Hope: A Memoir of Survival in Cleveland (22 page)

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s my bracelet,” I said, as casually as I could.

We haven’t talked about it, but I can tell he doesn’t like Jocelyn seeing that he locks us up. And he knows the chains make it harder for me to take care of her. He was in our room the other day, and Jocelyn was in the far corner and wanted me to come play with her, but she was a couple of feet beyond my reach.

Our door opens, and he walks straight through our room and into Gina and Michelle’s bedroom. I can hear him chaining them up. Then he comes to us.

“Good night, Pretty. Give Daddy a hug,” he says, giving Joce a big squeeze.

Then he leaves and locks my door from the outside.

I catch my breath.
He didn’t chain me.

I turn off the light and snuggle up with my baby. It’s been six and a half years since I have been able to fall asleep without being shackled.

Gina

This is how messed up things are here: today he didn’t chain me and Michelle, and instead of being happy, I’m scared. I noticed a couple of weeks ago that Amanda was unchained. But just because he took hers off, it doesn’t mean he’ll take mine off. He has different rules for each of us. I wonder if I should remind him to lock me up, because if he gets mad when he realizes he forgot, he’ll take it out on us. He’ll smack me and yell about how he can’t trust me, or maybe put me in the basement. He’ll make it my fault. But it sure does feel good to walk around without dragging that rusting chain.

“Maybe it’s not a mistake,” I say to Michelle. “Maybe he’ll let us off the chains because of Jocelyn. He still locks the door, so he knows we can’t go anywhere.”

Another day comes, and he says nothing about the chains. Then another and another, and no mention. Every time he comes in I stay on my bed with my leg under the blanket so it’s not obvious that I’m not chained.

The room is tiny, so it’s not like I have tons of room to move around, but now I can exercise. I start doing a few push-ups, sit-ups, and squats, and it feels great. I hide our chains under a piece of plastic so we don’t have to look at them.

It actually feels strange, like I’m suddenly missing part of me. But it’s a wonderful strange. It’s so much easier to sleep without the chain. I keep lifting my right leg and shaking my ankle—no sound! I love that the chain is gone, but somehow I don’t feel free of it. I have bruises and scars on my right ankle that I’ll probably have forever.

“I don’t have you on the chain anymore because I trust you,” he finally says one day, out of the blue. “But if you do anything, it’s going back on, and I will hang you upside down by your ankles.”

June 25, 2009: Michael Jackson

Gina

Michael Jackson is dead; that’s so sad. He walks in while we’re watching the news about it.

“Good,” he says. “That’s one less nigger on earth.”

God, he is so hateful.

October 2009: Oprah

The
Oprah Winfrey Show
came to Cleveland to film a short video segment about Amanda, Gina, and Ashley Summers, another missing Cleveland teenager. FBI agent Phil Torsney described each of the cases on camera, pointing out the places where the girls had been seen last.

“What’s been hardest for me is just that Amanda has been gone for too long, and I want her home,” said a tearful Beth, wearing a white T-shirt with Amanda’s picture.

Nancy was thrilled to talk about her daughter on such a popular show, happy that Gina’s photo would be seen by millions of people. But as the crew set up lights and cameras in her living room, she was overcome by emotion as she showed them Gina’s clothes and stuffed animals.

“Not knowing is what’s tearing us apart,” Nancy said. “But I fight. I’m never going to give up.”

Christmas 2009: “We’re a Family”

Amanda

“Here, Pretty, do you want to play with some snow?” he says, handing her a bucket filled with snow that he brought into the house.

She’s so excited! She’s never played in the snow. She wanted to go outside, but he said no and instead brought her the bucket, which she loves.

He has been doing more fun things with her. In August he took her outside for the very first time, and she sat on his four-wheeler ATV. A few times the two of them went into the yard at night to look up at the stars, and once all three of us sat in his Jeep and listened to music. She had never been in a car before and loved playing with all the buttons on the dashboard.

