Read Online Nine Lives by Erin Lee - Free Book Online Page B

for the other parent, who is guilty. To me, that’s the same thing as being guilty. Some houses are better than others. I have a client, Sean, who I call “Face Plant.” I’ve named him this because nine times out of ten when I arrive at his house, he’s lying passed out with his face planted into the kitchen floor. He comes up with a variety of excuses for this behavior. My favorite is that he has to lie, passed out, on the floor at noon on a Monday because his back hurts. Lying this way and innocently falling asleep helps relieve the pressure on his back because “I’m staying sober, Julie, I swear.” I think it was 1998 the last time this guy passed a urine test. Contaminants from public restrooms, he swears. At least he’s not molesting children, I suppose. Regardless, he’ll never get his daughter back.
    If I could believe Tom did this, I’d be naming him too. Maybe Cult Leader or something like it. Faith would love that! Knowing he didn’t do it, I can’t even joke about the Nelson case. Instead, I lie awake at night thinking of Heather and her anger toward the girls and Tom in his cell. As Oliver bats pictures off my walls, I toss and turn, trying to find ways to help them. Or, on worse nights, trying to get myself to believe the girls. It never works. Like it or not, destructive or not, they’re lying. No matter how much time I spend worrying, there’s not a thing I can do about it.
    Last night, I sat up for hours researching how common it is for children to lie about sexual abuse. I found that it’s not common at all, at least, not according to those of us who work in the field. That’s what scares me. I watch the workers at DCYF rolling their eyes at parents before the parents have even said hello. How accurate can statistics reported by opinions of social workers who have seen too much be? I know that we come to cases with a bias. I try to remind myself we aren’t just coming into cases, we are coming into people’s lives and homes and have as much power to destroy them as Laina and Faith and any other child for that matter. It’s a lesson the girls have taught me that I’m thankful for. I’ve vowed to go into homes now with a more open mind.
    I’m not like the other social workers I know. They’ve never had a case like the Nelsons either. Their minds are made up. “The father did it, why else would two of the girls be running wild like this? You have to admit, Juliet, there was a change in behavior and it was pretty startling. And what’s with them always wanting older men? Daddy issues much?” they say, or some version of it. I see their point, but again, I’ve also heard too much. Until you meet a family like the Nelsons and get in there and see how things really work in the home, you just can’t fully understand. It’s hard to be open-minded.
    I avoid the office now. I can feel the eyes of other caseworkers on me. I know they’re thinking I’ve lost my mind and have turned to the dark side. They view me as another Heather, enabling a pedophile, and wish I’d resign. I wish I could resign. I can’t do it, though. Not just yet. I often fantasize about selling clothes at the mall or going back to waitressing. But allowing something like this to happen and walking away feels to me as bad as allowing someone to hurt a child. I can’t do either one. And so, I pop Xanax in a way that would make Face Plant jealous, and I get up and go to work each day. Luckily, most of my time is out of the office and in my car. I’ve found all the hotspots for web access: McDonalds, Subway, Panera. I post quotes to my Pinterest account screaming things like “If one person stands up and says ‘hey, that’s wrong,’ other people will listen” and “You’ve got to stand for something or you’ll fall for anything.” It helps on days when I don’t feel strong. Laina and Faith take a lot of energy, and I’m tired. I can’t imagine where Heather must be. Nine kids. Nine lives. Nothing left to