Guest Blogger

Tofer wrote this....

AS IT HAPPENED

“Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she said.  Her hair was up in two pigtails, one on each side of her pretty head like sprigs of flowers popping through the warm ground in spring.  Her dark eyes were bright, reflecting the thousands of lights that I, my son, and my daughter put up weeks ago in case she did, in fact, leave us before Christmas.  The lights were bright, some white, some colorful, some small, some large.  They shone their differences in her eyes, changing as she moved her head about.

“Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh,” she said again, removing the bottle of milk from her mouth, a rarity in and of itself since the months she changed our home.  She was taken by the beauty, the sparkle, the brightness, the joy of the lights we put up for her.  She had no idea what was happening.  I was glad she didn’t know.  For a second I thought of running off in the woods.  No one would find us.  At least for awhile.

Her little fingers reached up to the lights, stretching outward.  She was trying to reach the lights, but more reaching for what the lights meant.  Once again I heard, “Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh.”  I started to cry.  These are the last words I remember hearing her say.  These are the last words I chose to hear her say.  All other words are useless.

The black van sat in the driveway.  Dark.  Cold.  It smelled of food.  I looked in and saw enough McDonald’s cheeseburger wrappers that led me to believe that a National Football League team was fed on the one hour and fifteen minute drive between Snow Hill and our house.  Disgusting.  I walked her to the van and placed her in the van.  Her dark, trusting eyes looked up at me as I strapped her in the carseat and I saw reflections of the Christmas lights.  I find it amazing I could see those reflections because my eyes were so water-filled that I could hardly see her pigtails inches in front of me.  She said something, but all I heard was “Ooooohhhhhhhhhh.”  That’s all I wanted to hear.  That’s all I will accept to hear.

Rewind to a few hours before.

It was the first Monday in December of 2011.  It was warm.  It was cold.  I don’t remember.  I don’t care.  It was warm and perfect when she was there.  All else doesn’t matter.  Regardless, all was right.  Missi got the call.  The judge in all his infinite wisdom decided to send her back to her biological father.  The same father that beat her mother, took drugs, and tested positive for drugs three weeks before this day.   I took the call while working in North Raleigh.  I was stunned.  I sat in a Contractor’s truck smelling of diesel, sweat, and wood crying.  I was lost.  But I had to find. 

I came home.  I saw Missi and saw despair.  It’s hard to see despair in person, kinda like walking up on an accident and knowing the driver, trapped and slowing dying inside the tangled wreckage.  I tried but could not help.  I was useless. 

I looked at her, so beautiful, curious, innocent, and pig-tailed.  Wow.  She took my breath away.  Beauty at it’s purest.  Not knowing she was given a sentence of death from this home, this life, this love.  She toddled, walked, skipped, and smiled for all of us.  Family was gathered, both blood and spiritual.  It was warm.  It was cold.  It was final.

I started packing, just like Missi and I had planned in case this day came.  I actually choked the vomit from my throat several times as I bent down to get her books, toys, and clothes that we were sure we would send with her.  We knew she was going back to limited resources so we decided to help.  Help her.

The piles of her stuff started to grow.  I was happy.  I knew she would have warmth, love, and smiles in all we sent.  I made sure NOTHING was packed in garbage bags.  Her stuff was not garbage, neither was she.  I never wanted to send her that message.  So I took care to pack her things in suitcase, luggage, and things of that source.  I packed.  She played.  People cried.  She never knew.

Fast Forward to Now. 

We were told the social worker would pick her up at 5:15.  That time came and went.  We were alone now.  Family and friends had left.  They didn’t want to be here to see her drive off. I don’t blame them.  I didn’t want to be here either.  The pastor said goodbye and cried.  My in-laws said goodbye and cried.  But then my daughter said goodbye.  Oh my God.  As the van of my ex pulled out, my daughter had her head out of the window shouting a combination of ‘goodbye’ and ‘I love you’.  I spent several minutes looking for my heart in the grass because it was pulled out of my chest.  Ana’s tears glistened in the Christmas lights.  Ana’s tears almost extinguished the Christmas lights.  Then it was quiet.  It was me, Missi, and her.  Quiet.  Bright.  Solemn.  I realized then it was like sending my child to the gas chamber.  At 5:15 she would be gone.  Forever.  Just a memory.  Done.  I choked back the vomit.

I paced back and forth.  I tried to engage with her, but it hurt so much.  I finally realized if I picked her up, she was one with me, and we were good.  Then, I saw the lights at the end of the cul-de-sac.  Demonic.  Infinite.  It is finished.  They are here for her. 

I gave her to Missi.  I had man-stuff to do.  The social worker approached the house and I hoped Bella would scare her off.  Didn’t work.  Bella went in the crate.  Perhaps Bella knew what was about to happen.  Regardless, here was reality and reality included pain.  Deep pain.

I gave the social worker orders to install the car seat in the van.  I proceeded to put the tar-stained, cigarette-smelling bags sent to us months before by the biological family into the bottom of storage well of the van.  Even after months in the garage, high on a shelf, the blotchy bags smelled of cigarettes. I cringed knowing she was going to back to the same bullshit house.  Can’t even call it a home.  I packed her bags from us, family, and friends on top of the tar stained nastiness underneath hoping it would mask the stench.  But what was I masking?  The stench of what she was dealt?  The stench of the system?

I was so happy because the social worker called me over to the dark van.  I told her I wanted to check the carseat before she left.  She heard me.  I checked it.  Oh my.  I could push the seat over by 90 degrees with one hand.  Social worker???  Watching over children???  You can’t even properly attach a carseat???  “Grab your McDonald’s cheeseburger and see how it’s done.” 

I really said that.  And she said, “Yes, sir.”  Don’t mess with me when it comes to kids.  Don’t mess with me when it comes to her.  Don’t mess with me when it comes to my own.  When I was done, that carseat was attached securely, ready to go.  But not ready for what I had to let go of.

“Ooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she said.  Little fingers pointed toward to the Christmas lights.  My son took care to make sure the lights were perfect for her.  He was awesome.  My daughter made sure she was warm, dry, and full while we did the lights.  So many people watched out for her.  But the ones who watched for her the most were Missi, Ana, William, and myself.

“Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she cried.  That’s all I heard.  That’s all I want to hear.  That’s all I will hear.  It was all for you, Tori.  All for you.