Authors: Rena Olsen
That is not the picture Lane paints for me.
I reach to touch her arm and she stiffens. “It will be okay, Lane. You will have a good life here. And a wonderful future.” The words sound hollow all of a sudden. I have said them countless times, to countless crying children, but for the first time they sound insincere, false.
“I wanna be a doctor,” Lane says. “My parents say I'm smart enough. I wanna go to college and be a doctor. Can I do that here?”
The smile is a struggle this time, forced onto my face by a sense of duty and a longing to comfort. “No, Lane. Not here. But we can learn about some doctor stuff, if that is what you want.”
“What am I going to do here?” Lane asks. She is very articulate for a ten-year-old.
“We'll save those answers for another day,” I say, pulling my hand back and standing. “For now, let's get you changed.”
Lane does not move. She pulls herself into a tight ball and stares at the wall. She is stone. Even her tears dry up, and her eyes shutter, closed off from any emotion or response.
“Lane?” I reach toward her, and she doesn't react. “I need you to come with me, sweetheart.”
Nothing.
I finish tidying the kitchen, keeping watch over Lane, waiting for some break in her armor. Her muscles must be getting sore from being in the same position for so long, but still she sits. And stares. Around eight, I call Passion in. She responds immediately, coming to stand next to where I am leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over my chest.
“I will need you to take care of the girls tonight,” I say, glancing at her only for a moment before returning my gaze to the statue that is Lane. I don't want to miss the moment she breaks her pose.
Passion shifts, hands behind her back, sneaking peeks at the new girl across the room. I can tell she wants to say something, but does not want to speak out of turn. It is a constant battle with Passion, and though I know Glen does not approve, this quirk of hers always makes me smile.
“Did you have a question?” I ask, my voice innocent, a smirk dragging up one corner of my mouth.
“Umm . . .” Passion hesitates. I frown. I wish she would not assume that she will be in trouble with me. I have rarely found occasion to punish her since those early days.
“What is it, Passion?” My tone is crosser than I intend it to be. I make an effort to soften and turn a quick smile in her direction. “I am a little busy here.”
“I was thinking maybe I could try?” Her statement comes out as a question. We need to work on her confidence.
“I'm not sure I understand. Please try again.” Every moment is a teaching moment when raising children, especially these girls. Every interaction must be perfect.
She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin. “If it is acceptable to you, Clara, I would like to try to help the new girl with her transition into our home.”
This time my smile is sincere. “Once the other girls are taken care of, if Lane has not chosen to comply on her own, you may talk to her. Thank you, Passion.”
I see the glee she tries to hide before she nods and hurries away. I shake my head. The other girls will most likely have a shortened story time tonight. But maybe Passion can help. She was by far my most difficult girl to transition in, although her form of rebellion was more explosive, while Lane seems to be shrinking into herself more even as I watch.
Thirty minutes later, Passion returns. “They're all in bed, the music is on, and most are already asleep.” Her words come out in a rush.
Saying nothing, I nod toward Lane. I am interested to see how this interaction will go.
Passion approaches Lane with small, slow steps, pulling a chair closer to where the girl sits. She lowers herself to the chair, near enough that her knees might be touching Lane's if the younger girl's legs were dangling off the chair as they should be.
“Hello, Lane,” Passion says, using the soft, cooing voice she reserves for the younger girls. She took note of Lane's name when I said it earlier, I realize with approval. She really is very good. “My name is Passion.”
Lane scrunches up her nose. “That's not a real name.”
Rather than becoming offended, Passion smiles at Lane. “Of course it is. It's what everyone calls me, so it's my name.”
Lane has not moved a muscle other than those in her face. “Was it always your name?” she whispers.
Passion shakes her head, her gentle smile still in place. “It's a very special name Miss Clara gave me when I came to live with her.”
“What was your name before?”
