Volume 8
An Online Literary Magazine
December 16, 2013

 

Officially Orphans

Nonfiction

Beth A. Miller

 


Beth Miller, age 5, and her brother Troy, age 2, at their grandparents' house in Richmond, California, a year before entering the orphanage.

 

M
y three-year old brother and I were home alone again in our sparsely furnished studio apartment. My little brother lay sleeping in the walk-in closet on a bed made of couch cushions. I contentedly sat on the floor flipping the pages of my favorite Curious George book. There was a knock on the door—not a timid knock, but one with authority.

 

I knew not to open the door when my mother wasn’t home, so I sat silently frozen, hoping whoever it was would go away.

 

“Open up. It’s the police.”

 

My heart raced as I thought of my options: open the door or stay silent. I knew if the knocking continued, my brother would wake up. I walked to the closet door, shut it, and went to the front door.

 

I opened the door a few inches and, wide-eyed, saw two serious-looking men in dark uniforms.

 

“Is your mother home?” asked the taller of the two men.

 

As I sized him up and saw the gun in his holster, my mouth went dry. I squeaked out a quiet, “No.”

 

“What’s your name?” asked his equally imposing partner.

 

“Beth,” I answered.

 

“May we come in?” They pushed the door open.

 

I took a few steps backward, backing up to the closet.

 

“Are you here alone?” one of the men asked.

 

“Uh huh,” I said, pressing my back more firmly against the closet door.

 

One of the men strode into the kitchen and began opening cupboards and the refrigerator. “My God, there’s nothing in here but ketchup and a head of lettuce!”

 

The other man turned his attention back to me. “Can you please step away from the closet?”

 

Reluctantly, I did as I was told and watched what felt like slow-motion action. As the policeman opened the closet door, he discovered my little chubby-cheeked, sleepyhead brother, who was sitting up, blinking, trying to decide if he should cry or not. I maneuvered myself so he could see me and not be terrified of a strange man reaching for him.

 

“Come on out, little buddy,” the man said as he gently picked my brother up underneath his arms.

 

Just then, my brother decided it was time to wail, which he was famous for. His face contorted into a series of red-faced acrobatics as the tears began to flow.

 

The man carrying my brother walked toward the door and called to his partner, “Let’s get them to the car.”

 

“Time to go, little lady,” the other man said, and scooped me up before I could protest.

 

I glanced back and saw my book lying on the floor, and felt a tightness forming in my throat. I wanted my book, but fear rendered me speechless. I lost my voice that day and didn’t know when I’d get it or my book back.

 

As we were being carried to the waiting police cruiser, I saw Mrs. Busybody looking out her window. More than likely, she was the reason the police paid us a visit. She had seen us playing alone outside earlier in the day, and either wasn’t fond of children, or wasn’t fond of children being left home alone for hours and days at a time. I couldn’t tell if her face was happy or sad as we were plopped into the backseat of the car.

 

A part of me knew we had been on the run with our mother. She had taken us from California to Nevada while she was on probation and not supposed to leave the state. We had been taken from her more than once, but this would be the last. My mother’s failure to be a responsible, nurturing parent had finally caught up with her, and it seemed the state of California was all too willing to forcibly end her parenting duties.We were now officially orphans.

 

What I wanted more than anything was to be like every other kid, sleeping in my own bed, with a normal family to love and nurture me. Taken from my mother at a young age might have been a good thing given how we were living. But trust would never come easily again. I never felt safe or settled. Though a victim of circumstances, I didn’t want to be a victim and continue the cycle of dysfunction. I felt a driving need to take control of my own life. But for now I simply had to survive.

 

Once the paperwork was processed at the local police station, we were taken to the Children’s Receiving Home of Sacramento, a short- to long-term facility for children removed from their homes. This facility wasn’t a home, but a large, single- level, six-acre campus, which housed close to 100 children. As I remember, more than half of the property was open fields, with the remainder dedicated to the actual facility.

 

The memory of this children’s facility is permanently etched in my mind. As we entered the building, we were immediately taken to a large room filled with children’s clothes of all sizes. We were instructed to pick out three outfits, which would be the clothes we would wear. Even at that young age I was a fashionista, and the thought of wearing used clothing horrified me. (That was one thing our mother was good about; we always had nice clothes.) I reluctantly picked out some clothes and helped my little brother do the same. After we were changed into one of the new outfits, the clothes we came in with were put into a bag and taken.

 

The reality of the situation then began to take hold. Where was I? Kiddie jail? Had I done something wrong? Where was my mom? Did she know where we were? Would she come get us? I could feel a lump forming in my throat, and I began to feel hot tears running down my face as they took my little brother to the nursery wing of the center. I was taken to the girls’ wing, which was separated into two sections, one for younger girls and one for teenagers. Not only had I lost my mom, but now my brother, too. I felt all alone in the world.

