Hell Found Me

Hell found me. It found all of us. We heard its door slam shut; we heard the lock click; we heard the ensuing silence. And it was deafening. Sentenced by a man in a black robe, there was no way out. Not for us. Not for me. Not ever.

Hell was hidden in the judge’s eyes that morning, a man of justice, or so we thought, until his final decision was made with a glance at his watch and a mental coin toss. His decision was based on neither reason, nor fact, nor love. As I held my breath, I watched him mentally toss the symbolic coin in the air. I watched, horrified, as my mind joined his and I could see the coin as it spun around and around, rotating in the air with sunlight and heaven glinting off one side and darkness and hell on the other. The coin came to rest with a thud. It landed in total darkness.

I’m sixty one years old. If I live fourteen more years my sentence to hell might be commuted and I might be able to see her again. But a closed adoption doesn’t leave you phone messages telling you where they have moved; it doesn’t send you post cards saying you are missed; it doesn’t ask you to come to rescue her; and it doesn’t let you send letters saying “I love you”. What are my chances of ever seeing her again? The best I can hope for is that my kids will see her for me when she turns 18 and tell her of my love for her. That thought is the only thing that keeps me going.

She was 15 months old when I first saw her, a beautiful little princess dressed in a sundress and a matching hat, clinging to the neck of my soon to be daughter-in-law. She looked at me through sad, blue eyes and clung even tighter to Janet.

Who is she?” I asked.

“My friend’s baby,” said Janet. “Her name is Abigail, Abby for short. Bill and I are taking her for pizza tonight. He’s never met her before, but I know he’ll love her.” How prophetic those words were to become.

She watched me from the safety of Janet's arms with an aloofness that was disconcerting. I know that’s a strange word to use in conjunction with a baby, but aloof is exactly the right word. She had a wariness in her eyes that didn’t belong in the gaze of a child that young and you could tell she was reserving judgement on us. How old is her soul, I wondered, and what has she been subjected to during her short time here on this earth? As the story unfolded over the next couple of weeks, I learned she lived in a foster home, put there by the state because her mother was in prison for drugs. The poor little thing, I thought, as my heart melted.

Over the course of the next 2 years, she became part of our family, a permanent addition to our holiday and family celebrations. I fell head over heels in love. Her foster family didn’t mind us taking her every other weekend or even during the week if we had a birthday cake and ice cream for one or her ‘aunts’ or ‘uncles’ after supper. She was always with us. My son, Bill, and Janet got married, bought a beautiful three-bedroom home in the suburbs and always, at the forefront of their minds, was the thought that they would adopt Abby and she would be with us forever.

Knock. Knock.

“Hi, it’s the State. Can I come in?”

The State said Abby's mother was fit enough to have custody and she was being released from jail. At the age of 19 months, they took her from the comfort of her foster home and from the people who loved her. In exchange, Abby got her mother, a woman she didn’t even know. She was sentenced to live with a total stranger in one room. We were told not to pack a lot of clothes or a lot of toys because there would be no room for them. When the shelter was full, she was bounced to a hotel room, and then back to the shelter. She lost the few toys she had during each move and lost the security of sleeping in the same crib. Her only respite was her weekends with Janet and Bill. They were the one constant in her life, the ones she could always depend on and feel safe with. And every weekend they had her, they shared her with us. How we loved her. We showered her with affection, we gave her needed and unneeded clothes, we gave her toys that she didn’t have, and most important of all, we gave her love. We gave her continuity in a world that was constantly changing for her. She called me ‘Nana’ and my husband “Papa’. Oh, how she loved her Papa. You could hear her calling him before their car came to a stop in the driveway. “Papa, Papa, Papa!”

Knock. Knock.

“Hi. State here again.”

Her mother got caught with drugs again and the State took Abby away from her. This time they gave her to Bill and Janet. She was 26 months old and had spent the last 7 months in one room. She finally had a house to live in, her own room with her own bed, and her own toys that didn’t have to be shared and fought over with every child in the shelter. Papa and I took her to Disney World and watched her face light up at the sight of It’s A Small World. She was only 2 and too young to comprehend, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying what she saw. She swam in a pool and splashed in the ocean. She was cuddled, kissed and hugged by the whole family. She knew she was loved and she was happy.

Knock. Knock.

“It’s the State. Let me in.”

