Runaway
2003 (The First time)
The early morning sun shone bright but seemed to drown rather than reflect in Cambria's pale blue eyes, making them seem deeper, darker, cold. The pain in those eyes is killing me, looking at her makes my heart pound and eyes sting, while her unspoken cry for help makes my ears bleed. I stand in the early morning light helpless, useless, and drowning in those blue, blue eyes. Slowly I reach out to her and take her thin, trembling hand into mine and squeeze it gently.
"It's going to be okay," I lie to her.
The empty street seems to swallow my lie. It's not ok and nothing is going to be alright. Instead my words are just one more lie, hollow, empty, useless. Useless as my words may be we, Cambria and I, cling to them because they are all we have. My hands are tied and I have no power against a society that refuses to step into a broken home until the children lie bleeding and broken. I'm standing here shivering because of a legal system teeming with girls just like Cambria, overflowing with children in need of a safe stable place to call their own. I stand here staring angrily at the police officer who has been sent to retrieve a runaway. I want to throw my head back and wail at the unfairness of it all. I want to strike the police officer standing at my door, ready to pry Cambria's hand from mine and return her to an alcoholic mother who can't keep her rage or her fists to herself. I want to scream and rage and make him stop lecturing me about runaway laws. Instead I just stand there, silent and cold until he is finished and slightly uncomfortable in my silence. The Police officer is a fool. He is blinded by presumptions and safe in his ignorance. He knows nothing about the "runaway" and he wants to keep it that way, standing there refusing to meet her eyes so that his safe, clean little world can't by dirtied by her fear or her need. He is a fool.
It's hard to watch Cambria blithely feed him bullshit; yes sir, no sir! It's an award winning performance, honed by years of lying to teachers, school nurses and other nosy adults. I force myself to bite back my anger. I ache to force him to look at her, really look at her. I try to make him see the bruises on her pale skin, her greasy unwashed hair falling around her gaunt cheeks, the fear lurking in her eyes and most frightening of all, the aura of defeat that surrounds her. For a moment I look at her, really look at her and fight the urge to gather her in my arms and run as far and as fast as possible. She's such a small girl, so thin, so tiny. Her bulky blue sweater makes her look like a child playing dress up. Her head is down, her eyes weary. She has lank blond hair and big blue eyes, a softly rounded delicate face marred by the dark smudges beneath her eyes and the fingerprint shaped bruises on her right cheek. All day she's been hiding her right wrist from me and I wonder if she's cutting herself again, even though the angry red wounds on her upper arm have barely healed.
Her name is Cambria, she's thirteen and she's a runaway. Every weekend my family breaks the law by harboring her. By offering this child a warm safe place to sleep and a meal I'm "interfering with her mother's custodial rights" and could be arrested.
I met Cambria through my niece. My sister and I live together as she is a single mother and I'm newly married and flat broke. It just makes sense to have more than one adult to share the expenses and household chores. Jemaica, my niece, brought Cambria home a few times over the summer and I began to spend some time with her. I've only known her for about six months but having grown up in home less than stable I recognize the symptoms of abuse.
I remember the first time I saw her smiling and laughing with her friends and remember thinking how normal and sweet she seemed. I used to watch her and my niece and think how lucky they were to have a chance to be children and to be safe and happy. I remember how tiny she was and how cute she seemed and now I can't help but be stunned at the difference losing fifteen pound has had on her. Even then there were hints of the truth, signs I so badly wanted to ignore. Little things like how hungry she always seemed, how often she slept at our house, and how terrified she seemed of her own mother. It took some time to get to know her because she was always so careful around adults. As her best friend's fun auntie and the neighborhood foodie I was able to get past her outer shell and get to know her.
Now, six months later, I can smell the pain that hangs on her like a shroud, I can feel the shame that drapes over her skin and I know that something isn't right. Her mother has a new live-in boyfriend and things have escalated at home for Cambria. When I first met Cambria I suspected that mommy drank too much, hit too much and listened too little. Even then I wondered how many of Mommy's boyfriends were drawn to this pretty, little teenager, how many of them turned out to be wolves in sheep's clothing. It's easy to recognize the symptoms of abuse when you've lived them. I remember the fights between my parents that inevitably led to me or my siblings being screamed at, and eventually leading to the unavoidable "beating". My parents were nowhere near as predictable as Cambria's drunken mother; my parents specialized in spontaneity. One moment they were the best parents in the world, loving, fun, supportive, and the next negligent, forgetting we even existed; at their worst they were violent, angry and terrifying. I remember my cousin and his friend slinking into my bed as I cowered beneath the blankets and prayed for salvation. I was there and it almost killed me, and now seeing the situation from a brand new perspective, holding Cambria's hand, in my doorway helpless before the heavy hand of the law, I'm momentarily blinded by pain more intense than anything I've ever experienced before.
I hate being powerless. I hate sitting by and watching her be abused because her social worker is too stupid to see past Cambria's mother's lies. I hate how little we can really do for her. Again, I have to watch a police office take her home and the look on her face tells me that home is a prison, a horrible place of fear, pain and disillusion.