 

My sleeping area consisted of a small twin bed and a small armoire for keeping clothes and personal items. The large room was filled with 20 or so of these configurations. On the other side of the wall was the same setup for the teenage girls. There were communal bathrooms with showers for each side of the girls’ dorm. Apparently, the boys’ dorms were the same. In the center of the building was a large gymnasium, which would be where school would take place. Long cafeteria-style tables were set up for each grade level to be instructed by visiting teachers. There was also a dining room with large round tables where meals were served at set times daily. The outdoor area consisted of several acres of room to run and play, but my depression was such that playing seemed ludicrous.

 

I could hear the radio constantly blasting the popular songs of the day from the teenagers’ side of the dorm. This is where I started detesting the Beatles. If I heard, “Hey, Jude” one more time, I was going to hang myself with my bed sheets! One more “nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah,” and someone’s radio was going to get smashed! It must have played every 30 minutes during the summer of 1968, as it was number one for nine weeks.

 

As the reality sank in that I wasn’t going home and I had no control over my life let alone the radio, I sank deeper and deeper into depression. I cried myself to sleep every night, calling for my mom. Other girls did the same. I went on a hunger strike and refused to eat, which led to anemia. I was convinced I was being poisoned or brainwashed or both. My moods switched from depression to anger several times a day. I had no desire to talk, to play, to eat, or any other normal activity for a six-year old. The memory of me sitting inside by a large window in the sun, watching other children play, seems to be a metaphor for how I lived a large portion of my life—always with a wall of glass between me and the rest of the world.

 

Once, I did go outside, I went up to the chain link fence that separated the nursery from the older kids. I called to my brother.

 

He ran up to the fence as I slipped my hand through one of the holes. He grabbed my hand as we stood there smiling at each other.

 

“I miss you,” I whispered. “I promise we’ll get out of here someday.”

 

“It’s okay. I like it here. It’s fun,” he replied.

 

Fun, I thought. Is that even possible given the situation? I smiled as I watched him run off to play with the other toddlers. At least he was safe, fed, and looked after. Knowing my brother seemed okay physically and mentally helped ease my worry a bit. I realized I needed to be strong for him.

 

 

T
he days and months passed in a fairly strict routine: up early for breakfast, then classes, play time, homework, dinner, shower, and then bed. My teachers praised me for how quickly I picked up phonics. I devoured everything they gave me and asked for more. I always finished assignments before everyone else and they started to realize I was a sponge who needed to be intellectually challenged.

 

I quickly left the first grade table and moved to the second grade table. I saw teachers whispering about me, but didn’t know what they could be saying or thinking. In my previous school experiences, I hadn’t stayed in any school very long. We were constantly moving, always on the run from someone or something. During kindergarten and first grade, I’d probably been in five or six schools. Just when I felt comfortable and had made a friend, my mother would uproot us with a few words like, “We’re moving. Pack your things.” Having some stability with the same teachers in the same place was a foreign concept to me.

 

Looking back, I think I ached for a connection with someone, anyone, but was fearful of getting attached and then being yanked away. Protecting myself became my number one goal. I didn’t talk much at the children’s home, and it was difficult to make friends because it was a revolving door of children coming and going. I felt like a lifer. There wasn’t any mention of me ever leaving there. Occasionally, a girl would try to befriend me and it felt nice to have a comrade who understood the feelings of loss and abandonment.

 

One day, I was surprised to hear about a new fellow resident, a horse! A friend and I ran outside and sure enough, there was a beautiful chestnut horse grazing in the field. For the first time, I felt some happiness. One of the staff members took us out to meet the horse and pet its soft nose and neck. She reached into her apron pocket and gave us two carrots to feed him. I had never in my life been so close to a horse or any other large animal. It was exhilarating! The staff member told us he would be staying for a while, which was the happiest news I had heard since I had been there.

 

It became my daily routine to run to the kitchen and ask the cook for sugar cubes or carrots for the horse. I’d have to wait for a staff member to go with me outside to feed and pet the horse. It was the highlight of my day.

 

Feeding the horse made it easier to endure speaking with a social worker once a week. It took me some time to share my feelings and give her anything meaningful to document. I remember the woman as being very kind. It couldn’t have been an easy job getting a traumatized six-year old to talk, especially one like me. I had severe trust issues, anxiety, and depression. Eventually, I began to thaw and must have known she was trustworthy and only trying to help. About a year into my time there, she had some news to share with me.

 

“We’ve located your grandparents and they want to come see you. Would you like that?”

 

“Yes!” I screamed and nearly jumped out of my seat. I didn’t remember my grandparents well, but just the thought of seeing a family member was exciting.

 

They were my father’s parents and I didn’t remember the last time I had seen them. My father had gone off to the Vietnam War when I was three and my mother was not fond of my grandfather, so she kept us away from them out of sheer spite.

