the mother.”

  “But she didn’t protect any of them,” I said in shock.

  “The oldest boy is already with her, and Lillian is going to be placed with her younger brother.”

  “B-but,” I sputtered, “I thought the brother was even more severely disturbed than she is.”

  Even though I felt the weight of responsibility for her was being lifted, I was appalled about her being back with the same parent who let her get molested. “Isn’t there another solution?” I asked weakly.

  “I know how you feel,” Maya said, “but it’s out of my hands.”

  I spent the next few days putting Lillian’s lifebook and photo album in order, amazed how much she had changed from the zonked-out lump to the chatty child. There was so much more we could do for her—but having Ethan altered the stakes. Just the thought of his name being included in any kind of police report made my skin crawl.

  Lillian still weighs heavily on my heart. How could the state reunite her with her troubled brothers and then her neglectful mother? Maybe the mother had allowed men to have sex with her children for drugs. Why didn’t someone investigate and prosecute that? It felt like protecting Lillian was never the true priority. Despite how much Maya and Bonnie fought, no one listened to their professional recommendations. The day we kissed Lillian good-bye, I tried hard to banish those nightmarish thoughts, but they continue to this day.

  16.

  blowin’ in the wind

  Our siblings push buttons that cast us in roles we felt sure we had let go of long ago—the baby, the peacekeeper, the caretaker, the avoider. . . . It doesn’t seem to matter how much time has elapsed or how far we’ve traveled.

  —Jane Mersky Leder

  A few weeks later Phil called me with a bizarre story. “Guess who was just here?”

  “Blake?” I said, because he sometimes surprises the family when he is in the area on business.

  “Close. Another brother.”

  “Josh is already in Crystal River, but it couldn’t be—Luke?”

  “Yes! You should have seen him! He was dressed in a black suit, black shirt, spit-polished patent leather shoes. At first I thought he was a Jehovah’s Witness. He claims the suit was Armani.”

  “Did you take a photo?”

  “Sure, I’ll send you one in a second,” Phil said. “He asked if I recognized him, and after a double take, I knew him at once. He still has that crooked grin. He was dressed nicely, but there was still something off about his whole look.”

  “Why was he there? He hasn’t been to our house since he was first adopted by Ed.”

  “He said he was in the area to see an orthopedic surgeon. He’d been hit by a car while driving his motorcycle and had already had several surgeries on his leg. He showed us his scars.”

  “How recently?” Over the past few years I’d received infrequent texts and calls from Luke—usually in the middle of the night. He was in the hospital; he was in an accident; he was getting married; he was breaking up with someone; he had been arrested; he was out of jail. Each time I felt compelled to stop what I was doing and rush to his aid—but only for about thirty seconds. Then common sense kicked in and reminded me that I couldn’t keep responding to his crisis-of-the-week.

  “He claims to have won more than a million dollars in an injury settlement. He bragged he bought three houses and is investing in the stock market. Also, he’s engaged.”

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “He put his fiancée, Paige, on FaceTime, and she showed off the rock on her finger. She said she’s in college.”

  “Luke could use a smart woman,” I said, “but what smart woman would want to be with him?”

  The question hung in the air as we each silently filled in: money.

  “Luke bragged about giving a lady at the mall ten thousand in cash for a charity for hungry children.”

  “Really?” I scoffed.

  “I told him he shouldn’t be giving his money away without knowing more about where it was going. At that point we were standing in our driveway, and he asked what we were working on. Just making conversation, I mentioned the film we’re doing about hunger in Africa. And—you’re not going to believe this—Luke reached into his jacket and brought out a wad of hundred-dollar bills and handed it to me for the film.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I told him that it was a nice gesture, but that wasn’t the way to go about investing in projects.” Phil started to laugh. “Then he tried to force me to take the money. I pushed the roll of bills back at him, but it was windy, and loose bills began to fly around. You should have seen me running around the driveway picking up hundreds, while he stood there laughing.”

  “He’s literally trying to buy love with cash.”

  “He gave Paige a Lexus convertible and paid off her parents’ mortgage—or so he said.”

  “So why did he visit?”

  “It’s all about you, of course. He asked why you avoid him. Gay said it’s because every time you try to reach out, it ends up being a painful experience for you.”

  “That’s true.” I laughed. “Maybe he should be spending a little of that money in therapy.”

  Autumn had friended me on social media. I enjoyed her selfies with her dog, friends, and even Lorraine. One day she wrote: Going to see my brother in the hospital.

  I texted Lorraine: WHAT’S UP WITH LUKE?

  She replied that he had been run over by a car and mentioned where he was. HE’S OKAY, she wrote, BUT HE’S LONELY. HE NEEDS US.

  I was surprised by Lorraine’s empathy and that they were even in touch. My brother still blamed her for everything and anything. A cloak of guilt also settled on my shoulders. “Maybe we should go. It sounds like he’s at rock bottom,” I said to Erick. “And he’s never met Ethan.”

  When we walked into Luke’s hospital room, he began to sob as though he were grieving over a freshly covered grave. “I’ve lost everything I’ve ever loved,” he wailed. “Paige left . . . taking the car, the ring—cost twenty Gs—when I chased after her, she ran me over!” He gritted his teeth in pain. “Broke my bad leg again—serious bone infection—could lose my leg.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, carrying Ethan to his bedside.

  “Is that my nephew?” he asked.

  Ethan was only a few months old and giggled when I tickled his belly, but Luke changed the subject back to himself. “The bitch still has my power of attorney.”

  “You had better call your lawyer,” I said.

  “Did Phil tell you I have money?”

&
nbsp; “Yes, I’m happy for you.”

  “Do you want me to buy you a house?”

  “Luke, I don’t want your money. I came because I wanted you to meet Ethan and to see how you’re doing.”

  He really looked at the baby for the first time. “Ew, are all babies that ugly?”

  It was just like Luke to say something unpleasant and hurtful. “That was rude.”

  “I don’t have anyone, just a ton of money.”

  “What about Ed?” Erick asked.

  “He only cared about the money. He still gets monthly checks for me.”

  “But you’re over eighteen!” I said, although I didn’t trust anything he said to be true.

  “He claims I live there, and so my trust fund checks go to him.”

  “Where will you live when you’re discharged?” Erick asked.

  “I’m staying with Angel, the lady who runs the stables where I used to take riding lessons.”

  “Does she ask for rent?” I asked.

  “I take care of anything they need, because she’s done so much for me.”

  “Luke! She wants a piece of your pie, just like Paige and anyone else who knows what you have.”

  “Well, Angel did hit on me once!” he bragged.

  “She’s married!”

  “She’s always complaining that her husband is a jerk.”

  Ethan started to fuss. I took him to the window to let him see the rain making interesting streaks on the window. I wasn’t sure how much of my brother’s story was true, but it seemed like he needed some guidance from someone who didn’t want anything from him. Maybe I could help him become less dependent on the leeches who were sucking him dry. Ethan, who had calmed for a few minutes, now let out a wail, which was our signal to leave.