Jemaica hugs Cambria goodbye and we watch her slip away and the slamming door holds a note of futility. After releasing a shuddering breath I turn, my face as calm as I can make it, to my niece who turns to me with wet shiny eyes. The pain in Jamaica's eyes tears at me, makes me cringe and makes me sick. My sister and I have fought tooth and claw to give Jemaica a safe, happy childhood in a world that is anything but safe. I cannot protect her from this. It's not fair that she has to see this, to grow up so fast, but how do I tell her that the world is not fair, that the real world is cold and angry, and it has teeth. How do I tell her that Cambria will probably fall through the cracks of a society that prefers to turn a blind eye to her situation? How do I tell her that there is precious little help out there? How can I tell her that school officials merely see Cambria as a number and the hospital and doctors see a paycheck? How can I make her understand that most people are so wrapped in their own lives or their own problems that they don't care about somebody else's kid? I could give her a cliché, tell her, it's-a-dog-eat-dog-world out there; or I could give her false comfort and fake platitudes, "it'll all work out, everything happens for a reason". Or could I tell her the truth.
I could sit her down and explain to her that girls like Cambria have almost no chance, no real shot in this world because their parents have stolen their future. I could tell her that girls like Cambria are so desperate for love that they usually end up pregnant at fifteen or dead by their own hand at sixteen. I could tell her that runaways often run to big cities where they fall prey to rapists, drug dealers and pimps. I could tell her that Cambria's only hope for survival lies in Cambria, in her own strength, her own will and her winning against the impossible odds that her thoughtless, cruel parents have set against her. Yes, I could tell Jemaica the truth and in doing so I would tear her world apart and destroy her faith in humanity.
I look into Jemaica's eyes and realize that I simply can not tell her anything so I put my arm around her and hold her. Again, I am useless and this time I am also a coward. A coward for distracting her with hot cocoa and a movie, a coward because I can't bring myself to tell her the truth nor can I tell any more lies. Maybe tomorrow I can look past this situation and bring myself to tell Jemaica the truth of the world in a way that doesn't destroy her ability to love or trust or have faith in humanity. Maybe tomorrow I can temper my own pain and rage enough to show her that despite the brutality of the world we live in hope, beauty and love still exist, still survive. Maybe tomorrow.
Tonight I let myself hope. I hope that Cambria will find help; I hope she has the strength she will need to survive three more years in the prison her parents have built for her. I hope that my own sweet girl will remain untarnished by the ugliness she has seen this night and I swear by all that is holy and all that is not, that I will protect Jemaica, who lies curled in my arms like toddler.
2004 (Spring)
I stand at the door distracting the cop in what has become a grotesque weekend ritual at our house. On Thursday or Friday Cambria shows up at the door, bruised and crying, hungry and scared and we bring her in, feed her, hold her and beg her to tell us anything we can take to the authorities. This weekend like all the others she just shakes her head and hides, recuperating in Jemaica's bedroom over the weekend. On Monday morning I distract the police officer like I'm doing now as she slips through a window and heads to another friend's house. In the last few months Cambria has become part of our little family. Over the week she will drift from place to place, sleeping on couches, hiding in garages while the parents of whatever kid whose harboring her is at home. I stand on doorstep grinding my teeth as the self righteous son of a bitch in a uniform reminds me of my civic duty and tells me how harboring a runaway could affect me. He smirks at me while he informs me that Cambria's mother has placed a restraining order against me and is considering pressing assault charges. After all, he reminds me, "You did attack her at that cheerleading meet."
I refrain from reminding him that she had shown up drunk and tried to pull Cambria out of the building by her hair. She was so angry that Cambria dared to go to Jemaica's competition. I also refrain from telling him that I never laid a hand on the hag but I would have if she had continued to hurt Cambria. I refrain not because I'm afraid of assault charges or restraining orders, it wouldn't be the first time I spent a night in jail, but because Cambria still refuses to speak out against her mother. She's learned that the system is infinitely worse than her mom's house and infinitely harder to runaway from. I refrain because the longer he stands out here enjoying the sound of his own voice the longer Cambria has to escape. Inside the oven timer goes off, a signal from Jemaica telling me that Cambria is safely away from the house and I tell the officer to either search my house or to take his big mouth off of my property.
2004 (Fall)
I'm standing in the kitchen getting a snack, my six month pregnant belly bumping into the counters, when Jemaica bursts into the house, tears streaming down her face, and says, "She's in the hospital, Cambria, they took her away today during class."
I wish I could be surprised, I wish I needed to ask why they had taken her but I know exactly why she fainted at school. In the last six months Cambria has grown so thin that I'm in constant fear for her safety. Her social worker has insisted on her being taken to a doctor but Cambria knows every trick, every sneaky way to convince her doctor that she's eating, that she's taking her meds, that she's trying. Her mother aides and abets her by skipping doctor visits, spending the money needed for vitamins on booze and buying Cambria clothing to hide her skeletal figure. The child is wasting away before my very eyes so it's no surprise to me that she has finally collapsed. It's so hard to control my rage as I pick up the phone and call Cambria's older sister, the only person who will speak to me, and beg, plead, and grovel for any scrap of information. It takes some time but eventually I can turn to my niece and reassure her. Cambria is stable, tired, sick, but stable. We won't be allowed to visit her but some of her other friends from school will keep us informed. For a moment I let myself hope that some good will come of this. Surely a doctor or nurse will see what is happening to Cambria; surely the authorities will listen to hospital staff and the abuse will stop. For a moment I allow myself to hope that somebody in a position of power will swoop in and remove this burden from my shoulders.