 

“They are going to come up on visiting day, which is Sunday. Do you know when that is?” the social worker asked.

 

I shook my head, no, but looked around her room for a calendar. She pulled out a calendar and pointed to Sunday.

 

“Today is Thursday, so in three days, they’ll be here.”

 

I thought, three days! Three days! In three days, I would actually see flesh and blood relatives!

 

The social worker smiled as she could see how excited I was, a vast improvement from the past year at the facility. I practically skipped out of her office as I went to tell my friend the good news.

 

Those three days were some of the longest of my life. I went through the motions of my daily activities, but I felt my whole body vibrating at a high level. It was difficult to concentrate or sleep. I was so filled with anticipation about what the meeting would be like and so many questions. Would I remember them? Would they like me? Would they take me to live with them?

 

I’d seen many children leave the center to go live with foster families or various relatives and hoped this would be my fate as well. My mother was completely out of the picture. She hadn’t come to visit us, written or anything. She became a ghost that I still called out to at night.

 

Sunday arrived and the social worker came to get me from the dorm. She had my little brother by the hand. He smiled when he saw me and said, “Sissy!”

 

I gave him a big hug and said, “We’re going to see Grandma and Grandpa.”

 

We walked to the reception area and sitting there were two middle-aged strangers that felt just vaguely familiar. My grandmother was petite, with just a little bit of perfect grandmotherly roundness that showed she ate well and didn’t care about being a stick figure. (As I learned later, she was an excellent cook.) Her neatly pin-curled light brown hair perfectly framed her fair complexion, and light blue eyes. I immediately noticed her big smile accentuated by her bright red lipstick as she stood and flung open her arms and called our names. We both ran to her and grabbed her legs like clinging to a lifeboat. I looked up and saw the tears and the kindness in my grandmother’s eyes. For the first time in my life, I felt real love and acceptance. My memories of her flooded back as we stayed for several minutes locked in this embrace.

 

Once we loosened our grip on our grandmother, my grandfather opened his arms for a hug as well. To me, he looked like a movie star. He was a tall, lean man with short wavy blond hair, clean-shaven face, and perfectly straight teeth set in a wide smile. We went to him and hugged him as he awkwardly patted our backs. He seemed moved that the two of us were in this situation, but unsure of how to relate to a four- and seven-year-old.

 

I don’t remember how long this first visit was, but it was just enough to give me hope for a better life. They promised to return the following Sunday, which was a two-hour drive for them from the Bay Area. My grandmother promised to write in between visits. We went back to our dorms while the social worker stayed and talked with my grandparents a bit more.

 

As promised, the first letter from my grandmother arrived a few days later. She carefully printed her letters so I’d be able to read them. The first letter was about how much she missed us and couldn’t wait to see us the following Sunday. She wrote about my aunts (her sisters) and what they and their children were doing. Even hearing about mundane household chores and what the family dog was doing provided a sense of normalcy that I had never known. She kept my spirits up and told me she and my grandfather would be starting the process to get us released from the children’s facility and home with them. I lived for those letters, and would rip open the envelope the minute it touched my hands. I kept them under my pillow, and would constantly unfold and fold them and run my fingers over the words as though it would magically bring my grandmother to life in front of me.

 

As I remember, there was a custody hearing my mother didn’t show up for. With a leave from the military, my father attended. I remember seeing him tall and handsome in his uniform as he walked into the courtroom. I only saw him through a window as my brother and I were in a separate room being tended to by a social worker. It didn’t even register to me who he was until later on talking to my grandmother. I don’t believe we were allowed to see him, which to me now seems odd. Years later, my grandmother told me the judge would have considered giving him custody of us if he were married. At that point in time, it was impossible due to his military duties.

 

My mother not showing up, I believe, was an indication of how troubled she was. She had addiction issues to alcohol, sleeping pills, and men. I know now she wasn’t equipped to be married, then divorced with two children by the time she was 21. She lost her way, and in the process she also lost her children. To my knowledge, she was never apologetic, and I never laid eyes on her again until I was 17.

 

There were many visits and many letters, but it took my grandparents about a year to finally get custody of my brother and me. To say my brother and I were happy would be an understatement. The day they came to take us home, my brother and I each grabbed hold of one of my grandmother’s hands, smiled, and never looked back. However, the day I left the Children’s Home of Sacramento was the last day of my childhood I would ever be completely physically safe.

 

Beth A. Miller recently left a secure job as a reading specialist at a well-respected private school in Arizona to reinvent her life. She currently operates an educational therapy practice, which focuses on teaching students with language-based learning differences. She is based in Port Townsend, WA. Beth has authored and co-authored several thematic teaching magazines for educators. She’s currently working on a memoir of her life. This is an excerpt and her first published work outside the world of education.

 

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