Somebody Else's Kids (22 page)

“That sounds very nice. The problem is, I think we’ve already figured out the part about the sperm and ovum. What I was looking for was some sort of support group for this girl. Something to help her cope.”

“Oh.” Another, enlightened, “
Oh
” follows. Then, a long pause. “Well, that does sound like a nice idea, doesn’t it? Have you tried the Mental Health Center?”

Mental Health. I get a male psychologist on the line. “Hmmmmm,” he says meaningfully. “Hmmm-mmm. Ahmmmm.”

“You know,” I am saying, “I feel bad about this. The girl never had any information on birth control. In truth I don’t think she even knew that what she did could make her pregnant.”

“Mmmmmm. Yeees, terrible, isn’t it? We flaunt sexuality in front of these kids and then don’t teach them how to cope with it. Hmmmm. A different age than when you and I were kids, isn’t it? People don’t realize these little kids are even out doing it. You know,
it.”
He sounds like Tomaso.

“Exactly,” I say. “But what I was thinking of is that she needs some support in this. She’s only twelve.”

“Mmmmm. Mmm-hmmmm. I can see that. Therapy, do you think? Eh?”

“That would be nice. But I was just thinking of some group of girls sharing the same experience. Perhaps with a counselor. Just so she doesn’t feel so alone in this.”

“Hmmmm. That’s a hard one.”

“I’m afraid her parents wouldn’t go for therapy.”

“I see. Hmmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmm. That’s a hard one, all right. How about Planned Parenthood, have you tried them?

Planned Parenthood, a young woman with a thick English accent on the telephone this time.

“Twelve years old, is she?” she asks me. “Oh now isn’t that just terrible? A crying shame is what it is.”

“Yes, but …” I explain for the fourth time what I am looking for. I feel like a broken record.

“Does she know about birth control?”

“Apparently not.”

“Yes,” the young woman replies thoughtfully. “Apparently not, huh?” This strikes her as funny and she laughs. “Well, I could send you some literature on birth control.”

“What I need is to find a support group for this girl.” Or for me. Ha-ha.

“I could let you bring her in and we could talk to her. Will her parents allow her to be on the Pill? Young girls aren’t very reliable with a diaphragm.”

“I don’t really think we need birth control at the moment. She’s pregnant –”

“I don’t suppose we should be giving her anything without a parental permission slip. Especially with a twelve-year-old. Would the parents sign a slip?”

“Like I was saying, I’m not sure we need birth control right now.”

“How about some literature? Then if they want to investigate it further …”

“To be frank, we don’t need any birth control now.”

“Oh? Oh, I suppose not, huh? Well, what can I do for you?”

“A group?”

“We don’t have anything of that sort. Have you called the hospital? I understand a nurse up there has written a simply splendid book. Geared right to that age group.”

From the phone book I pick out a priest’s name at random, dial, recite my problem.

“Twelve years old, do you say?” He has a kindly voice.

“Yes. And I’m looking for a support group.”

“I know of only one. And I don’t even know if it’s running anymore. Up at the high school. Through the guidance department.”

Again I dial the high school guidance counselor. I raise my voice one or two steps and hope he will not recognize me.

“Yes, we do have a group,” he tells me. “How old is your daughter?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve? Twelve years old?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I am sorry, but we only accept girls who are sixteen or over.”

I sigh, too weary to do otherwise. “But she’s still pregnant.”

“I’m sorry. But in my opinion twelve would be just too young to be able to cope with the discussions. They’re mature discussions.”

God Almighty. She’s old enough to get pregnant but not old enough to talk about it? But I don’t say that. “You couldn’t make an exception? She’s a very mature twelve-year-old. She has a high IQ.”

“I’m sorry.”

One last call. I dial the school nurse, a casual acquaintance. I know she has nothing of this sort going but I hope she can give me some ideas. I must sound desperate because she tells me to slow down.

“Dorothy, I need some suggestions at least.”

“You got me stuck.”

“There has to be a need for such a group in a community this size. More than just for those the high school serves.”

She agrees. The problem, she feels, is in Claudia’s age, not her pregnancy. No one wants to acknowledge that a young child can and will get pregnant. As in such areas as physical or sexual abuse of children, the issue is too shocking to allow most people to accept it as a problem to be worked on. Maybe if they ignore it, it will go away.

While I understand her philosophy and agree, this will not help Claudia. “So there aren’t any groups?” I ask.

“It’s just too touchy.”

“Couldn’t we start something?”

Dorothy laughs. “Yeah. You’d start something all right.”

I
heard the screaming.

I did not think much of it at first. It was morning, about 10:25, and I was helping Bobby Beechinor with his spelling. The three other resource children in the room were playing a game at the worktable. So when the screaming started, I noted it but went back to work.

It stopped a moment, I think. Then resumed and came closer. It was like a siren in the hallway, high and undulating. Bobby now had his head up, cocked to one side to listen. The others paused. Definitely coming down our corridor.

Slam! Something hit against the closed door. Hard. Outside it the wailing continued, although more mutedly.

Bobby gave me a questioning look as I rose to investigate. Cautiously I turned the knob of the door to open it. The door would not move at first, but when I gently put my weight against it, I managed to push it open.

Lori.

Slumped against the other side of the door, both hands locked over the knob, she had slid to the floor, sobbing. Now she remained there, shoved back by the door’s opening, squeezed between the wall and the door itself. Only a low, moaning cry came from her.

“Lori? What’s wrong?” I was alarmed, my heart up in my throat, nauseating me. “Answer me!”

Abruptly, she bolted to life. Up on her feet, she whizzed past me into the room. Across she went, around the table, between the desks. On the far side by the window were two large built-in cabinets in which I kept art supplies. They were slightly elevated off the floor by two supports running the depth of them. Lori pulled the rug away from the front of one cabinet and deftly slid into the small space under it.

