story document, the one she’d been trying not to write for a week. It was almost done; she’d made a Herculean effort the night before knowing that Cliff would be upset if she came to the meeting without it. Still she couldn’t finish it and knew why. It was about a family in town that had been charged with physically abusing their young son. The boy, only six, now lived in foster care. The parents would have their day in court and Anna hoped they got ten years. Some people don’t know how lucky they are. Anna interviewed the foster mother to try to understand how the boy was dealing with everything. It was a human interest piece, and, of course, all parties would remain nameless. But, Anna knew, everyone in town was aware of the family and what had happened.
The interview had taken place in the foster mother’s living room. She’d told Anna, “He’s angry with me. He says it’s my fault he got taken from his parents. He won’t let Carl or me near him.” She stared into the corner of the room, seeing images Anna could only guess at. “He cries for them all the time.”
“I don’t understand that,” Anna said. “Why would he want to be with abusive parents? Can you tell me his story, what happened to him?”
“Oh honey,” she patted Anna’s knee and gave her a warm but slightly condescending glance that said, “You’re so young, aren’t you?” She settled back on the sofa and balanced her coffee cup on her knee. “Carl ’n me’ve been foster parents for going on fifteen years.” She shook her greying head. “And we’ve seen some things, let me tell you. One thing I’ve seen in pret’ near every kid is it doesn’t matter the shit their parents did to them, they still want to live at home. I don’t think …” she stared up at the ceiling and dipped her finger into the hot coffee, stirring a little then sucking her finger. “Nope. There was one. But she was older, fifteen, I think, and her father used her—” She broke off and stared at Anna like she’d just remembered Anna sat there listening. “Anyway, like I said, it’s pretty normal.”
Baffled, Anna could only ask her next question. “How old is he?”
“The poor thing is only six. His mama is a stay-home and his father a lawyer. Don’t that beat all? A respectable family, even church-goers, although I never bought into church making people act better than their neighbors. It’s usually just a way to hush stuff up.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
The woman went on, dipping her finger in her coffee again, seeming not even to notice the temperature. “Anyway, nobody knew what was happenin’ in that house. The neighbors are shocked.”
“I can imagine.” Anna moved around, trying to find a comfortable spot on the sofa. It was a horrible story and she didn’t want to hear any more. She wanted to leave, but the woman, happy with her audience of one, was determined to tell her story.
“The worker told me it happened just once in a while. She would get angry and snap, but later she’d feel sorry and buy him things to make up for what she’d done, like that would heal the poor baby’s bruises.”
“So the mother was the one hurting him?” Anna asked, her hands like ice despite being wrapped around the hot mug.
“No. They found out both of them did.”
“The poor boy!”
“Mm-hmm. They both hurt him. They found bruises on his arms, you know, like someone grabbed both arms tight to yell at him. There were bruises on his legs and they even found an old break that had healed.”
“Well, that’s not that unusual for a boy.”
“But there was never any hospital visit on record. It never healed right.”
“Oh.”
“And with all that, he still loves his parents. He keeps begging to go home to them.” She put the coffee on the side table and wrapped her arms around herself. She probably wasn’t even aware of acting out her feelings for
The interview had taken place in the foster mother’s living room. She’d told Anna, “He’s angry with me. He says it’s my fault he got taken from his parents. He won’t let Carl or me near him.” She stared into the corner of the room, seeing images Anna could only guess at. “He cries for them all the time.”
“I don’t understand that,” Anna said. “Why would he want to be with abusive parents? Can you tell me his story, what happened to him?”
“Oh honey,” she patted Anna’s knee and gave her a warm but slightly condescending glance that said, “You’re so young, aren’t you?” She settled back on the sofa and balanced her coffee cup on her knee. “Carl ’n me’ve been foster parents for going on fifteen years.” She shook her greying head. “And we’ve seen some things, let me tell you. One thing I’ve seen in pret’ near every kid is it doesn’t matter the shit their parents did to them, they still want to live at home. I don’t think …” she stared up at the ceiling and dipped her finger into the hot coffee, stirring a little then sucking her finger. “Nope. There was one. But she was older, fifteen, I think, and her father used her—” She broke off and stared at Anna like she’d just remembered Anna sat there listening. “Anyway, like I said, it’s pretty normal.”
Baffled, Anna could only ask her next question. “How old is he?”
“The poor thing is only six. His mama is a stay-home and his father a lawyer. Don’t that beat all? A respectable family, even church-goers, although I never bought into church making people act better than their neighbors. It’s usually just a way to hush stuff up.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
The woman went on, dipping her finger in her coffee again, seeming not even to notice the temperature. “Anyway, nobody knew what was happenin’ in that house. The neighbors are shocked.”
“I can imagine.” Anna moved around, trying to find a comfortable spot on the sofa. It was a horrible story and she didn’t want to hear any more. She wanted to leave, but the woman, happy with her audience of one, was determined to tell her story.
“The worker told me it happened just once in a while. She would get angry and snap, but later she’d feel sorry and buy him things to make up for what she’d done, like that would heal the poor baby’s bruises.”
“So the mother was the one hurting him?” Anna asked, her hands like ice despite being wrapped around the hot mug.
“No. They found out both of them did.”
“The poor boy!”
“Mm-hmm. They both hurt him. They found bruises on his arms, you know, like someone grabbed both arms tight to yell at him. There were bruises on his legs and they even found an old break that had healed.”
“Well, that’s not that unusual for a boy.”
“But there was never any hospital visit on record. It never healed right.”
“Oh.”
“And with all that, he still loves his parents. He keeps begging to go home to them.” She put the coffee on the side table and wrapped her arms around herself. She probably wasn’t even aware of acting out her feelings for
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