18

SILENT SPRING

A month after moving Jason to the third floor, something went very wrong. Ruby started having screaming outbursts at the table. Jimmy was avoiding eye contact and walking away from me while I was speaking to him. Susie was spending an unhealthy amount of time hiding under the desk in her room, and Anthony’s abuse of the first-floor bathroom was reaching artistic levels. I tried reaching out and spent quality time with each of the kids, “Is there anything you want to talk about? Any worries? This behavior doesn’t seem like you.” Nothing.

Something was not right. Ruby, Jimmy, and Susie all had discipline referrals from school, while Jason was upbeat and cocky. I dropped him off and called Dan. “What the hell is going on?” Dan called it: “Jason has access. Shut him down. We need to find out what he’s been doing.”

We moved the children into individual rooms on the second floor, no more shared spaces. We put everyone but Anthony in lock-down: no piano, basketball, soccer, or swim. The children ate one at a time with just me and a timer at the table; there were no snacks after school or desserts after dinner.

We questioned Jimmy first; he had the most to lose and rolled like a bowling ball. “Jason came into my room and told me to throw my toys over the banister.” I stared at him, my arms folded, “Why’d ya do it, Jimmy?” He bowed his head. “Jason said it wasn’t fair that you took Anthony’s toys away and he told Susie to come into my room, I don’t know why. And Jason was standing outside the bathroom door a lot, whispering to Susie and stuff.” Jimmy was released. Ruby’s turn. “Jason said it wasn’t fair that the kids had to stay in their rooms. He said kids should be able to go where they want to and that you guys hate us and are trying to control us.” Ruby was released.

Susie would not give it up. I had to find an angle. I stopped by her room for a routine check. The air was heavy with perfume, a controlled substance in our house. Susie loved all things smelly—lotions, hair products, perfume, and deodorants—but could not moderate her usage. Left alone with a bottle of anything, she would rub it into her hair and clothes, squeeze the contents into a desk drawer, and then smear it onto her walls and bedclothes. Single doses of lotion were squeezed into her hand by an adult. Susie had broken a rule while grounded. This was my ticket in.

“Susie, what’s this dripping from your hair, honey?” She shrugged, “I don’t know what you are talking about.” I smiled, “I can smell it, Babe. Where did you get it?” Lying straight to my face she said, “I don’t have it. I didn’t do anything.” These kids had a very high tolerance for discipline and once they figured I wasn’t going to hurt them, I had very few options. “Sweetie, I am going to go through your room until I find what I’m looking for. I’m going to put everything that is not a book into this bag and keep it. As soon as you tell me what it is and where you put it, I will return it. It’s up to you.” I picked up her Yellow Teletubby. Her eyes went wide. Into the bag. I picked up her Polly Pocket, gave her a second to consider, and then tossed it in the bag. I tossed Polly’s fold-out home, Polly’s clothes and shoes, jewelry box, colored pencils, clock radio. She was riveted, but silent. “I’m going to find it, Susie. Or you can just tell me where it is and I will stop. I don’t want to take your stuff.”

I moved to her dresser where a tiny ceramic tea set sat arranged, waiting elegantly for some miniature guest to arrive. Susie bolted up. She loved this tea set. I moved slowly, building the tension. I picked up a saucer and threw it in the bag. I picked up a cup. Susie yelled, “It was in your bathroom closet! I found it in your bathroom!” She had gone into our bathroom, found a bottle, put the contents in her hair, and then put the bottle back. I asked her what was in the bottle. “I don’t know, I couldn’t read it.” I softened. “My job is to keep you safe, Susie. I can’t keep you safe if you lie to me. Take a minute, I’ll be back.” I left the room.

I had worked Jason over earlier that day “They told me everything, Pal. Jimmy, Ruby, Susie . . . I know what happened. I just need to hear it from you.” Jason was indignant. “They are just making stuff up to get me in trouble!” I asked him why his siblings would do that. “Because that’s what I do to them!”

After threatening to take away his Legos, he cried out, “I told Susie to climb down the stairs while you and Dad were watching a movie and find out what it was! You can see the movie by looking in the glass on the painting over the stairs!” I put the box down and turned and faced him. “What else?” I folded my arms. “I told her to go into Jimmy’s room and take his Hot Wheels and bring them to me.” I nodded. “Did she do it?” He nodded yes. “That’s good,” I said, “That’s all for now.”

I came into her room, sat down beside her, rubbed her back, and suggested she take some deep breaths. “Sweetie, Jason has already told us everything. We know what happened but it’s important that you say it. You need to tell me the truth.”

She started crying. I used my soothing voice, “I know you love Jason. I love him, too. No one is going to get in trouble. Just tell me in your own words.” Susie lied, “I don’t know, I don’t know anything . . . nothing happened, I don’t know what you are talking about.” She was crying harder now.

“Susie. He told you to go into Jimmy’s room and steal his Hot Wheel cars. He told you to sneak down the stairs and look at the reflection in the picture frame to find out what movie your Dad and I were watching.” She turned suddenly, eyes wide with betrayal. “He told you that?” I nodded. “He told us everything, Sweetie. Everything.” Her face went white. Look at her! She looks terrified. He threatened her. “What did he say would happen if you told?” She sobbed, “He said he would call the Smiths and tell them where I was.”

I pressed her. I asked her yes and no questions to which she nodded or shook her head. The news was not good, it was horrible and wrong and not my news to share. Oh, God. I held her close to me and she began sobbing. “Susie, none of this is your fault. Children need supervision, this is not on you.” I felt sick. This is not about you. She’s loyal to Jason, but you need to get her on your side. “No one is going to get in trouble, I love Jason as much as you. It’s not his fault either.” Show anger and stop breathing like that. “Those adults were not keeping you safe. I am angry at them.” You need to normalize it for her. I can’t—I got nothing. I am out of my depth! Then change the subject. Move on.