A cloud passes over Passion's face. “I don't remember,” she says. I can hear the lie, but I do not admonish her. That is one lie she is allowed to tell, since she must never use her old name or tell anyone what it was. “But I like Passion. It describes me well.”
Lane makes a face. “Lane doesn't describe me at all. I'm not lines on a road.”
“Hmmm.” Passion ponders Lane's words. “Well, maybe not if you think of it as
just
lines on a road. But lanes do so much more than mark roads.”
“Like what?” Lane shifts, her arms loosening their grip on her knees. I feel Glen walk up behind me, his familiar scent a comfort. I
look over my shoulder and return his questioning gaze with a finger to my lips. He stands close and I lean into him, watching the girls interact.
“They keep people on the right path, right?” Passion says, her face becoming excited. “And they can direct people in a lot of different directions. Maybe with your new name, you will be a good guide for people, to help them find the right way.”
Delighted, I look up at Glen again. The hard lines of his face are not relaxed as I'd hoped. Surely he sees how Passion is taking the lead. Maybe she will be ready for her own client soon. She has come so far.
Lane nods. “I like that, I think. But I'll have to talk to my momâ”
Passion's hand shoots out to cover Lane's mouth, and the younger girl's eyes grow wide. “No, Lane,” Passion says firmly. “You are not to speak of your old parents. They didn't want you. That's why you're here.”
Fat tears roll from the corners of Lane's eyes. She tries to talk against Passion's hand, but it comes out muffled. Glen stiffens. I try to stop him, but he strides over to where Lane sits. Passion's eyes turn fearful. I rush forward, but I know I cannot stop whatever Glen has planned. I reach for Passion as she reaches for Glen and stop her before she can put a hand on him. I know that would not end well for her. Glen glares at Lane.
“Enough. You won't be a spoiled princess while you're living here. You will not talk about the people who gave you away. You won't use your former name. You will listen to Clara, and you will listen to me, or you will be punished.”
Lane opens her mouth and a high-pitched wail comes out. It is cut off as Glen grabs her with rough hands. “I think we have an example of what happens when girls don't listen happening right now down at the tree.” He throws Lane over his shoulder and stomps out the door.
I chase after him, turning to look back at Passion. “Stay with the girls,” I command, and I can tell it takes everything in her to remain where she is instead of following me. “Glen!” I call. “Please, she was opening up, she was almost thereâ”
He whirls, and I wince as tree branches cut across Lane's face. “Are you questioning me, Clara?”
“No.” I take a step back, knowing that in this mood he won't hesitate to strike if I say the wrong thing. “I just think if we waitâ”
“Why wait? She needs to know, and the sooner the better. If you come, you do not interfere. Do you understand?”
I nod. I would rather be close, where I can keep an eye on her. If we are going to the tree, there will be any number of men and boys of all ages. I do not wish for her to be alone among them. I follow silently as Glen hauls Lane down the rest of the path.
I fidget with my hair, though my reflection shows that it has not moved since I fixed it five minutes ago. I step back and smooth my skirt and simple blouse, a gift from my support group for a special occasion. I wonder briefly if I will ever get my old clothes back. There are more important things to worry about now, though.
I am meeting my family today.
Over the past few days, I have begun to think of them as my family. I still have no solid memories of them, but I'm hoping with this meeting, I will get closer to that. I have not had contact with Mama Mae or Glen, but have continued corresponding with Passion, who is now going by Emily. It's hard for me to wrap my mind around her with
a different name, but she has been moved into a foster home, and it is her wish. I hope to be able to see her again, hold her again, but for now, her words give me comfort.
Mixed with my anxious excitement is a pit of fear in my stomach. Dr. Mulligan says my family cannot wait to meet me, and I believe her, but I also wonder if they will still be so excited when we're face-to-face. Though I am working to atone for my many misdeeds, I feel dirty, as if anyone who comes too close will be able to sense the rot from inside of me. I spin bizarre scenarios in which my family takes one look at me and walks out of the room, heads held high, refusing to acknowledge that such a black-souled individual could be related to them. In my worst imaginings, they shout horrible accusations at me, even worse because they are so true.
