Untethered (7 page)

“Your mom's name is Nancy,” Allie said. “That's pretty.”

“And
she's
real pretty,” Morgan said.

“She sure is,” Allie said, and Char and Bradley murmured their agreement.

“She tried really hard to get me back,” Morgan said. “She still wants to get me. She probably just needs to save a little more money, and then she can ask the court to send me. Or she might even come and pick me up. I think she should come, because then she could meet Stevie.”

Allie looked over Morgan's head to Char and Bradley. Bradley shook his head almost imperceptibly and Char put a finger over her lips. Allie squinted, and her top teeth took hold of her bottom lip. Turning back to Morgan and the book, she said, “Yeah, she's really pretty, Morgan. Same as you.”

“She doesn't have the same voice as me, though,” Morgan said. “Hers isn't so scratchy.”

She closed her eyes briefly, and Char wondered if she could call up her mother's voice. How many memories did you have of life before the age of four? Would Morgan remember being left alone? Walking blocks away from home on her own? Taking things from the gas station, hiding them from her mother, doling them out? Would she remember being taken away?

Char remembered hearing friends say they would never take a child younger than five to Disney World, because no child that small would ever remember, and it wasn't worth such an expense for a trip that would be forgotten. She hoped it was true, for Morgan's sake.

“I love your voice,” Allie said. “It's unique.”

“It's fun to be a little different,” Bradley added.

Morgan turned the page without answering, and Char whispered, “Okay,” to her husband and stepdaughter. Morgan's physique made her seem younger than her actual age, and she had an unrealistic fantasy about a reunion with her mother, but nothing else about her indicated naïveté. They needed to scale down a little on the “You're! So! Awesome!”

“Did you draw that?” Char asked, pointing to the page Morgan was waiting to tell them about. It contained not a photograph, but a child's drawing of a woman and a cat. Underneath, someone had printed, “Morgan's neighbor, Mrs. Eagen—and Sunshine, the kitten.”

“This is Mrs. Eagen,” Morgan said. “And Sunshine,” and again, Char wondered about the memory of a child, and especially one who had gone through so much trauma. Did Morgan really remember the names of the neighbor and the cat, or was she simply reading the caption?

“I got to feed her every day,” Morgan said. “This really smelly food, out of a can. And sometimes tuna on top. And I cleaned out her litter box. And once, I tried to give her a bath, but she didn't like that, so I never did it again.”

“Mrs. Eagen?” Bradley asked, feigning shock.

Morgan let out a throaty chortle and fell across Bradley's lap. “Nooooooo! Sunshine!”

Bradley put a hand on the child's back, which rose and fell with her laughter. “Ohhhhhh,” he said.

Char and Allie exchanged pained glances at Bradley's attempt to be funny while Morgan, still lying across his knees, barked, “Mrs. Eagen!” and broke into another fit of raspy giggles.

“You two,” Char said.

“You're both nuts,” Allie added. “Can we see the rest, Morgan? Or are you going to be laughing for the rest of the night at the world's lamest comedian?”

“I like you, Morgan,” Bradley said, tapping her shoulder. “It's nice to be around someone who appreciates my humor. You should come over every day.”

Morgan managed to calm herself down, sit upright, and turn to the next page in the book. “This is me and my foster family.” She pointed to a photograph of a family of four, sitting at a picnic table. Morgan stood next to the dad, who had an arm around her. “They were my third family, actually. But I didn't stay with the first two long enough to get a picture.”

She told them a few things about the first three families, then turned eight more pages and pointed to eight more foster families—eleven in total, according to her count. She had tales to go with most of the groups of people, but there were a few pictures that didn't seem to bring back any memories. Some of the pages gave the family members' names under the photos, while some simply listed “Gray Family—Morgan, 5,” and others listed only a year. In pencil, Morgan had written names beside each person, but Char noticed eraser marks where the girl had corrected herself, sometimes once, sometimes more. Char tried to imagine the reality of not remembering the names of the people you shared a house with in second grade.

“It almost looks like a palm tree there, in the background,” Allie said about the final photo.

Char peered more closely. It wasn't a palm, but before she could say as much, Morgan said, “That's because it's Florida.”

“You lived in Florida right before you got adopted?” Allie asked. “How'd you get down there?”

“It's where my mom and I lived when I was a baby. It's where she still is, so that's where I'll go when it's time to go back with her.”

“You need a picture of your family now,” Allie said, waving at the blank pages that followed the eleventh foster family.

“I only put the picture in when I'm leaving,” Morgan said.

“Oh, well then, I guess the book's done,” Allie said.

