Little Mercies Read online

  “Thanks for coming.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. Even though Joe has already schooled me on exactly what is going to happen to me today I can’t help but be terrified.

  “You bet.” He shakes Adam’s hand and claps me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

  Joe explains to me every step of the booking process. “They’ll get started in just a minute. They like to have all the surrenders come in bright and early so they can stay on schedule for the day.” Joe looks down at the floor and uncomfortably shuffles his feet. “This would probably be a good time to say your goodbyes.”

  Adam leads me to a corner of the room and embraces me. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers into my ear. “You’ll be home by this afternoon. I love you, you know that, don’t you?”

  “I love you, too,” I whisper back, doing my best to keep my tears at bay.

  The arrest goes just as Joe explained it would. It is surreal, otherworldly. Though he offers to stay with me for as much of the process as he is allowed to, I make Joe stay behind. I don’t want him to see me this way. “It will all be okay,” Joe assures me as he leads me through a heavy door that he unlocks with an electronic key card.

  I nod and bite back the tears that threaten to fall again and begin to shiver with fear.

  “Hey,” Joe says, looking me in the eyes, “you’re going to be fine. It will all be over in a few hours and you’ll be back home.” I am instantly calmed by Joe’s confident words.

  Before he leaves, Joe squeezes my hand and then I’m officially taken into custody by a female officer. I am surprised at how young she is, mid-twenties maybe, only a few inches taller than I am, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. The booking area is deserted and she leads me into a private spot. I know what is coming next—Joe explained it all to me the night before—but this prior knowledge doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

  Because I am being charged with a felony, I must be strip-searched. With trembling fingers I begin to unbutton the black wraparound dress that I pulled from my closet for just this occasion. Simple, easy to take off and put back on, professional enough for a court appearance. I fumble to untie the fabric belt at my waist while the officer stands by patiently. Goose bumps erupt on my skin as I step out of my shoes and slide my dress over my head. I’m painfully aware of my dimpled thighs and the slack skin of my abdomen. And my face reddens in shame even though the officer respectfully averts her eyes to my nakedness. I can’t help thinking about the men and women, many the parents of children I’ve removed from their care, who have stood in this exact same spot, peeling their clothes from their bodies.

  I never felt sorry for these mothers and fathers, never gave a second thought to what they experienced during their arrests and I know that most people feel the same way about me. I can almost hear the comments: She deserves it, what do you expect if you neglect your child? A little embarrassment is too good for her.

  Piece by piece, the officer examines my clothing, my dress, my bra, my underwear. She carefully checks my pockets and runs her fingers over the seams making sure that no contraband has been sewn inside.

  When I am completely naked the officer steps forward and directs me to run my hands through my hair to show that there is nothing hidden in my scalp. Once again I am thankful for my short hair. I am ordered to pull my ears forward and turn my head to show that there is nothing tucked behind them. I am struck at how matter-of-fact and bored the officer sounds. She gives these exact same directions many times a day. There is no judgment in her tone but no sympathy, either. I’m not like them, I want to tell her. I’m different. I’m a mother, a wife, a social worker. I shouldn’t be here. I say nothing. Today, in this moment, I am no different from anyone else who has been here before me.

  “Tilt your head back,” the officer instructs, and I do. She peers into my nostrils. “Open your mouth and lift your tongue.” I comply. In between each direction she gives me, one arm instinctively crosses my breasts and one drops to cover my pubic area. “Lift your arms,” the officer says, and I close my eyes as she inspects each armpit. “Halfway done,” she says. The first words she utters that make me feel like she sees a real person standing in front of her. But if I think the worst is behind me, I am horribly wrong.

  “Lift your breasts,” she says, and I blink twice, not sure if I heard her correctly. “Lift your breasts,” she says again, and I do. “Open your legs,” the officer says. “Squat and cough.” Despite my determination not to cry, tears film my eyes and I blindly comply. “Okay, you can stand. Now show me the bottom of your feet.” I lift first my left foot and then my right.