They were at the door. Abby was 29 months old. She had to go back to her mother because her mother was getting better, said the State. With heavy hearts and eyes filled with tears, we packed some of her clothes and toys. We knew the drill by now. Just pack a few things and we’ll be over to get her was the compassionate instructions we received. There was no thought given to Abby’s feelings or to ours. She was being sent back to a one room shelter; back to attending day care and riding a subway in zero degree temperatures at 7 o’clock in the morning; and back to the highest crime area of the inner city. But, worst of all, she thought she was going back to the ‘scary man’. The man we always had to make sure wasn’t in the house. She was just starting to believe us when we told her there was no scary man at Bill’s house or Nana’s house. We didn’t allow it. No scary man. No way. Not allowed.

Knock. Knock.

“Hi, it’s me, the State. Answer your phone.”

Abby had just celebrated her 3rd birthday. Her mother was back in jail. The drug monkey was on her back again. Abby moved back with Bill and Janet, happy to be back with them and back into her own room, but this time she missed her mother. “Where’s Mommy?” she would ask Janet. She was getting older and could remember things now and she didn’t understand where her mother had gone. She had been abandoned once again. It took a few weeks, but her memory faded and she was happy again. She loved Bill and Janet. She loved ‘Nana’ and ‘Papa’. And she loved all her ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’ who doted on her and loved her beyond life itself.

Knock. Knock.

“Hello,” said the State. “We have news.”

Abby’s foolish mother wouldn’t sign the adoption papers and give her to Bill and Janet, even though they offered her an open adoption so she could continue to play a major role in Abby’s life. She would rather take her chances with a new foster family, one who didn’t want to adopt her. She wanted her back when she got well. Her lawyer warned her not to do it, that she might not win in the future. He also warned her that if Abby went to another family, Bill and Janet might not win either. That was OK, she said. She was sure the State would give her daughter back to her.

Abby was going to strangers. How could the State do this to her? How could the State do this to us? She loves us. We love her. Doesn’t the State know that by now? Would the new family be good to her? Would she think we sent her away? Would she feel betrayed? She’s not a baby anymore. She knows she has to leave, and she is crying. So are we.

Knock. Knock.

“Dear, people,” said the State.

“You can’t have her every other weekend anymore. The new family thinks it’s too much. You may have her every 3rd weekend.”

“What? But every two weeks was the deal!”

“There was no deal,” said the State. “We do what we want.”

Knock. Knock.

“Hello, State here again. Listen up."

A weekend is too long a time for Abby to be gone. She has too hard a time adjusting when she returns to her foster family. Saturday night, every third weekend is all you can have.”

“Who’s making up all these rules?” Bill and Janet asked.

“The new family is,” said the State. “They think they want to adopt her.”

“But they can’t,” we yelled.

“But they want to,” said the State.

Knock. Knock.

“State here, again. Open the door.”

Oh, by the way, those visits need to be cut. Abby is too hard to handle when she returns home. You may see her for 4 hours, once a month.

“Wait a minute,” yelled Bill and Janet. “Did you ever wonder why she doesn’t want to go back to that family? She’s been with them long enough that she should be settled in there and beginning to forget about us. What’s going on? You better find out!”

“You better be careful,” said the State, “or you won’t see her at all.”

Knock. Knock.

“Two court cases have been scheduled,” said the State.

One case would decide if Abby’s mother would be allowed to keep her. If the State decided no, then the next case would decide between Bill and Janet and the other family. You know the one. Yes, that one - the family who had no interest in adopting her.

Knock. Knock.

“The first case is settled,” said the State.

She lost her child, with no chance of getting her back. They took Abby away. Now she wants Bill and Janet to have her.

Knock. Knock.

“We will decide,” said the State. “Not you.”

We love her so much, said Janet and Bill and Nana and Papa and all her aunts and uncles. See this photo album of her life with us? See her celebrate all her birthdays with us? See her celebrate all the holidays with us? See the kisses she gives us? See the love we give to her?

Knock. Knock.

“The second case is settled,” said the State. "You people can all got to hell."

Hell's talons ripped open my chest and grabbed my heart, strangling it until it was broken and bleeding. I watched through my tears of anguish as they took Abby from the courtroom and away from us for the last time.

“We didn’t abandon you, Baby, honest,” I whispered. “We’ll always love you.”