At the same time, Morgan said, “But I have one ready, for when I need it.”

•   •   •

T
hat night, when Char and Bradley were getting into bed, he said the thing she had been thinking for the past few hours but hadn't dared say out loud in case it caused him anguish: no wonder Allie and Morgan had bonded so tightly, so quickly—both of them had been abandoned by their birth mothers.

Allie had Char now, of course, and Morgan had Sarah. But as Bradley and Char and Sarah and Dave had all seen, there was something inimitable about a child's birth mother. Whether she still made rare appearances like Lindy, or had fled the scene like Nancy, for some children, and certainly for these two girls, she was a daily presence. A daily source of reunion fantasies. And, inevitably, a daily source of pain.

C
har carried a pot of tea and three cups into the family room. Colleen and Lindy made faces and poured themselves more wine, but Char wanted to be clearheaded when Sarah returned, so she ignored her wineglass and sipped her tea. She made her best attempt at normal conversation, but twice Colleen nudged her, whispered, “Is everything okay?” and offered to clear the others out of the house so Char could grieve alone.

Char felt guilty for letting Colleen think her odd behavior was about Bradley. Thankfully, the three girls tore down the stairs and poured into the family room, shrieking and laughing loudly enough that the women abandoned their discussion, giving Char a reprieve from having to sound engaged.

“They're going to put makeup on me!” Morgan beamed. Her eyes rested on Char long enough to send the message
I've put our upstairs encounter behind us. Please don't ruin it for me.

Char dipped her chin and raised it. “Why don't you carry a barstool up to the bathroom?” she suggested. “It would make a good beauty parlor chair.”

Morgan smiled gratefully and ran to the counter, lifting a stool. Allie took it from her and the three girls clomped up the stairs.

Before the women could resume their discussion, Sarah was back, Stevie at her side. After the requisite high five and concomitant broken-bone inspection, Char, her heart racing, called the girls down and asked them to take the little boy upstairs so Sarah could spend a few minutes alone with the adults.

“Oh,” Sarah said, after hearing what the girls were up to, “I hate to force him on them. Morgan's so excited about having her makeup done by the big girls. He'll only get in the way. He can stay with me.”

“It's okay,” Morgan said. “He can watch.”

“That's nice of you, sweetie, but he probably won't want to sit and watch,” Sarah said. “You know your brother. He'll want to get into it all, and . . .”

Morgan shrugged. “Then he can help.” She motioned for Stevie to follow. He did, but turned to look at his mother for confirmation as he went.

“If you're sure,” she said to Morgan.

“I've never had to talk one of my kids
out of
including the other,” Colleen said, when the children had gone upstairs. “Talk them out of torturing each other, sure.”

It was an unfortunate segue. “Could I ask you something, Sarah?” Char said. “In private? Maybe we could step into Bradley's office for a minute?”

It wasn't abuse, Sarah swore to Char. It was self-harm. Sarah could give Char the number for Morgan's therapist, if Char didn't believe her. Char hesitated, but she took down the man's name and number.

“Has she been doing this the entire time she's been with you?” Char asked.

Sarah shook her head. “It only started a few months ago. A little before the holidays. That's why we started taking her to therapy.”

“Has she given any indication why she does it?” Char asked.

“Sometimes there's a specific reason,” Sarah said. “A mistake she's made. Like today, with the wine. Things like that make her so upset with herself these days. They never used to. Not like this. She'd get quiet, maybe shut herself in her room for a while, but that's as far as it would go.”

“Maybe I shouldn't have let her go upstairs on her own,” Char said.

“You can't prevent it through supervision,” Sarah said. “Or by asking her to stop, or ordering her, or even begging.”

“So what do you do about it?” Char asked.

“We wait,” Sarah said. “And hope, and pray. And keep her in therapy, of course. But this isn't something you can make someone stop doing. It's got to come from her. The therapist says she might be doing it as a way to deal with her feelings about being neglected by her mom and then being passed around to all those foster families.

“That's why a lot of kids self-harm. It's easier for them to deal with the physical pain from a bruise than the emotional pain from abuse or neglect or . . . whatever. And when they can cause the pain themselves, that lets them feel like they're in control. Which might be really important to someone like Morgan, who's never had control over her life. Where she's living or who she's living with or where she's going to school or anything.”

“That poor child,” Char said. “And how sad that she's started this now, when she has more control than ever about where she'll be living.”

Sarah sighed. “I know. It would be so nice if the adoption had given her a complete reset on her life. But of course, there's still all the hurt inside her from everything that happened before she came to us. And now . . .” Sarah looked away, and when she turned back to Char, her eyes were shining.