“Susie, I want you to think of a food that would not be improved by adding either bacon or chocolate.” It’s an impossible question, like finding a word that rhymes with “orange,” but it got her thinking.

Not all bonds between humans are healthy. They say the strength of the fear based trauma bond is more destructive and powerful than any other bond, stronger than every healthy bond we were trying so hard to build. It explained the “kids versus parents” vibe that we were currently living in. While studies on trauma bonds are painful and disturbing to take in, they explain certain human behaviors that cannot otherwise be understood. Our children did what they had to do to survive. They allied themselves and stayed together, innocent and unhealthy. They stayed alive, kicking and screaming and scratching, fighters all, strong as nature, strong as life. Their brains are young and, yes, messed and messy. To break the trauma bond between them will require a forceps, delirium tremens. We said healthy, strong, and confident and our word is our bond. This is not a stock home. And love is a powerful methadone.

I cried when I told Dan about Susie’s disclosures. He was sad, but not surprised. We weren’t there in the Bronx, and we may never know what really happened. “But if a quarter of what she said is true,” Dan said, “we have a situation in our home. Zero access. No exceptions.” Copy that.

* * *

Before any of the children were placed with us, we requested copies of their medical records from the agency. When those were not forthcoming, we petitioned the court for them multiple times over the next several months. Nothing. We made access to their medical files a condition of the adoption. Still no files. We adopted them anyway, and filed a court order forcing the agency to give us copies. Months later the records came in the mail, a heavy cardboard box eight inches deep—eight inches of scratchy photocopies of diagnoses, second opinions, recommendations, and handwritten notes scrawled in the margins of psych evaluations. I started going through the files at night after the kids were asleep. I wanted to know why Jason and Anthony weren’t growing. Lord knows they were eating. I would read for an hour, then cry myself to sleep. After a few nights, I stopped reading. These files showed me the horrible things that were done to them, but could never show me why.

It took us eighteen months, but we figured out on our own most of what was in those files: If we’d had those records before the adoption, we would have made better decisions, informed decisions, smarter and faster-acting decisions. In our abbreviated family life, everything is a race against time. That was eighteen months we’ll never get back. Eighteen months of blindly parenting the best we could. We had been operating without a complete picture in any way. Hell, we learned that one of the children was allergic to penicillin. That child could have died. Who benefits from withholding that information from a child’s guardians and doctors?

We shall not overcome. We can’t, it’s too much. Instead, we shall overwhelm, make a life for our children so full and so delicious, there will be no room for need, no room left for pain, only light and love. Stuffed with family bonds, extended, farm-fresh cousin bonds, hydroponic parent bonds, and organic child-dog bonds. Their trauma bond was like a rat in a siege; we eat it to sustain life, to survive. But now the siege was over and that rat has no place at the table of joy. Each day I looked at them, silently pleading, choose love, my loves, come closer, come closer, welcome yourselves to the land of enough, the land of excess, at least for the moment, at least for today.

* * *

It’s April 2010 and Easter breaks our long, cold, lonely winter. Baskets include, but are not limited to: giant one-pound chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, malted eggs, sunglasses, toys, swimsuits and towels, and a rainbow coalition of marshmallow Peeps sticking and tangling in the green plastic grass.

We hold our third Easter sunrise service for ourselves and our neighbors overlooking the lake. It’s not really a sunrise service anymore. Previous years, we would get up at 5:30, build a fire on the beach, and I’d play the alphorn as the sun came up, but the number of neighbors turning out for the service definitely increased when we moved it to 10. There is still a small group of diehards, trekking through the dark as we cross to the lake to watch the sun come up, its rays spiking like a sugar high in the small of group of Fox children first thing in the morning. “Of course we’re going! It’s a tradition! We do this every year!”

As we walk across the field for the second service, the sun is high in the sky. The kids point to the colored patches of grass where we’d dyed our eggs outside: blue, orange, purple, yellow, and red. Jimmy carries the warm cinnamon rolls we made at six that morning, while Susie carries the guitar. Ruby has the programs, while I carry the pot of hot chocolate and Anthony carries the cups. The neighbors arrive with deviled eggs, coffee, and a token green vegetable.

We stand in a big circle while Susie hands out the programs, “The words for the songs are on the back.” The kids have written poems about Easter, nature, and rebirth. We have special musical numbers, recorder duets, and original songs. Jimmy steps into the circle to say his poem, “Our Sun is a Spring Bling!/Wakes you up in the morning, Ting!” A neighbor leads us in a sun salutation, and then we eat. Dan stays home during the service and hides six dozen hard-boiled eggs. If you want a real Easter egg hunt, get a man who finds things for a living to hide them. It’s intense. I could tell you more but I’d have to kill you.

Our special today is honey-baked ham with seeded mustard, scalloped potatoes baked in heavy cream, homemade crescent rolls, asparagus, and a mixed green salad with goat cheese, apples, walnuts, and dried cranberries and a balsamic vinaigrette. For dessert, the children have made a cherry cream pie and a white bunny cake with furry coconut frosting and weird sprinkles in its eyes, giving it a distinctive, very creepy, look. My dad always said tradition is about doing the wrong things for the right reasons. So be it. It’s a weapons exchange: trauma for tradition, bonds for bonbons, baskets and rebirth, at least for this moment, if just for today.