Chapter 11
Faint television laughter drifted on the cool, night air from neighboring homes. Sharon wondered, underneath this mirth, if other parents on the Brewsters’ cul-de-sac abused their children. Just how prevalent was the silent suffering of children in our society?
Squatting on the sidewalk, she peeked between the branches of a chokeberry bush, then began rising.
Laif held her down by the shoulder. He whispered loudly, “We can’t just stroll into the house and take custody of Cindy. I know that’s what you social workers are used to doing, but this isn’t that simple.”
There was no moon, but there was one bright yellow-orange street lamp behind him, silhouetting his body. “I still think I should notify the county social worker.”
“It’s Saturday night,” he countered. “Even if you got a hold of her, she’d have you put away. Shadow and light coming from people’s bodies?”
She nodded. She wasn’t used to his strange world.
“Besides, I’ll bet the Brewsters already got to the county worker.”
The sound of the cicadas grew in the bushes around them, drowning the television laughter.
“What do you mean?”
“Got her psychically into a lie.”
“They can do that?”
“Three questions if you can answer in the affirmative will arm you against lies. Am I good? Am I strong? Am I worthy?”
“I don’t know,” she said playing with him. “Are you?”
A dog began barking several houses down.
He directed, “Let’s focus on Cindy right now. We need her to help us help her. Otherwise it’s all for nothing. They’ll use her old hurt to sway her to stay with them.”
“She doesn’t like them. She told me so.” A cold breeze snuck up from behind them, caressing Sharon's shoulders and making her shiver.
“Easy to say when fear runs high. But she has lived with these people her whole life. They are her parents—the only love she has known. There’s a part of her that will always seek for them to care, no matter what they have done. Paradoxically, because they have hurt her, this increases a sick bond to them. Bits of this hurt erupt out from her defenses, causing neediness and dependence on them. She perceives them as having the power to stop the hurt. After all, they initiated it. And as they do stop it, her positive feelings for them grow. It’s a condition akin to Stockholm Syndrome, in which prisoners begin to identify with their captors.”
“I know what Stockholm’s syndrome is,” she stated, irritated. But she did like how eloquently he explained the condition, like nothing she had ever read in a textbook. “What can we do?”
“We need to talk with Cindy alone. She trusts you, and we can use that as a road in.”
She recalled that it was impossible to talk to Cindy alone at her grandparents’ house. Her parents would no doubt be more resistant. And after the park incident, they certainly wouldn’t let Laif anywhere near her. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
The living room light went off ... then the kitchen light.
She inferred, “Looks like they’re going to bed.”
“Cindy’s window is open. All we have to do is pry the screen off and climb in.”
Sharon scrutinized the dark outline of his face. She could lose her job if they were caught. “That’s breaking and entering.”
“No one said fighting evil was all pretty.”
She considered his words. Working as a social worker, she had always tried to follow the law. It was mostly right to do that. No one could point a finger at her and tell her she was doing wrong, except for when she became overinvolved in this case. It was very important for her to conduct her life in the right way, and to be morally correct.
Thoughts of her younger sister threatened to overtake her now. She would have broken the law without a second thought if it could have saved Marlene.
Helping Cindy was right.
In a dimly lit room, which was probably the Brewsters’ bedroom, a shadowy figure seemed to not walk but float by the window. Sharon hunched closer to the chokeberry bush, despite the unlikely possibility of being spotted.
“We have no other choice.”
She offered, “I made an appointment yesterday for Monday at ten in the morning at the Pomona DCFS office. We can talk to her then.”
“We can’t wait any longer. Let’s move before they get into bed and any noises we make become amplified in the silence.”
She followed him across the neglected lawn, its long, dry blades of grass slicing at her ankles.
***
Cindy lay on her bed, trying to ignore the aches in her muscles and joints from squatting on her knees and scrubbing the bathroom for hours.
She was to blame for her mother’s anger. Mom wasn’t always nice, but when she got really upset, it was usually because Cindy did something wrong.
A click came from the window. Then silence.
Yellow-orange light from the street lamp was beaming through a crack in the curtains. Mom allowed that outside light in because she knew Cindy was afraid of the dark. Mom did care about her.
A creak came from her window.
Cindy looked at the curtains but saw nothing. She wished Adriana were here—minus the scary crutches of course. Having a friend to sleep with was nice. It had been only one day since leaving the foster home, but Cindy already missed her friend’s kind presence. She missed swinging high on the tire-swing, laughing with the amazing girl with one leg, so happy about life despite having so much loss. That girl gave Cindy something Cindy couldn’t describe that was vital.
She glanced at the wooden box on her nightstand, afraid of staring too long, not wanting to tempt anything inside to burst out. She wondered where the Black man had gotten it.
Maybe he didn’t know what was inside either. Maybe he gave it to her expecting her to never open it.
It rested motionless on the nightstand.
She cried softly in her bed, her mind racing for explanations of her mother’s anger. One image that stuck was of the man at the park. Cindy had tried to stop Dad from kicking the man. Surely they were angry she took his side over theirs. They must have thought that she didn’t love them, that foster care had spoiled her, and that she believed she had found better love from outside their home. She should have never given them reason to doubt her. She was to blame.
