Untethered (21 page)

C
har led Sarah to the family room and offered her coffee. “I put a pot on a few minutes ago. It should be done soon. Have you spoken to Dave? I was at your house earlier, but you were out. Do you know what's going on? Do you have more information about . . . I don't know . . . anything?”

“No coffee for me, thanks,” Sarah said. She put a hand on her stomach as though the idea of ingesting anything nauseated her. She didn't answer Char's other questions.

Char settled into one of the armchairs and regarded Sarah, who took the other. Char tried not to gape at the other woman, who had, in the two weeks since Char had seen her, morphed into an entirely different person. Gone was the upright posture, the hands held just so. For the first time Char could recall, Sarah wasn't inspecting her shirt for creases, pulling up her socks, dusting lint from her pants, straightening her shirt.

Sarah's oversized T-shirt was stained at the collar, and there was a small hole in the knee of her pants. Char could see the waistband of Sarah's pants and noticed another first for the woman: she wore
no cute belt, carefully chosen to match her shoes. She wore no makeup, either, and no jewelry other than her wedding band.

Her eyebrows, normally plucked into obedient parentheses, had been ignored for at least a few weeks, by Char's estimation. Which was, Char guessed, the amount of time Sarah hadn't been eating. Her wrists and collarbones were knobs and her face, once full, was sunken. No one would have described Sarah as angular before, or even thin. She had been like Char: padded. Now she was headed for emaciated.

The few minutes that Sarah had been in the house was the longest Char had seen her go without brushing hair from her forehead, tucking it behind one ear or the other, smoothing it at the back. And no wonder—the strands poking out of her careless ponytail were so greasy that even in her current mental state, however it could be described, there was no way Sarah would want to touch it.

Char thought about the shocking state of the Crews' house. She recalled the last time she had seen Sarah, the Monday after spring break, and how Sarah's makeup had looked like she'd applied it in the dark. Clearly, whatever was wrong had begun back then, and now Char was furious with herself for not pressing Sarah about it at the time. The woman had let Stevie make grime angels and splash his feet into a dirty puddle of water, for God's sake. Char never should have ignored such obvious clues.

“Sarah, are you ill?” she asked, putting a hand on the other woman's knee. “Is that what all of this is about? Is that why you sent Morgan to stay with your aunt and uncle? Is that why . . .” She stopped herself. There was no polite way to inquire about the changes in Sarah's appearance, the state of her home.

Sarah shook her head. “No, I'm not sick. Not physically, anyway. Mentally, I'm not sure . . .”

As Sarah struggled for words, Char walked to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. She added milk, took a sip, and winced. It was awful. But she didn't want to have to make coffee stops on the way, and she wanted to give Colleen a chance to get her message. She wouldn't force herself to finish the entire pot, she decided, but she would take the time to swallow two full cups, no matter how bad they tasted.

She walked back to the family room with her coffee. Sarah was still trying to finish her sentence, and Char tried to be patient. She had no idea why Sarah was here, and once she had finished her second cup, she was going to stop waiting to find out. She felt badly about that—she was worried about Sarah. But she was more worried about the girls.

“You talked to Allie,” Sarah said. “I heard you say so to Dave.”

“How could you have heard?” Char asked. “You were at the store.”

“No,” Sarah said. “He lied. I was upstairs, and our window was open. I was listening—”

“What? Why would he lie about that?”

“Did she say how Morgan is?” Sarah asked. “How she's feeling?”

“Why don't you answer my question first?”

But Sarah went on as though she hadn't heard. “Is she . . . ?” She let out a long, ragged breath. “I don't know what I'm asking. I want you to tell me that she's okay. That she's perfectly . . .” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with a hand. “Fine,” she continued. “That she's happy, even, now that she's with Allie. But of course you can't.”

“She didn't say,” Char said. “We didn't talk very long. But it sounds like you must have had some idea that Morgan wasn't happy. Did you? When you talked to her on the phone, did she mention
she didn't like it there? Did she say why? Did she give any hint that she was thinking of running away?”

Sarah didn't respond, and Char felt her patience fading. She drained her cup and stood. “Look, I'm really sorry for whatever's going on. You're clearly not yourself, and you obviously don't want to tell me why, or answer any of my questions. I wish I had time to sit here with you and figure out why, but I don't.”

