SPEAK
to engage in conversation

I lay out two sheets of paper on the coffee table, side by side.

Casey begins tracing circles on the rug with her finger again.

I open the box of crayons; there are sixteen, and they’ve never been used. I set the ruler and the purple crayon—her favorite color—beside Casey’s paper. Then I pull out the orange and black crayons and begin.

“I thought I saw Monty the other day outside my school.” I keep my voice calm and pick up the black crayon with my injured hand. At least I can still draw. “But it wasn’t Monty. You know how I know?”

I wait. One beat. Two.

Casey stops tracing circles on the rug. Beside her, Rita shoots me an approving look.

“Because he didn’t have a torn wing,” I finish.

With the black crayon, I outline the shape of a butterfly with the tip of one wing missing. Casey watches my hand moving across the paper.

It’s a start.

I take more than five minutes to fill in the butterfly’s abdomen with black. I’m working slowly, deliberately. As I color and chat about butterflies, Casey moves closer. Eventually, she leans over my good arm to see my paper.

I’m thrilled, but I try not to overreact.

“Do you like my picture so far?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

Casey nods.

A good sign.

I pick up the orange crayon, daring to hope now. “Monty may be small, but he’s really strong. He made it all the way here from down south.” I pause. “Do you want to draw with me?”

“Yes.” Casey’s voice is a whisper.

I slowly exhale. “Great.” I smile, and it dawns on me that what I’m doing is even better than punching Stewart Foster out. Maybe helping Casey speak about what happened is another way of fighting back.

Casey slides in front of her paper, her leg touching mine. She begins to draw her usual abstract lines with the purple crayon and the ruler.

At first I think she’s just drawing lines at odd angles, like I’ve seen her do so many times. It looks like shattered glass. Then an image begins to emerge. There’s a thick tubular shape in the center of the page and wings like stained glass on either side.

“Is that a purple Monty?” I ask. Her picture takes up the whole page.

“Yes,” Casey says solemnly.

“Nice,” I say. Then I notice Nancy pointing toward herself, like she wants in on the conversation. “Listen, Casey,” I add. “There’s a police officer here who wants to ask you some questions. Do you think you can talk to her?”

Casey’s crayon halts in midair. “Can you stay with me?”

I take my cue from Nancy, who nods. “I can stay,” I say. If Casey is so desperate to keep me here, I guess she’s not blaming me.

“Okay.” Casey continues drawing.

Nancy gives me a subtle thumbs-up. She moves to a chair across from Casey and leans her elbows on her knees. “Casey, I’d like to talk about what happened with your father,” she begins. “I know it may be hard, but I need to know what he did when he was alone with you. Can you help me?”

Casey nods. We both keep drawing. I’m adding detail to Monty’s wings, inwardly horrified at the thought of what Casey may say.

Nancy begins asking questions. Slowly, Casey explains how her father escaped through the forest with her to a shed in someone’s backyard.

“He was mad that he couldn’t get to his car,” Casey says.

“Why couldn’t he get to his car?” Nancy asks.

“There were people in the way.”

“Did anyone see you? Maybe someone from the house?”

“No. The shed was far from the house, behind a big bush with purple flowers.”

“What did he do in the shed?”

Casey doesn’t answer for a few moments. I keep my crayon moving across the page, but I’m hardly seeing what I’m drawing. Casey looks at her mother, and her eyes fill with tears. “He still wanted to get to his car, but he didn’t know how. Then it got dark and I got hungry. He made me eat stale crackers and other bad stuff from the recycle bin in the shed. I didn’t want to, but he pushed it all in my mouth until I threw up.” Her voice breaks.

My stomach clenches.

“Oh, baby.” Rita slides closer to Casey and strokes her arm. Then she says to Nancy, “It’s something Stewart used to do—force us to eat, especially when we weren’t hungry. It was one of his ways of controlling us, and it usually happened before he”—she sucks in her cheeks—“before he hit me.”

The orange crayon trembles in my hand. Stewart Foster is one messed-up man.

Nancy nods sympathetically. “Then what happened, Casey?”

Casey adds another line to her picture of Monty. “He said I had to eat bad food because I was a bad girl.” Her crayon snaps in two.

“Listen, Casey,” Andi interrupts. “You’re a very good girl. Smart and brave too. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” Casey’s voice cracks. Her eyes are wet.

“I know this is hard, but you’re doing an excellent job, Casey.” Nancy’s voice is gentle. “Can you tell me what happened next?”

Casey picks up one piece of the purple crayon. “He said that soon we were going to a place where it never snows and the sun shines all the time. I asked if Mommy was coming. He said Mommy didn’t want to. I started to cry. He got mad.” Casey pauses.

“What did he do next?”

Casey presses harder with the crayon. “He yelled and held my throat too tight.”

I gag, remembering Matt’s arm pushed into my windpipe, silencing my screams. My back pressed against the cold washroom tiles.

“Then he pushed me in a corner and told me to go to sleep. He said he had to find a way to get to the sunny place called Cuba.”

“What did you do?” Nancy keeps her voice calm.

“I wanted to stay with Mommy. So I tried to be brave like Tori.” Her little hand finds mine, and I hold on tight. “When he got sleepy, I sneaked to the door so that he didn’t notice.” Casey’s voice gets louder. “Then I opened it, but he tried to pull me back inside. I screamed and screamed. He put a hand over my mouth, so I hit him on the nose with my hammerfist, just like Tori showed me. Then I ran until I found some people who called the police.”

Casey’s body is shaking. Rita wraps her arms around Casey, who still clings to my hand, and they rock slowly.

“That was a very brave thing to do,” Nancy says.

Casey clutches her crayon. I nod, grateful that she learned the hammerfist so well, grateful that I taught it to her in the first place.

Nancy asks her a few more questions about when the police arrived. Then she says, “Thank you, Casey. You did a wonderful job of telling us what happened. Would you like to go home with your mother now?”

“Yes.” Casey untangles from me. She drops her crayon and picks up her picture of Monty, which is dark with heavy lines. “Are you coming to the shelter soon?” she asks me.

I nod. “I’ll be there Monday. I promise.”

“Okay.” She takes her mother’s hand.

“I’ll walk you out,” Andi says, “and arrange a ride for you, if you want.”

Then Casey and her mother are gone.

“You certainly have a way with children.” Nancy shakes my hand. “Thank you. I know that wasn’t easy.”

“Sure.” I look down at the picture I drew. At the top, Monty is flying with his torn wing. Casey and I are below him—me with my bald head and injured hand. Casey’s mouth is open as if she’s singing.