“Now there's everything she's going through with us. All the changes with Stevie, all the stress. We're always running around to his next appointment, working with him on his exercises, worrying about what's going to happen with him when he's old enough to go to school.

“She loves him so much. Maybe all the worry about him is affecting her. Making her feel even more upset. Less in control. Sometimes I wonder if that's the final thing that pushed her over the edge and made her start the bruising. If
we
were the final straw for her. Sometimes I think this is our fault.”

“Oh, Sarah,” Char said, reaching for the other woman's hand. “I think you're being way too hard on yourself. Have you discussed it with Morgan's therapist? Because I'm sure he'd disagree—”

“He can't say it's
not
the cause,” Sarah said. “And we've definitely talked about it more than we should in front of the kids. The cost of Stevie's therapies. Whether he'll catch up in time. We've argued about it, too, and maybe that's making her anxious.

“Maybe she's worried we'll get divorced, and neither of us will take her. Maybe she feels bad that she's not getting enough attention, since we're always so focused on him. Maybe she even thinks it's her fault that he's having issues in the first place. She would hate herself if she thought she'd done this to him somehow.

“She doesn't ever seem to hurt herself when she makes a mistake that only affects her. If she does badly on a test, or forgets to do her homework, it doesn't seem to bother her. But something like
today—spilling wine on your carpet, breaking a glass—that's the kind of thing that gets to her.

“We've told her that Stevie's problems have nothing to do with her, and she says she understands that, but I'm not sure if she really does. That's the thing—it's impossible to know what she's feeling or thinking. She doesn't know herself. So it's impossible to know why she's doing it, and what it will take to get her to stop.”

“And it sounds like that's what your therapist is saying,” Char said. “That you can't know for sure why she's doing it. Which means you can't know for sure that she's doing it because of you. You adopted her. You've given her a home and a family. And now you're getting her therapy. You're doing a lot. I think you need to give yourself some credit.”

“Dave gets the credit,” Sarah said. “It's costing him an entire day's take-home pay for each therapy session. We've done individual therapy, group therapy, play therapy, family therapy. None of it's covered by insurance. And none of it has made a difference.

“My husband works all the time and doesn't get to see his family, all for therapy that so far doesn't seem to be helping. It's exhausting for him. And discouraging. But all he has to do is look at that child's body and his hand shoots up immediately the next time his garage manager asks who's available for overtime.” Char thought of sweet Morgan, her pale, freckled skin covered in bruises. It was an image that would never leave her. She could see how such a sight could drive Dave Crew to do whatever it took to provide her with help, no matter the cost.

“I don't know if you'd call this a silver lining, exactly,” Sarah said, “but one thing the therapist mentioned is that there are a lot of kids with Morgan's background who hurt everyone around them. They feel bad about themselves and they take it out on other
people. Bullying kids at school, picking on siblings. Hurting pets. Breaking things. Setting fires.”

“My God,” Char said.

“I know,” Sarah said. “It's awful. I told Dave we should feel blessed. Because as upsetting as this has been, I can't imagine how awful it would be if we had to worry about Stevie, and whether she was going to hurt him.”

“Never,” Char said. “Not Morgan.”

She thought of how welcoming Morgan had been to Stevie just moments earlier. And the many times Morgan had burst out of the tutoring room doors when the session was over, running straight to her brother to hug him. “Up!” he would say, and Morgan would struggle to lift him and spin him around, both of them giggling, until Sarah finally told them to quit it before they both fell down.

When it was time to go home, Morgan was always the one to buckle the little boy into his car seat, chatting sweetly to him as she adjusted the straps, clicked him into place, and kissed him on the forehead. “See you later, alligator!” she'd say, and Stevie would laugh and yell, “Gate!” as Morgan closed his door and ran around to her side of the car. Jumping in, she'd yell, “It's later!” and he would giggle again, clap twice, and say, “Late!”

Of all the routines she had created for her brother, that one was his favorite, Morgan had told Char and Allie. No matter how tired she seemed after a long day of school and tutoring, she made sure to revitalize herself by the time they got to the parking lot, and enacted the scene with the kind of high-energy level at which Stevie liked to function. If she ever tired of it, she never let on.

It wasn't surprising to Char to hear that the thoughtful little ten-year-old was sparing her brother from whatever troubling emotions she was dealing with, and was taking it out on herself instead.
Despite how little love and affection and attention she had been given in the first eight and a half years of her life, she had found it in herself to give those things, in abundance, to Stevie. It seemed she had decided to offer him everything that was good in her, and to protect him from everything that was bad.