She headed for the kitchen and her second cup of coffee. “So, let's just forget I asked,” she said as she walked away. “You don't have to tell me why your husband lied about the grocery store—”

“He didn't just lie about the grocery store!” Sarah cried. “He lied about Morgan!”

Char spun around and walked back to the family room. “How did he lie about Morgan?”

Sarah was sitting ramrod straight now, her body rigid, her hands clutched together. “She wasn't with my aunt and uncle! She was . . . she was with . . .” She interlaced her fingers as though in prayer and squeezed her hands together tightly, her forearms straining with the effort.

Char dropped into her chair, her legs unable to support the rest of her body. Her chest constricted and she pressed the heel of a hand against it, massaging. “She was with . . . ?” she asked.

Sarah, still pressing her hands together, rocked forward and back as though gathering steam to answer.

“Sarah. Honestly. I do not have time—”

“She was with strangers!” Sarah shrieked, and as she did, she brought both hands to her head as though trying to keep her skull from coming apart. “Everything she told Allie was true!”

Char leaned forward until her face was mere inches from the other woman's. “What are you telling me?”

“We gave her away!” Sarah cried.

“
You what?
What do you mean, you
gave her away
? Does Dave know?”

Sarah tilted her head, thrown off by the question, and Char lifted her hands dumbly. Of course Dave knew. He was the one, according to Allie, who drove Morgan to Toledo.

Char thought of the night the sheriff's department had called her about Bradley. She kept asking, “But what do you mean, he
didn't survive
?” as though there could be further explanation. Allie, too, had asked the nonsensical “But is he
all right
?”

“We gave her away,” Sarah said softly. And again, she said, “We gave her away,” as though she still couldn't believe it herself. “Saturday morning, the weekend after spring break. Twelve days”—she looked at the clock on the wall above the TV—“seven hours, and fifteen minutes ago.”

I
can't . . .” Char stuttered. “I'm not following. What does that even mean, you ‘gave her away'? How do you
give away a
child
? And why on earth would you do that to Morgan?”

“We didn't want to,” Sarah said. “But we didn't have a choice. You have to believe me. There was no other way—”

“No other way?” Char asked. “No other way to what? And what do you mean, you didn't have a choice? Under what circumstances could anyone think they had no other choice but to ship their own child off to—”

“We almost lost Stevie!” Sarah wailed, and Char scooted backward in her chair as though Sarah's voice had blown her there. Sarah pressed her hands onto her knees, her entire upper body taut, then sprang out of her chair as though she could no longer contain the energy inside her. She crossed to the wall of windows at the back of the family room and began to pace.

“Lost him?” Char asked, swiveling toward the windows and the
woman wearing a path in front of them. “What are you talking about?”

“She started using razor blades! She started cutting herself with razor blades! And one day over spring break, she thought her bedroom door was locked but it wasn't, and Stevie walked in on her, and he saw! The next day, he got hold of one of the blades and he tried to mimic what he'd seen her do. But he has that terrible fine motor control, you know, and he must have slipped, or pushed too hard, and—”

“Oh my God!” Char said, on her feet now, too. “Wait, did you say spring break? So, he's okay, then, because I saw him after that. That's why he had a bandage on his arm.” She put a hand on her chest and let out a relieved breath. “Thank God he's okay.”

“This time!” Sarah said, still pacing, her arms gesticulating wildly. “And not completely okay. He has nerve damage. Two of his fingers aren't working! They're not sure how long that will last. It could be—”

“This time
?
”
Char asked. “But I can't believe he'd ever do it again. He only did it to copy her, you said so. Not because he wanted the release she gets. All that's in it for him is a lot of pain. I'm sure he'd never go near another—”

“But what if he does?” Sarah said. “Don't you see? He copies everything she does! As long as she's in the house, and cutting, there's a chance he'll see her doing it again. And he'll copy her again! And who knows what might happen! Sending her away was the only choice we had!”

“But she loves him so much!” Char said. “She must feel terrible about this. Enough to stop it herself. There's nothing she wouldn't do for him.”

