Read Online A Street Girl Named Desire: A Novel by Treasure E. Blue - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Treasure E. Blue
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'round, snooping, they go'n put you back in the system. I hear them places is just like prison. They lock you in your room and everything. That ain't no place for a young lady to be. Don't I let you do what you want to do? Do I ever say anything when you stay out all times of night?” Mother Corley asked all of this in a whisper, as she looked over her shoulder toward the young patient in the bed next to Desire's. “Now, all you got to tell them is that you fell down the stairs, and that will be that. So you better—”
She was interrupted by a nurse who entered the room.
“Oh, hi,” said the nurse, with a smile. “I'll be over in a momentto take her vital signs. I'll take the other patient's first, so you have to step out for a second if you don't mind.”
Mother Corley smiled and nodded as she walked away, satisfied that she had put up enough of a front for an authority. How a foster child could have ended up with her was evidence of the system that didn't care. To Mother Corley, Desire had simply become a paid bill, more food in the refrigerator, extra benefits that a woman who didn't have many other choices could use a child for. She barely loved herself or the twin girls she had been left alone to raise. There was no way she could love Desire. Someone who needed serious help had been put in charge of helping another. It was an arrangement that would never work.
Mother Corley's smile disappeared as she slyly turned. So low that no one else in the room could hear, she reminded Desire one last time, “You being discharged tomorrow, so remember what I said, lil heifer. I'm the only one who want yo black ass.”
Desire just stared at her, not saying a word. She let the words sink in and didn't even try to think of what an alternative would or could be. She was stuck here, in this predicament, and had nowhere else to go. She had no choices. After the nurse finished taking the other patient's vital signs, she approached Desire's bed with a mobile blood-pressure stand. Her face was warm and open, even though the girl in front of her was obviously untrusting. But this nurse was used to working with these types of cases. She could almost guess, without trying, what possible circumstances could have landed this child here. She smiled at Desire and said, “Hello, young lady. I'm Nurse Dixon. What is your name?”
Desire simply stared at the ceiling, opting not to answer. She hated authority figures anyway, so the less said the better.
The nurse awaited an answer, but there was none. Unfazed, she continued smiling and said, “Don't feel like talking much? I understand.” She reached for her chart and said, “Let's see, Desire Mitchell … ” As if struck by a bolt of lightning, she looked at Desire and then again at the chart. She searched the chart for Desire's date of birth, and sure enough, in black and white, February 4, 1984, a day she would not forget. Her mind raced back to that day many years past when she had come to work to find that a child who had been rescued from certain death in freezing East Harlem snow was now fighting for her life in the neonatal crisis ward.
Quickly getting over the initial shock, Nurse Dixon put the thermometer in Desire's mouth. She also checked her blood pressure. She was nervous about what she knew in her gut of the identity of her latest patient, but she needed to continue to do her job. She asked Desire to sit up so she could wrap her arm with the pad. The flimsy hospital gown shifted and exposed a horrid scar on the patient's back. When Nurse Dixon caught a glimpse of it, she gasped. The conclusion as to the origin of the scar was undeniable.
Desire knew that the secret was out. She knew exactly what professionals were trained to look for as evidence of child abuse. Desire could not think of being torn from one hell, one that she had come to at least know, into another that was potentially worse. She pleaded as if her life depended on it.
“She didn't do this to me;
She was interrupted by a nurse who entered the room.
“Oh, hi,” said the nurse, with a smile. “I'll be over in a momentto take her vital signs. I'll take the other patient's first, so you have to step out for a second if you don't mind.”
Mother Corley smiled and nodded as she walked away, satisfied that she had put up enough of a front for an authority. How a foster child could have ended up with her was evidence of the system that didn't care. To Mother Corley, Desire had simply become a paid bill, more food in the refrigerator, extra benefits that a woman who didn't have many other choices could use a child for. She barely loved herself or the twin girls she had been left alone to raise. There was no way she could love Desire. Someone who needed serious help had been put in charge of helping another. It was an arrangement that would never work.
Mother Corley's smile disappeared as she slyly turned. So low that no one else in the room could hear, she reminded Desire one last time, “You being discharged tomorrow, so remember what I said, lil heifer. I'm the only one who want yo black ass.”
Desire just stared at her, not saying a word. She let the words sink in and didn't even try to think of what an alternative would or could be. She was stuck here, in this predicament, and had nowhere else to go. She had no choices. After the nurse finished taking the other patient's vital signs, she approached Desire's bed with a mobile blood-pressure stand. Her face was warm and open, even though the girl in front of her was obviously untrusting. But this nurse was used to working with these types of cases. She could almost guess, without trying, what possible circumstances could have landed this child here. She smiled at Desire and said, “Hello, young lady. I'm Nurse Dixon. What is your name?”
Desire simply stared at the ceiling, opting not to answer. She hated authority figures anyway, so the less said the better.
The nurse awaited an answer, but there was none. Unfazed, she continued smiling and said, “Don't feel like talking much? I understand.” She reached for her chart and said, “Let's see, Desire Mitchell … ” As if struck by a bolt of lightning, she looked at Desire and then again at the chart. She searched the chart for Desire's date of birth, and sure enough, in black and white, February 4, 1984, a day she would not forget. Her mind raced back to that day many years past when she had come to work to find that a child who had been rescued from certain death in freezing East Harlem snow was now fighting for her life in the neonatal crisis ward.
Quickly getting over the initial shock, Nurse Dixon put the thermometer in Desire's mouth. She also checked her blood pressure. She was nervous about what she knew in her gut of the identity of her latest patient, but she needed to continue to do her job. She asked Desire to sit up so she could wrap her arm with the pad. The flimsy hospital gown shifted and exposed a horrid scar on the patient's back. When Nurse Dixon caught a glimpse of it, she gasped. The conclusion as to the origin of the scar was undeniable.
Desire knew that the secret was out. She knew exactly what professionals were trained to look for as evidence of child abuse. Desire could not think of being torn from one hell, one that she had come to at least know, into another that was potentially worse. She pleaded as if her life depended on it.
“She didn't do this to me;
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