  Not once during the entire search does she touch me, but still I feel dirty, violated.

  The officer hands me my clothes and, turning my back to her, I quickly dress. She leads me to another area where she consults a clipboard and begins to ask me a laundry list of biographical questions. I am booked in and go through a brief medical and psychological questionnaire for safety and health reasons. I am fingerprinted, not the ink-and-paper method I recall seeing on old television shows and movies, but scanned by a computer. I am directed to stand against a wall and my picture is taken. First, face forward, then left side, then right. Mug shots. What will happen if my children see these pictures? I wonder. And no doubt they will in this age of instant access to information. They will be mortified. In all the terrible thoughts that have come to mind, Avery’s health, my marriage, being arrested, possibly losing my job, I haven’t paused to think about how all this will impact Leah and Lucas. Will their friends shun them? Will their teachers look at them differently?

  The deputy uses a key card to unlock another door that opens to reveal a small, stark room with only a concrete bench running along one wall. There are no bars in this cell, only one small window inlaid in the door. “You’ll wait here until you are transported over to the courthouse,” the officer explains. She shuts the door and it doesn’t clang or ring in my ears like in the movies. Instead, I hear a nearly imperceptible click as the lock settles into place. I sit down and, despite the stuffy, warm air, I am shivering. I try to block out the noises and the antiseptic odors that surge my way, try to bury the indignity of having to strip in front of a complete stranger. I close my eyes and think of Avery. I imagine cradling her in my arms. I think of Leah and Lucas at home with my mother and how scared they must be right now. I think of Adam, torn between returning to the hospital and waiting anxiously at the courthouse for my case number to be called.

  “What have I done?” I say out loud. All it would have taken was for me to stop and listen, really listen to what Adam was trying to tell me about how he put Avery in the van for me. If I would have just paused, pushed aside all the distractions of the morning, the worry of being late, everything could have turned out differently.

  Several hours later, I am still waiting. I have to go to the bathroom and, inexplicably, my stomach growls, though the thought of eating anything turns my stomach. I have lost all concept of time, I don’t know if it’s twelve noon or four o’clock. I do know that, by law, I am supposed to see a judge within twenty-four hours of being arrested. This means, theoretically, I could have to spend the night here. Would they leave me in this tiny room or will I be placed in a cell with others who have been arrested? I can’t stay here overnight. What would Adam tell Leah and Lucas? A rope of panic coils tightly in my chest and I’m afraid I’m going to start hyperventilating. I lower my head to my knees and am trying to calm my breathing when there is a rap on the metal door and it opens. A female officer, a different one than earlier, stands in the doorway.

  “It’s time to go,” she says. I prepare myself for being handcuffed but instead a male officer joins us, and together we move through a winding maze of hallways and locked doors until we step out into the hot July sun. Flanked on each side by an officer, we cross the street to the courthouse and I find myself in a courtroom where just two w
eeks ago I was sitting on the witness stand testifying in my role as a social worker in an abuse case.

  I hear my name and I move down the aisle, past the courtroom gallery. Prieto is there, as is Caren and several of my colleagues from the Department of Human Services. It’s not a large courtroom, but for some reason it’s crowded today and I can’t find Adam anywhere within the sea of faces. Today there are no friendly nods or waves. My co-workers won’t even look at me. All eyes are on the floor as if searching for a lost button or coin. But of course I’m not here today to testify on behalf of a neglected, abused child or here to chronicle the many indignities they have endured. I feel Vitolo’s reassuring hand on my elbow and he leads me to a small table just to the right of the judge—a judge I’ve chatted casually with about home and family—who is staring down at me from his bench. I turn back and finally see that Adam is sitting in the gallery, as are Joe and Kelly. Little mercies, I think to myself. This is one of those small gifts that my mother was talking about.