“She won't! She can't!”

“Why can't you just keep razor blades out of the house?”

“Don't you think we thought of that?” Sarah said. “We got rid of all the blades a long time ago. It's the first thing we did. We locked up the knives and the scissors, too. She stole a pack from the store near our house, and she hid them in her room. She can't help herself!”

“Maybe not
immediately
,” Char said, “but I'm sure she'll keep trying—”

Sarah stopped pacing and looked at Char. “That's what I said, but . . .” She pressed her lips together.

“But what?” Char demanded.

“But Dave said we couldn't wait! We couldn't risk it! We couldn't sit back and wait to see how much more damage she caused! Our son may have lost the use of two fingers! A boy who already has enough challenges may now not be able to use two of his fingers!

“And if we hadn't found him in time, who knows what would have happened! Who knows how close we were to losing him! We couldn't take the chance that this might happen again—this, or something worse! We've already given her so much time. And the counseling. All of the private sessions and the group ones, and the family therapy and the play therapy, and all of it. We've spent so much—”

“This is about
money
?” Char spat.

“Of course it's not about money!” Sarah thrust her hands in the air and Char readied herself for another pacing rant. But after a moment, Sarah let her arms fall, walked back to her chair, and dropped into it, out of energy. “But I've told you how hard it's been for my husband,” she said. “All the extra hours he's been working. He's
exhausted all the time. And the stress. The bickering. All the time away from his family, from his son.

“And then this happens? He can't do it anymore. He can't live like that anymore. Not when she's getting worse instead of better. It was hard enough for him when all of Morgan's issues started getting in the way of us giving Stevie the help he needs. He might not catch up in time for kindergarten now because we've been so fixated on her that we've been neglecting him. It was killing Dave to know that, and he was willing to stick with it anyway. To stick with her. But now, when she's putting our son in danger? He can't do it anymore. And I can't do it without him.”

“What does that mean?” Char asked. “Why would you have to—”

“He said it was Morgan or him,” Sarah said, her voice barely above a whisper now. “And if I chose her, what kind of life would that be? For her or my son? I couldn't give them both what they needed when I had a husband there to help me. You think I could do it as a single mother? You think that would be good for either of them, not having a father? At least this way, they both have a complete set of parents.”

“No,” Char said. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She didn't want to believe she was hearing it. “No. No, no, no.” She flopped back down in her chair and put her elbows on her knees, her head in her palms.

Sarah leaned toward Char, her arms extended, pleading. “You have to know that we didn't want to give up on her! She's our daughter! We love her! We would have done anything to keep her! But Stevie. Our baby . . .” She choked.

“We wanted to save her. Both of us wanted that, Dave as much as me. We wanted to help her. To give her a better life. But we couldn't do that and keep our son safe at the same time. So Dave
made a choice, and he chose our son. And I made a choice, too. I chose my marriage.”

Char moved a hand from her forehead to her stomach. It was sickening, what she had just heard. The choice Dave Crew had forced his wife to make. The choice Sarah Crew had made.

“And so you sent her . . .” Char began, wanting to hear every detail and at the very same time wanting desperately to hear nothing more. It was too much, all of it, and the thought occurred to her that if she didn't let Sarah say another word, maybe it would all somehow undo itself and stop being true.

“We found this wonderful couple in Ohio,” Sarah said. “On the Internet. There are these websites where you can go if you have an adopted child who's not . . . working out with your family. A lot of people out there are willing to take in troubled kids. Maybe they were foster parents for a while and they miss it, or their own kids had issues and they've seen it all, and they're willing to step in and help.

“You can meet up with people like that on these websites. You post a picture of your child, and you post information about them—their age, their name, the things they like to do. The things they're having difficulties with. The reason you're having troubles with them. And then people can look at the picture and read what you wrote, and get a feeling for what the child is like, what kind of care they need.

“If they're interested, they contact you, by e-mail or phone or however you arrange it. You can ask questions about them and they can ask you about the child, and you can both figure out if it seems like a good match. If they're the kind of people she could be happy with. If they seem like they're equipped to deal with the issues long term, so she never has to be moved again. If they are,
you write a letter—a power of attorney—giving them authority to look after her, to take her for medical treatment, enroll her in school. Everything a parent would do.”