Astonished, I remained half in, half out of the door. What on earth was going on? The resource children were just as astounded. Bobby Beechinor had risen partway from his chair but was frozen in mid-move. Carrie Weems, who had been playing a game at the table, bent down to see under the cabinet.

“Lori?” I walked to the cabinet. Getting down on my hands and knees, I tried to see her. She was there, curled up with her hands protectively over her head. “Lori, what is going on? What’s wrong?”

The only response was her soft weeping.

I stood up. The resource kids stared in bewilderment. “Okay, everybody, just leave your stuff for today and go back to your rooms, all right. We’ll pick up from here tomorrow.”

“But it’s only ten-thirty, Torey,” Bobby said.

“Yeah. We’re not done with our game.”

“I know. But just do as I say, okay? We’ll finish another time.”

Quietly they collected their belongings. Within moments the room was empty except for Lori and me. I went back to the cabinet and stooped down. She was way back under. I think I could have reached her if I had been intent on it, but I did not try. Her hands remained over her head. The sobbing was still audible, heavy and disconsolate. The sound of a world out of control.

“Lor? It’s just me, babe. Everyone else left. Won’t you come out now and tell me what’s wrong?”

No indication she even heard me.

The door behind me opened. In came Dan Marshall and Edna Thorsen. They paused and looked around the room. I rose.

“She isn’t in here? I thought you said she came down here,” Dan said to Edna.

“She’s here,” I said. The sobbing was not audible from that part of the room, and both of them looked perplexed. I pointed. “She’s over under the art cabinet.”

“Oh Great Scott,” Edna muttered and threw her hands up.

Dan pulled his lips back in a grimace.

“I swear,” Edna said more to Dan than me, “that girl is as crazy as the day is long. She’s going to end up in a nuthouse yet.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your guess is as good as anybody’s. I think we ought to call up Mental Health and have them come cart her away. I really do, Dan. The girl is certifiably crazy. That’s all there is to it.”

Dan was watching over my shoulder for any sign of life under the art cabinet. He pulled at his chin thoughtfully with one hand.

“What happened?” I asked again.

“Who knows?” Edna replied. “We were in reading group like any other day of the week. She was with us as usual, and fooling around as usual too. I had just about had it with her and I told her so. And she got all upset. Vomited. All over her dress and the floor and Sandy Latham’s new shoes. No warning whatsoever out of a big girl like that. Just sitting there refusing to work like always and whoops! She urps all over us. Then up she bolts and goes screaming out the door like a lunatic. I tell you once and for all, the girl’s mad.”

Dan was shaking his head. “I’m worried about her.”

“And what does she do?” Edna continued. “She comes down here. Well, I naturally thought she was in the girls’ rest room. Here I am running up and down the halls chasing after the little stinker. If I hadn’t gotten Dan, I probably still would be. I told her she’d get the paddling of her life if she didn’t stop tearing up and down the halls screaming like that.”

For a brief moment all of us gazed in the direction of the cabinet. I had no idea what to do. In truth I was not even exactly sure I knew what had happened.

“Well, shall we get her out or what?” Dan asked. The question was as much to me as to Edna. Dan was a big man, in his late forties perhaps, and with the sort of gentleness many men about that age seem to have. He appeared genuinely perplexed by this untoward behavior on Lori’s part.

“No, wait, Dan. Don’t.” I put a hand on his sleeve.

He paused.

“Couldn’t we just leave her? She’s upset, whatever the reason. Let’s not aggravate it now.”

“Oh, Torey.” Edna’s voice was heavy with condescension. “Don’t play into her so. I know you mean well by Lori, but you just let her wrap you around her little finger sometimes.”

“The girl is upset and hiding under my cabinet, for gosh sakes. Whatever reason she thinks she has for doing that, I think she needs to pull herself together before we attack her. She’ll get upset all over again if we drag her out.”

Edna shrugged. “You’re too soft.”

I shrugged back.

“Even you have to admit that is not normal behavior.” Edna said. “That child is not behaving normally. She is definitely … what can you say? Disturbed? Even you have to agree with that.”

Wearily, I nodded.

“Well, see there?” Edna turned to Dan. “See, even Torey thinks she’s crazy. I don’t know why they persist in keeping her at this school with normal children. She can’t read, she can’t write, and now she’s nuts. Even Torey with all her degrees can see that. It’s time somebody does something about it.”

My opportunity. “So let’s just leave her here for now. This would be the best place for her anyway, wouldn’t it? In here? Let’s just all go back about our business and let her be. I’ll take care of it later.”

Edna tossed up her hands again and turned back to the door. “You can have her. Good riddance. That’s what I say. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

The snick of the latch as Dan closed the door behind them was a very finite sound. I looked over my shoulder at the art cabinet. I had not the faintest idea what to do.

“Lor? Lori? Are you all right?” Down on my hands and knees again, I peered under. Releasing the resource kids early had brought me about fifteen minutes in which to talk her out. “Come on, babe, won’t you come out and sit with me? We’re all alone and nobody’s going to hurt you.” I came closer so that my forehead was against the edge of the cabinet I could smell the stale sourness of vomit.

There was no response at all. The crying had stopped and now there was nothing to indicate she was any more alive than the lint under there.

Rising into a sitting position, I pressed my cheek against one knee and felt the rough cloth of my jeans. “Lor? Come on. Lor, come out.” Silence. I was feeling terrible, not only because she was so upset but also because I had not seen it coming. This behavior was an earmark of serious problems. Not having wanted to recognize Lori’s descent into disturbance, I had waited too long to intervene. And now here we were. I felt awful.