  The judge tells me that I am not allowed to leave the state and that I need to report to the Department of Corrections within the next twenty-four hours for a pretrial release meeting where I will be told what is expected of me pending my trial. Ted explains to me that this could include a curfew or a mental health evaluation.

  In two weeks my arraignment hearing will be held. This is where the state will turn in the official trial information, the documents that detail the charges against me, lists of all the witnesses, their addresses and a written summary of their expected testimony. I will be asked to enter my formal plea, asked if I want a formal reading of the trial information.

  Just as quickly as it began, the hearing is over. Ted tells me to come to his office the following day and we’ll begin preparation for the trial. I thank him and go to where Adam, Joe and Kelly are waiting for me.

  “Are you okay?” Adam asks, pulling me into an embrace. I nod tearfully into his shoulder but want to tell him that, no, I’m not okay, that it was awful, that I wouldn’t wish it on anyone and if I ever was able to be a social worker again, I would look at my clients a little bit differently, with a bit more empathy. But I don’t say anything, because no matter how harrowing being arrested, strip-searched, fingerprinted and photographed was, for what I am putting Avery through, my family through, I deserve much, much worse.

  Chapter 26

  Later that afternoon, even after Ellen and her husband had returned from the courthouse to their home, where Maudene was watching Lucas and Leah, Jenny knew that bad things were still happening. First, it was not finding her grandmother at the house on Hickory Street and then Ellen getting arrested. But Jenny knew there was more just around the corner. Jenny always knew when her father was going to lose a job, lose an apartment, lose a friend-girl, even before he did. When her father was working at a restaurant that specialized in chicken wings in a staggering array of flavors, he would bring home bags of frozen wings that he stuffed into an ancient deep freezer that he bought for fifteen dollars. The freezer took up most of the living room and each night, when her father came home from work, he would retrieve a bag of wings from the freezer for their supper. Jenny knew there was going to be trouble when each night her father kept bringing home the wings along with other frozen appetizers: mozzarella sticks, onion rings, French fries. People started showing up at their apartment with small wads of cash that they would hand to her father, and in return he would send them on their way with a pack of frozen teriyaki chicken wings and fried pickles.

  One day while walking home from the bus stop, Jenny dug some coins out of her backpack and stopped at a convenience store and bought a newspaper. Jenny wasn’t much of a reader, but she knew that newspapers had sections just for people looking for jobs, and sooner rather than later Billy would be looking for a new job. Sure enough, when she arrived home, paper in hand, her father was there. “Time for a new adventure, Jenny Penny,” he proclaimed. She handed him the newspaper, went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Even though Maudene didn’t tell her much about what was happening, Jenny could tell by the look on Maudene’s face that she was thinking hard about all that had been going on. Maudene also had to be thinking about what she was going to do with Jenny now that there was no grandmother to give her to. She couldn’t keep hauling Jenny around town in her little yellow car and letting her stay in the white bedroom forever. Maybe Maudene was going to call the police or Ruth from DHS again and let someone else worry about what happened to her. Jenny couldn’t really blame her.

  Jenny knew enough to fade into the background and stay quiet. She’d learned how to do that with her mother’s boyfriend, with nosy teachers, with her father’s friend-girls.

  Now they were just waiting—and waiting was the worst. When you were waiting for something, Jenny thought, your mind always went to the bad.

  “Are you coming home with us?” Maudene asked Ellen as she pulled her car keys from her purse.

  “No, no.” Ellen shook her head. “We’re staying right here tonight. We all need to sleep in our own beds tonight.”

  “Are you sure?” Maudene asked. “It’s no bother, is it, Jenny?”

  Jenny looked up in surprise at being consulted. Maybe Maudene wasn’t going to dump her just yet. “No, it doesn’t bother me a bit.” She cast a glance over at Leah, whose eyes were fixed on her mother.