Angry at herself, she pulled her hair until she felt tingles of pain at the roots.
Another creak came from the window. A breeze billowed the curtains for a moment, yellow-orange light bursting through. The folds settled back around the form of a man. He was bent over, getting something from the outside.
Cindy’s chest shook with fear.
Who was coming into her room so late at night?
Was it a new form of punishment? Had Mom and Dad made one of their friends do this to scare her? She should have never been a bad girl. But what if it were a total stranger? Her parents would want her to scream then. Maybe she should scream. He may want to kill them all and steal money and the small gold-plated clock in their living room.
Someone else formed along the curtains, a leg first … then a butt, lower back … shoulders and a head—a shorter person than the man.
The yellow-orange light brightened the entire room.
Cindy pulled the bed covers up to her eyes.
The two intruders whispered among themselves, probably planning their assault.
She thought of hiding under her bed, but what if goblins lived there? Childish thought, yes, but she had always been afraid of things like that. Hiding in her closet was just as bad. Mom had once locked her in there for hours, and she had been terrified. Her bed was the safest place she had ever known in this house—wait, that wasn’t true…. She didn’t know why, but she just knew it was not true. Something had happened in her bed, something unspeakable. Now she was really terrified. She began breathing faster.
She had nowhere to go.
She held the covers tightly over herself, trembling, wondering if these people liked to break children’s bones.
They were through the curtains now.
If they were just robbers, she should be still. That way they might think she was asleep. Then they might ignore her and take whatever they came for. Cindy stopped breathing, but she couldn’t stop her tremors. She closed her eyes all the way to thin slits, barely seeing through them.
They stepped to the right side of her bed, the side closest to the window. She shut her eyes completely. One of them whispered, “Cindy … Cindy.”
They knew who she was. How? She pinched her eyelids tightly together.
“Cindy,” a woman said louder.
She risked saying, “Go away.”
“We’ve come to talk—”
“Leave me alone,” she said shakily.
“—about your parents.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Cindy. It’s Sharon. Your social worker.”
She hesitated. It could be a lie. “Sharon?”
“Yes.”
She waited a moment, then opened her eyes. The man was holding a lighter in his hand with a dancing flame. It was the same man from the park who had been fighting with Dad. If her parents knew she was talking to this man, they would cut her head off. “You have to leave.”
“But Cindy, we came to talk with you.”
“My parents don’t like you. They wouldn’t want you here.”
Sharon knelt beside the bed. “I know what’s going on and so does Laif. We’ve come to help.”
“You can help by going away.”
“Please, Cindy. We know how badly your parents treat you.”
“I deserve it.”
“You do not! Don’t ever say that. Do you hear me?”
“I’m not good.”
“Laif, do your thing with the light. Show her the truth.”
Cindy looked at the man. He was holding a lighter. But what was he going to do with it? She scooted away.
The man called Laif turned to Sharon with a torn expression. “I can’t with her. She’s innocent.”
Sharon appeared as though she were going to gouge Laif’s eyes out and sob at the same instant. She turned back to Cindy. “Listen to me. You are innocent. It’s your parents who are guilty. They are the ones who aren’t treating you well. If they were, you would never feel the way you do about yourself. Remember when you knew at the parent-visit Thursday that they were evil, and you told me you didn’t want to go back with them. Why do you think you said that?”
“They made me go back, Sharon. You promised they wouldn’t.” Cindy started to cry. “Why did you lie? I thought you cared.”
Sharon protested, “I do—”
Footsteps came from the hallway, coming closer, and Laif let the flame vanish as he and Sharon dropped to the floor.
The bedroom door swung open, and the hall light shed a path to the bed. Mom followed it. “Cindy … you’re crying.”
She wiped the wet trails on her cheeks. She tried not shaking, but Mom was so close to Sharon and Laif that it was nerve-racking. Cindy would be in so much trouble if they were caught in her room.
Mom sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry I had to be rough with you tonight. It’s just sometimes you need discipline growing into a young woman. You have to believe I have your best interests at heart.” She gave a cold peck on Cindy’s cheek, turned, and left, closing the door.
Cindy heard a grinding snap, and the lighter ignited in Laif’s hand.
She waited until her mother’s footsteps faded away. “Please go. Now.”
“But your mother is lying—”
“Please. She’s in a good mood. If you leave, things will be better.”
“But we need to talk, just for a bit.”
“I’m going to get into trouble. Don’t make me bad again. I can’t take it anymore. Please leave. Right now. Please—”
“Cindy, stop. You need to listen.”
“You don’t understand. Please, please, please. I haven’t done anything wrong to you. Please do as I say.”
“Come with us,” Laif offered.
Cindy considered that for a moment. It would be nice not to be yelled at or slapped anymore. Laif seemed nice, and she knew Sharon was caring when not lying, but after running away with them, Cindy would be placed back into foster care, and then her parents would eventually get her back. But this time, they would be really angry. Sharon betrayed Cindy before, and she might do it again.
Although Cindy had no intention of following her words, she threatened, “I’ll scream.”
Laif and Sharon backed up.
“Just leave.”
“We’ll see you soon.” The lighter went off.
She breathed a sigh of relief as they disappeared through the curtains.