There is a knock at the door, and Jay and Connor step inside. We exchange no words, just polite smiles, as we head toward the room where my group meets. I requested this. I do not wish to do this reunion in Dr. Mulligan's office, and the official visitation room did not seem appropriate, either. Connor worked it out to have this room available.
We stop in front of the closed door. There are soft murmurs coming through the thin wood, and I am dizzy with the realization of what little there is separating me from a mother, a father, and a sister. Charlotte has a family of her own now, I have been told, but for now, only the three of them are here. I raise shaking hands to pat my hair one more time.
Connor turns. “Are you ready, Clara?” he asks, concern creasing his brow.
I nod. “Yes.”
He raps on the door and the sounds from the other side cease. Connor and Jay step aside and I place my hand on the knob, turn, and push. I see Dr. Mulligan first. She stands with the other three in the
center of the room, but as we approach she moves into a corner where she can unobtrusively lend support. The smile I flash at her reflects the queasiness in my gut.
My eyes drag back to the small group huddled in the middle of the room. The woman, dark shoulder-length hair shot through with streaks of gray, steps forward. Behind her, a man with a shiny head and a goatee places his arm around a woman not much older than me, whose dark blond hair falls in waves down to her shoulders. My family.
Before anyone says a word, I see it. I see the way the artificial light catches the strands of the woman's hair, like mine in the sunlight. The way the man's green eyes twinkle, keeping them from being too dark and serious, as mine have become. The nose of the blond woman, a mirror of her mother's . . . and of my own. My hand goes to my nose, tracing the shape, and the woman's face brightens.
“You are just as beautiful as I expected,” she says, eyes glistening. There is no hostility in her voice, though it cracks with emotion.
My throat tightens. Tears begin to fall freely as I gaze on these people, and I have the feeling that I have always known them. Yes, they are strangers, but there is a familiarity that I have never before experienced. The older woman steps forward, arms out, and before I know what I am doing, my feet carry me toward her, closing the distance between us until I am wrapped in her warmth. I soak her shoulder with my tears, and hers fall into my hair, but neither of us moves.
A throat clears, and I look up to see both the man and the younger woman, my sister, with tears in their eyes. I smile, and they walk forward, joining us. I am in the middle, and I have never felt so safe, so loved, so cherished. They lend me their strength, and I know without a doubt, without uttering a word to them, that they will protect me with their lives.
After a long moment, we shift away from one another, sniffling, and chuckle as we take in our matching tear-stained faces.
“Please, Diana, let's sit down,” the man says, gesturing toward the small cluster of uncomfortable chairs. The woman does not release me even as we sit. When we're all settled, the man speaks again. “Now that we've cried all over one another, I suppose some introductions are in order.”
More laughter, and the woman squeezes my hand.
“I'm Doug,” says the man. “I'm your dad.” His voice breaks on the last word, but not in a sad way. More like an “I can't believe I get to say this” way. He points to the blond woman, who has taken the seat on the other side of me. “This is your sister, Charlotte, and the woman hanging off your hand is Jane.”
“Your mom,” Jane supplies, grinning at me even as tears leak out from the corners of her eyes again.
I look at each of them, their expectant faces shining with hope and happiness. I don't want to break the moment. The time to talk about my past will come, but it is not today. “I'm so glad to meet you . . . I guess to meet you again,” I add awkwardly.
A cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh echoes through the room, and I look back at the agents, but Jay just shrugs at me. I relax, knowing that they've got my back. This is not a normal situation, and to try to pretend otherwise would be stupid.
“I-I'd really like to know more about you guys,” I continue. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
Charlotte jumps right in. “We all live in a small community just outside of the city,” she says. “I'm married, and I have two young boys, Eli and Isaac. You'll meet them soon, and my husband, Jon. They're all very excited.”