“You handed Morgan over with nothing more than a letter?” Char said. “What if someone finds out? What if—?”

“It's perfectly legal,” Sarah said. “People look after each other's children all the time. They take in their nieces or nephews while the parents are in jail or can't look after them anymore. It's nothing new.

“It's exactly what you've been doing for Lindy since January. Looking after Allie for her. You might even keep her for the rest of high school. And no one questions that, right? Lindy just has to agree to it. Maybe you wouldn't need a letter from her since Allie's doctors know you already, and her school does, too. But if you did need a letter, she could give you one, and that would give you all the authority you need to raise Allie. It's no different.”

“It's completely different!” Char said. “I
know
Allie!”

“We didn't know what else to do!” Sarah said. “We were desperate. And we found a website, and it seemed like the perfect solution. So we put up a photo, and we described Morgan. We said she was this . . .” She choked on her words, composed herself, and tried again. “We said she was this incredibly thoughtful, generous little girl. Loyal, devoted. A great weaver of stories.

“We warned about the cutting, that it had gone from bruises and scratches to scissors to a razor blade. We said she needs way more attention than a family with a special-needs younger child can give. That she would be better off without any other children in the house to compete with for attention.

“We had a dozen responses by the next evening,” she said, and Char saw a flash of pride in Sarah's eyes. “People couldn't resist the
cute little . . .” She put a hand on her throat as though she had to coax the words out. “They couldn't resist her. No one ever can.” She paused, and seemed to be waiting for Char to nod or speak her agreement about Morgan's irresistible nature.

Char, horrified into paralysis, was unable to do either.

“We spent a few days reading the responses,” Sarah continued. “We went over and over the e-mails people sent us. We spent hours writing back to the ones we felt were the best potential matches, asking them questions, answering their questions about Morgan. We had them send us pictures of their homes, proof that they were employed. We asked about their experience with children who have a history of neglect, who self-harm.

“We asked how much time they would spend with her every day, whether she would be the only child. We asked about their education level, whether they were churchgoers. Their discipline methods. We narrowed it down to two couples: one in Georgia and one in Ohio. Ohio's closer, of course, and we had this thought that maybe one day we could see her again.

“She could see Stevie. If she stopped cutting, she could even come back and spend a weekend, maybe. So we chose the people who were closer. We talked to them over the phone four times, for almost an hour each time, and they sounded so perfect. We could picture her being happy with them. Getting better. Having the life she deserves. So we . . .”

Sarah closed her eyes. When she spoke again, she kept them closed, and it was as if she were narrating a movie that was playing in her head. Her voice dropped to a whisper and she talked at twice her regular pace, like she was trying to get it over with as fast as possible.

“I packed up her clothes, and her favorite toys. Some pictures of
our family. Dave put it all in the trunk while she was sleeping, and in the morning, he told her we were going for a drive. But when it came time to leave, I couldn't. I couldn't bear it. I knew that if I went, I wouldn't be able to go through with it. So I stayed home and I kept Stevie with me.

“Dave drove her. He drove her down there, and he met the couple, and he went inside and checked out the house and made sure it was all how they had described it to us. And he told Morgan, ‘This is your new family. They're going to love you like we do. They're going to take care of you.'

“And he told her we were sorry. We were so, so sorry, but this would be a better place for her. She would be happier there, get more attention. He tried to hug her but she stepped away, and that . . . well, it broke his heart. So he ran to his car and jumped in and he drove home as fast as he could. He cried the entire time.”

Char stared at Sarah, her mouth open. Hearing the entire story hadn't cleared up anything. There were a lot more facts in her head now, but she was no less confused by what the Crews had done. No less stunned. No less horrified. She couldn't move, she couldn't speak, she couldn't think.

“I'm . . . I don't . . . You're telling me that
you gave Morgan away
?
Over the Internet?
”

“I know you must—” Sarah started.

Char sprang from her chair, sending her coffee cup flying. She heard it crash against the coffee table as she raced to the kitchen counter for her keys, purse, and phone. She spun to face Sarah and pointed to the front door. “I need you to leave, so I can lock up.”