  “Thanks, Mom. But I think we need to just stay home. Come on, guys, give Grandma a hug and say goodbye.” Leah and Lucas both stood and gave their grandmother a perfunctory hug. Jenny couldn’t help notice the hurt in Maudene’s face. Maybe it wasn’t hurt exactly, maybe more it was the feeling you get when you realize you aren’t really needed. Jenny knew what that felt like.

  Before she could stop herself, Jenny said, “Maudene and I can make supper for you all and bring it over tonight.” Everyone’s eyes swung toward Jenny who self-consciously tried to tuck her t-shirt into her shorts.

  Ellen looked over at Maudene, who nodded in agreement. “That would be really, really nice. Thanks, Jenny.” Jenny blushed and fingered her French braid. “Thanks, Mom,” Ellen said, drawing her mother into a tight hug.

  Once they were outside Ellen’s home and again sitting in the car, Jenny asked, “What do you think we should make?”

  “Comfort food,” Maudene said and smiled without hesitation as she pulled away from the curb.

  They drove in silence for several minutes until Jenny spoke. “What’s comfort food?” Jenny asked, wrinkling up her nose.

  “It’s food that makes you forget what you’re so worried about, at least for a while.” At Jenny’s perplexed expression, Maudene went on. “Food that tastes so good that all your concentration goes into eating. Like fried chicken and mashed potatoes. That’s comfort food.”

  “Couldn’t we just go to KFC and pick up a bucket?” Jenny asked, running her fingers up and down the ridges of her French braid. She wondered if the braid would come undone during the night and if Maudene would braid it again for her in the morning.

  “KFC has its place,” Maudene said sagely, “but comfort food is best if it’s made from scratch.”

  “Does it have to be chicken, can’t it be something else?” Jenny asked, moving her face close to the vent pushing out cool air.

  “Sure,” Maudene said as she turned onto her street. “It just has to be homemade and taste really good. We’ll read through some cookbooks and you can pick out what we should make.”

  Anxiety pinched at Jenny, just as it did each time she was asked to read something that might be too hard for her, but quickly eased after they arrived at the house and Maudene set three large cookbooks in front of Jenny. She was relieved to see that the cookbooks were filled with photographs of delicious, brightly colored food, lots of numbers. There were lots of words, but she just asked Maudene and she told her what they said. Jenny finally settled on a menu consi
sting of pot roast, garlic mashed potatoes, buttered corn and rhubarb crisp, and they spent the next few hours grocery shopping, slicing, measuring and stirring.

  “Whew,” Maudene said, looking around at the piles of pots and pans, the dirtied spoons and knives, the countertops splattered with oil and dusted flour and brown sugar.

  “I’m sorry.” Jenny hastily reached for a damp rag and began scrubbing at the counter.

  Maudene laughed. “No sorries needed. This is what a kitchen is supposed to look like when you’re making comfort food.” She took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes.

  “I’ll clean up. I do it all the time for my dad,” Jenny said automatically.

  “Nonsense.” Maudene waved her hand dismissively. “We’ll do it together.”

  “No, really, I want to. I like cleaning up,” Jenny insisted. She glanced slyly at Maudene out of the corner of her eye. “I promise not to steal anything.”

  “Silly girl,” Maudene said, smiling fondly down at her. “I’m tired though. If you don’t mind I will go and lie down for a bit. And when I get up, I’m going to do you a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?” Jenny paused in her scrubbing, not accustomed to people offering such random kindnesses.

  “Let’s just say, you and Dolly are going to become friends once and for all.”

  Jenny scowled. “That doesn’t sound like much of a favor.”

  “Trust me,” Maudene said before exiting the kitchen. And Jenny, to her surprise, found that she did.

  Jenny tackled the pots and pans first, scraped carrot and potato peels into the garbage and used hot soapy water and a long-handled scrub brush to wash away the sticky bits. For a brief moment she guiltily thought of Connie, sitting by her phone back in Benton, waiting for Jenny to call her back. She hoped she wasn’t too worried about her and vowed to call her a little bit later.