Last month she helped him rake leaves in the backyard. She loved the smell of them and the feel of the cold fall air. And she loved being with her daddy.

“We’re a family,” he says to me.

I never know how to respond to that. He’s Jocelyn’s father. But my family is my family, and he never will be. I want Joce to feel as much love as possible, and when I see him being so kind and loving with her, it makes me think he’s not all bad. I can let him feel like he’s family if that’s what it takes to make Joce’s life better.

He bought her a nice card for her third birthday and wrote in it: “Princess, May God bless you, and give you good health, and keep you safe always,” addressing it, “To my beautiful little girl Jocelyn.” Beneath that he drew three little stick figures of two parents holding hands with a small child and labeled them “Daddy,” “Mommy,” and “Pretty.” He gave himself a hat and me long hair, and we all have big smiles. We read it out loud to her, and she hugs us both.

2010: Cutting

Gina

Look at the blood. I was opening a can of beef stew in the kitchen, and I cut my right pinkie. I run some cold water over it, and it stings. I can see all the way down to the bone. I’ve never cut myself so deep before.

It doesn’t hurt, though, and I just stare at the blood flowing from it. It’s like I’m getting hypnotized by the sight.

He comes over, looks at it, and says, “It’s not that bad.”

I barely hear him. I can’t take my eyes off the cut. It’s made me forget where I am. When I’m looking at it, it’s the only thing I think about. I don’t think about him or the disgusting things he does to me all the time. I can just block all that out, and I like the feeling.

All it’s taken is this one little cut. Nothing that’s going to kill me.

It’s better than banging myself in the head. I’ve been doing that since I got here, but a lot more lately. I punch myself as hard as I can in the side of my head, then pull my hair until it really hurts.

I’m so frustrated by this place, and by him. And Amanda.

Sometimes we get along fine, but usually she doesn’t talk to us. And it’s so much easier for her in here. It’s like they are a little family, and we are garbage.

I have almost no control over anything, but nobody can stop me from cutting myself.

 • • • 

I start with a butter knife.

I drag it across the inside of my forearm, where it’s soft. I don’t go deep, because I don’t want to really hurt myself. At first I just scratch a little, then I put more pressure on it, and then pull the knife across my arm quickly and just hard enough to get it bleeding.

Look at the blood. Little drips of red on my soft, white skin.

It’s working again. My mind flies away, and all I think about is the warm blood dribbling down my arm.

I lick it; it tastes salty.

“What are you doing?” Michelle asks. “Stop it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “It’s none of your business.”

 • • • 

I’ve discovered that little white plastic knives from McDonald’s are perfect. Their edges are just sharp enough to break the skin.

Just a couple of quick cuts, and I draw blood. I’ve been doing this every once in a while for months now. Michelle hates it and always tells me to stop. But she can’t make me.

My mom used to tell me that if I saw anyone at school cutting herself, I was supposed to say something right away. She said it was a cry for help.

I don’t think I’m crying out for help, I’m just trying to have a few minutes of peace in here. But I don’t know. I just saw a show on TV about cutters. They said it’s dangerous and that the only way to stop is to deal with your problems directly. Instead of cutting, they said it’s better to talk to whoever is making you so sad or mad.

I can’t talk to him about this. But maybe I should talk to Amanda. She’s making me feel bad, too. He says she can’t stand me. Why?

So I push open the door between our rooms. She’s sitting on the bed, alone. I guess Jocelyn must be out with him. I stand in the doorway and look at her.

“I have something to tell you,” I say. “I cut myself, and it’s because of you.”

Amanda

Gina’s at the door, and I wonder what she wants. Usually she wants to play with Jocelyn. That’s fine, as long as I don’t have to spend too much time with her.

She and Michelle are such liars. They’re always complaining to him that I’m not nice to them, so he yells at me. He’s always putting me down. I’m so tired of being screamed at and called names all the time: stupid, fat, dork, retard, bitch,
pendeja
—a bad word in Spanish. Nothing I do is good enough: the fire on the stove is too high, or too low, or I used too much soap. He’s always finding fault and always yelling. It’s so demeaning and depressing and endless, and I hate that he does it in front of Jocelyn.

