10

HAUNTED HOUSE

We were still living in a haunted house, the past whispering at us from the corners, hiding in darkness, voices, and shadows. Our days were filled with gasps and twitches, reflexive jumping at sudden moves, loud noises, or a light reflecting off a shiny surface. I warned the kids when a hug was coming, or else my touch, trying to calm, could spook them. Our kids didn’t cry over spilled milk; they screamed, wide-eyed and frozen. Night was full of fitful sleeps, quiet tears, and crazy terrors. We left the lights on while they stirred in their sleep, blankets pulled over their heads.

I called my friend Brena from the West Coast. She was a trauma therapist who worked with returning veterans. All our kids were diagnosed with PTSD. Brena flew out to work with us for a week doing bilateral exercises, tossing balls back and forth while talking to them. The goal, as I understood it, was to have them remember the trauma and while talking about it, stimulate the left and right side of their bodies in some way, tapping on their knees or shoulders, listening to white noise recordings that shifted the sound from one ear to another, all the while reminding them that they were safe now.

“How are you feeling now? Are you comfortable? Is anyone hurting you?” Brena sat in on some of the therapy sessions; the children sat on my lap, and I would alternately tap their left and right knees while they talked.

Brena was also an amateur horn player, and we were trading therapy for horn lessons. After a late night of music making, she asked me how I was doing. “Ha, me?” I was fine, stressed, but holding up. She was concerned about Dan and me, our marriage and stress levels. I said, “Darcy, the kids’ therapist, thinks I have PTSD.” Brena started chuckling, “There is nothing ‘post’ about your stress. You’re in the middle of it, it’s traumatic and they’re right to be concerned. Pay attention, watch for burnout. You’re doing great.”

Did Brena’s therapy work? We were carpet bombing these kids, so it was hard to pinpoint which therapy was taking out which disorder. But I could tie Anthony’s thunder issues to the trauma therapy. Rainstorms were a trigger for all the kids, but Anthony was particularly affected by the noise. The day before Brena left, we were all in the kitchen when a thunder clapped, loud and close. Anthony started screaming. I looked at Brena. She said, “You do it.” I knelt behind Anthony, his little body rigid with terror, lungs gasping between shrieks. I put my hands on his shoulders and I started tapping, left, right, seven times total, then break. “This storm must be really scary for you, Anthony. But you are safe now.” Tap, tap, tap, “Everyone loves you here, Anthony. That thunder isn’t hurting you.” Tap, tap, tap. Anthony stopped screaming. He turned and stared at me. I smiled and hugged him. “Do you want to see it, Anthony?” He nodded. We went out onto the porch and watched the storm, the water sheeting off the roof, over-banking the gutters. I held him and we watched together, quietly.

The next thunderstorm came a few weeks later. Anthony froze and then looked at me, shocked. Together we waited for his scream, but it never came. He stared, “Not afraid.” Small victories.

At the end of our first summer, we played a game of evening softball, our eyes squinting after the ball, fading into our twilight play. We came inside, glowing from exercise, smiling and exhausted. We ate ice cream sundaes, while Dan was working late. The kids were relaxed and chatty as the conversation turned slowly from home runs and short stops to stories from the foster home. They were laughing about it, sharing: “Remember when . . .”

Ms. Smith had stepped on an arm and broke it. Mr. Smith threw the car keys at a head and missed, hitting and cutting the throat, blood running down their clothes. They were shamed, called names, ridiculed, and beaten, and made to watch each other get beaten. These stories, new to me, were horrible and graphic. I let them talk; I wanted to know. They showed me the kitchen utensils of choice the foster family used, first to taunt then to beat them, quick and hard, “like this,” said Ruby as she drove the metal spoon down on top of a small, imaginary head. They showed me scars on their bodies I hadn’t seen before, explained some I’d seen, but not mentioned. Then something shifted. Their voices dropped and the air went thick, their narrative slipped from past tense into present, “She calls me stupid. She hits Anthony on the stomach with a stick.” Shut it down!

I stood up from my chair and leaned over the table. “Those adults made bad choices. None of these things should have happened. You have parents now, parents who love you. I promise no one will ever hit you again. I’m your mother now, and this is my watch.”

My children stopped and stared expectantly at me. I rested my fists on the table, leaned towards them and raised my voice, “If you think anyone’s going to hurt my kids, you better think again.” Susie asked, “You’re not afraid of her?” I gave an angry look, “Of Ms. Smith? Let me tell you about Ms. Smith, Susie. If Ms. Smith comes near my kids, she’d better be afraid of me!” I gesticulated, “Nobody hurts my kids, not on my watch!” The kids started laughing, looking at one another.

It started to feel a little like a rally, so I went for it. “I’m your Mama Bear! Mess with my cubs? Then you mess with me!” I dropped my voice. “Did you ever see a Mama Bear when someone messes with her cubs?” They stared, shook their heads. I paused and then suddenly, throat shreddingly loud, “ROARRR!” Anthony screamed. I threw my head back, “ROARRR!” They laughed, excited. “Again! Again Mama!” “ROARRR!” Anthony was clapping, “You my Mama Bear! You Mama Bear!” I raised my arms, “Who hurts my kids?” They shouted back, “Nobody hurts your kids!” I paced. “That’s right! Ms. Smith better watch out. You mess with my cubs, you mess with Mama Bear.” Anthony yelled, “Mama Bear! Again! Again!” I cued them and all the children roared on my downbeat. Then I cut them off, conducting them, put finger to my lips, and whispered, “Nobody hurts my kids.”

With everyone happy, “Teeth brushed, in your beds!” They scrambled for the stairs, “Will you sing to us?” I winked, “You bet!” They all went to their rooms, PJs on, waiting for me to call them out for singing.

I sat for a minute in the kitchen and cried. Sobbed, actually. Get your shit together. I went upstairs and tuned the guitar. The kids took their seats beside me in the hallway and we went around the circle picking songs. They loved the simple songs: “You are my Sunshine,” “Edelweiss,” “Edelweiss,” “Edelweiss,” “Again? But we just sang it three times! Okay, okay.” They loved repetition, calmed by the familiarity. I’d start them soft, then loud, then call out, “instrumental,” and have them whistle a verse. They were adorable; I loved them so much. I heard Dan come in through the open kitchen door. “Goodnight, lovies.”

I ran downstairs, closed the kitchen door for privacy, and told Dan about the kids’ disclosures, trying not to cry. The details were horrific. He asked me if I thought they were feeding on each other, exaggerating, trying to shock me. “I can’t be sure. I was careful not to show any reaction. I cut them off when it got heavy and then showed anger at the perpetrators.” Dan called them down one by one from their rooms and interviewed them, sitting with them on the couch in the living room. Questions only, listening thoughtfully, careful, respectfully, asking for details, then off to bed. We met again in the kitchen. They were telling the truth.

The nature of the abuse was consistent with the initial given report; the extent, severity, and frequency was much greater than we originally thought, but Dan and I both agreed it did not warrant filing a new report. Dan suggested I encourage the kids to talk about it in therapy. “Let the therapists report it to the agency and from those reports, let the agency close the foster home.” We were trying to move the kids forward.

I asked the social workers in New York if the home had been closed. “No, but we have not put any new kids in there.” I would ask them every time we spoke. “You’re reading the therapist’s reports, right? Do you read those reports?” They weren’t putting new kids in, but they weren’t closing it either. I stopped asking. I didn’t want to know.

* * *

“So what do we do now?” I asked Dan. He said, “Starting tomorrow, we keep them laughing.” Copy that.