(or, Those In Need, Part II)
You have to let it go. Physically, emotionally, intellectually. To do otherwise is to deliberately torture yourself, an act of masochism on par with whipping one’s self with steel cables.
Because the glimpses of hope – aren’t. They are phantasms, glittering lies conjured forth by a master manipulator, a cunning yet supremely broken young woman.
When I agreed to take her on, I had visions of having fun. I had a list of all the thing we were going to do, never expecting that she’d take what I viewed as kindness and generosity and give back days of passive-aggressive behavior and one-word answers shrugged from beneath an impenetrable carapace of sullen hostility. Things didn’t start this way. The first few days were a close approximation of what I had imagined. There was woodworking. We built a table completely from scratch. She was beaming ear to ear at what we – mostly she, under my guidance with the power tools, accomplished. She emanated confidence that day. I taught her driving, my first experience in reaching over and grabbing the wheel before certain death. We watched MythBusters together after dark, giggling at the antics of Jamie and Adam.
But it changed.
The first cracks started showing when her mother wouldn’t take her back to the mall we had visited three times already. The sullen face came crashing down, the realization that for once, she wasn’t going to get exactly what she wanted at the exact moment she wanted it hit home and etched itself onto her face. Gradually over the next few days, her countenance became increasingly taciturn and withdrawn. She’d physically step away from me when I was near, pointedly sit catty-corner when we ate, give short, one-word answers devoid of eye contact, in a voice dripping with near-constant annoyance. Suggestions that we do something, anything other than sit in front of the television were met with long whines and glares, while the other sat with a look of what can only be described as “contented defeat” on her face.
“Defeat” is, in fact, probably the only sensible state anyone should be in, given what Vicky has gone through. A marriage to a man who turned out to be a cruel and tyrannical human being – a hedonistic physical, emotional, and sexual tormentor of children; a human not fit to care for a raptor, although such a pairing would certainly have leveled the playing field a bit. His actions inevitably resulted in the permanent and irreversible scarring of both the girls, but concentrated on the older of the two, leaving hurts deeper than years of counseling and love have thus far been able to remedy. Onna is better, in fact unaware of the worst of the abuses her sister endured, and thus “easier” – which translates into her getting her ways with far more ease than the generally unreasonable demands of her sister. If Onna doesn’t like veggies, fine – Vicky will jump in and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for her. The tactic of withholding love has been remarkably successful in her schemes to get her ways, and she wields this power with deadly precision.
The already not-insignificant burden of their poor health is a further obstacle to overcome. Onna and Vicky and no doubt the older child all tote freezer bags of various medications around; orange bottles holding the empty promise of a better life. Mood stabilizers and antidepressants, methylphenidate and various nephrotic potions and god knows what else. To pass judgement on whether all these are truly necessary is beyond my purview, but without a doubt Vicky’s other major health issue – her weight – is not being helped by her sedentary lifestyle and un-nutritious food choices. My solution – at least to that part of the problem – was simple and ineffective: don’t keep any junk food in the house. I cooked for them, healthy meals full of veggies and whole grains, fish and fruits, sans any sodas or sugary drinks. Their solution to my not keeping these things was to simply buy them at the store. I believe my attempt was the right thing to do, but surely it would be the height of hubris to presume to flip their entire food paradigm around in three weeks time – and their meager income probably would not allow it, anyway. And unfortunately, the conditions of their lives – particularly Vicky’s precarious mental state – have now resulted in state intervention. Men in suits and people with letters after their names now have the responsibility of deciding if Vicky is a fit mother for her child, and I am not hopeful at her prospects for keeping custody of Onna.
And I’m not certain that I should be hopeful.
I suppose, if I was honest, I’d have to admit that I didn’t know what I’d be able to do in eighteen days. That brief amount of time cannot possibly compensate for fourteen years of laissez-faire parenting and the damage done by one of the only major male figures in her life. I felt I could be some kind of surrogate big bother, but my failure as an Automatic Wish Dispenser seems to have relegated me to Minor Annoyance.
I wanted to show them love and kindness, which I believe I have, but the hardest thing is knowing that the effect it will have, if any, will remain an open question for a while.
Exit, stage left.
Sparks