So that makes me mean sometimes. Most of the time I don’t even talk to Gina and Michelle, or I snap at them about any little thing. They make being in here even harder. I wish it could just be me and Jocelyn trying to get through this together, like a tough little team.

But now Gina is staring at me, looking serious and sad.

“I cut myself,” she says, “and it’s because of you.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

She shows me the marks on her arm. Some of them look fresh. As I feel myself starting to well up with tears she tells me that I’ve been a real bitch to her, and that I tell him lies about her that get her in trouble. That isn’t true, but I know I haven’t been nice to her.

“I don’t want you to do that because of me,” I say.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. We get enough hurt from him.”

It’s like a slap in my face: I realize that there’s no reason for us not to get along better. He did all of this to us. Having us not like one another is all part of his game.

“You have to stop doing that,” I say, telling her that I read someplace that if you have a bad habit, you’re supposed to find something else to do instead. I suggest that maybe she start wearing a rubber band around her wrist, and when she feels like cutting, she can snap herself hard with the rubber band instead. That way she can get a little bit of pain, but she’s not really hurting herself.

She says that sounds like a good idea.

We talk a little more, and she tells me how hard it’s been for her all these years. We’re not different. It’s not easier for her. She’s not trying to make my life harder, no matter what he says. We’re the same. She’s going through exactly what I am.

I suddenly see her as another me. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.

I realize now that I can play an important role in this house. I’m a little older than Gina, so I think I can help get her through this, and maybe Michelle, too. Gina liked my rubber-band idea, and I bet I can think of other things to make this easier for her. It feels good to help. I’m becoming sort of the Mama Bear, and everybody needs help in here.

Gina

Amanda seems like she’s sorry about me cutting myself.

And I like her rubber-band idea. I’m going to find one and wear it.

I go back into my room and lie down on the bed, feeling better.

I still think we are going to have problems. This place just makes you hate everyone and everything. But talking felt good.

February 10, 2010: Jane Doe

A man collecting recyclable cans in the desert outside Barstow, California, found a human head in a backpack. Forensic scientists determined that it belonged to a Hispanic female between fourteen and nineteen years old. Since it was discovered not far from several truck stops, they figured the girl could have come from just about anywhere.

The police contacted the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children in Virginia and then the Cleveland police to see if the Jane Doe might be Gina DeJesus, now missing for almost six years.

Detective Laura Parker took the call from the California police, and when she heard about what was found in the backpack, she buried her face in her hands and broke down crying. She prayed that the remains were not Gina’s.

Police wanted to check dental records, but Gina had never been to a dentist, so there were none on file. They checked DNA samples that Nancy and Felix had supplied to police and discovered that the dead girl was not Gina. The head has never been identified.

March 25, 2010: No Simple Label

Amanda

At first I thought I could be nice to him just to get better treatment. When you stare at the same four walls day after day, any little thing is a big deal, like getting warm French fries instead of cold ones. But it turned out I needed more than that. I needed somebody to talk to. I remember the time I asked him for a hug and it actually felt good. I needed so bad to feel that.

I saw an Oprah show about a boy in Missouri named Shawn Hornbeck, who was kidnapped in 2002. They were saying he had Stockholm syndrome, a condition that made him start to identify with his abuser. Until someone has gone through this, they don’t know how they would react. They can’t understand that there is no simple label for what it feels like. You do what you have to do to survive, and it’s multiplied by a million when you have a baby to worry about. I don’t “identify” with my abuser. I have just done my best to cope, every day, for thousands of days in a row.

I don’t think anybody is only one thing, and I don’t think he is only evil. He can be a loving man and father. And if I can find warmth in him, I’m going to take it. Before he locks our door each night he gives Jocelyn a big hug and says he loves her. Then he kisses me good night, and it’s okay.

I hope Beth will forgive me someday.