The hospital visit does little good, more appointments are scheduled, her social worker is called and soon life goes back to normal. So it's like déjà vu a month later when Jemaica comes walking into the house, face ashen, with terrifying news. Cambria has attempted suicide, slit her wrists and is now safely locked away in a mental hospital. It's hard to hide ugly truths in a hospital and over the next few weeks it all comes out.
Cambria has suffered severe physical and mental abuse, has been repeatedly raped by her mother's boyfriend, developed a drug habit, and suffers from Anorexia. The boyfriend is arrested, held for forty eight hours and charged with statutory rape. Cambria's mother is sternly told she must take a series parenting classes before Cambria will be returned into her care.
2005 (fall)
History repeats itself, same story different location. I stand in front of my new apartment, my new baby in my arms speaking to a police officer. Cambria has run away again. This time she isn't at Jemaica's house or at mine but I know she's six blocks away at the public library waiting for the cops to leave. I'm a little more nervous dealing with the cops today, jail seems much more intimidating when you're a mother. The last year has been topsy turvy and horribly surreal for Cambria and vicariously for me. Cambria was discharged six months ago, a little heavier, a little sadder, into her mother's care. The rapist boyfriend had long since left the state and since Cambria is fifteen statutory rape charges can't be brought against him without both her consent and her mother's. As my son gets bigger and bigger it becomes harder and harder to accept Cambria's situation. I fantasize about becoming her foster mother even though I know that the state rarely lets people in their early twenties become foster parents. They certainly don't allow struggling collage students with a 12 month old and another baby soon to be on his way become foster parents and even if they did Cambria's mother hates me and would refuse to allow Cambria to stay with me just to spite me.
2005 (Christmas)
When the last of my guests have said their goodbyes, exchanged hugs, kisses and wishes for a happy new year my husband holds me close and then slips off to bed leaving me alone with the remnants of our holiday celebration. A handful of dirty dessert plates, coffee cups and the occasional wisp of ribbon is all that's left of our good time. The Christmas tree stands in the center of a sea of wrapping paper and a handful of small gifts lie unopened bobbing among the scraps. The gift tags each bear the same sentiment; To Cambria, Love Bernice.
Those unopened gifts lying amid the scattered wrapping paper and boxes has me blinking back tears. I pick them up wishing I had a mailing address, a phone number, anything. I trace Cambria's name before I put them in the closet along with the unopened birthday presents. The official story told by Cambria's mother is that that Cambria has gone to live with her father. The truth, well, nobody really knows the truth. I do know that Cambria never made it to her father's house in Utah and the number I managed to bribe out of her sister was disconnected and out of service. One morning Cambria was just gone and she stayed gone. Her social worker put in the mandatory hours looking for her. Not a moment more or less than demanded by the job. Cambria is sixteen and she is somewhere in this wide world all alone. I miss her so much.
2006 (Winter)
I stand over my two year old son, hand poised to strike his tender little legs, anger coursing through me. He has somehow managed to get past the child safety lock on the cupboard and there is a pool of ketchup congealing on my floor. I try desperately to contain my anger, reign in my temper, and then I give into to it. Sharp staccato slaps quickly followed by a childish wail fill my house. My son looks up at me, his dark brown eyes swimming with tears and for a single moment I see a pair of deep blue eyes looking at me, filled with fear, hopelessness and disappointment. For a moment my throat closes and I cannot breathe so I pick up my little one and cuddle him close, whimpering the words I'm sorry over and over as I carry him to the bathtub. I'm so ashamed of myself. I can count on one hand the number of time I've spanked my two year old. Spanking is always my last resort. I can't, however, count the number of times I lost my temper and wanted to hit him. As a mother I'm learning everyday how hard it is to step back from my own upbringing to give my son something better. My own mother was quick to slap or pinch a child who displeased her and one of my earliest memories of her shows her face twisted with rage as she beat my oldest sister. I'm terrified by my own violent reactions to my toddler at times and yet somehow I usually manage to control myself, to reign in the anger that is my parent's legacy. Memory is powerful thing and I remember how much I learned from Cambria. The memory of her sad thin little face haunts me, reminds me of how much damage a mother can do if she's not careful. Sometimes her memory gives me the strength to break the cycle of abuse I was born into. It's been well over a year since she disappeared, a year of hoping and praying she would call, write or email, a year of wondering if I could have stopped it, if I should have tried harder, a year of trying not to let my hatred for her mother get the best of me. It's been a long year. I miss her, I think of her, I have nightmares about her but most of all I pray for her and that someday she'll come home.