Little Mercies (24 page)

“What just happened?” Adam asks.

“Prieto is going to drop the charges. It might take him a few days, but he’ll drop them. We’ll send him a new affidavit every few days just as a reminder,” Ted says as he stands and we all follow suit.

“All those affidavits. Who?” I ask in bewilderment.

“Jade Tharp for one,” Joe says. “She couldn’t stand to see what was happening to you, so she came forward, wanting to help. She said you changed her life. That she couldn’t stand by after she gave Avery CPR and see her kept away from you any longer. Manda Hoskins, too. She said that you saved her life and the lives of her children the day you came to her house. She felt horrible that you could lose Avery when all you were trying to do was to save her girls. It avalanched from there. It will be professional suicide for Prieto to keep on pursuing this.”

It hits me then. The overwhelming support from my clients, the “unfounded” ruling by the Peosta Department of Human Services, only one thing matters. “Avery. I can go see Avery,” I whisper.

“Yes, you can.” Caren smiles. “The protective order has been lifted. You can see Avery whenever and wherever you’d like to.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, hugging Ted, Joe, Caren and Adam. Each one in turn. “Thank you.”

Chapter 40

J
enny waited on the step of the front porch, Dolly sitting at her side. The Monday-morning sun was still hot, but the shade from the big tree shielded her face from the rays. Earlier Maudene had French-braided her hair and Jenny couldn’t stop nervously fingering the roped plait. Yesterday Maudene had taken her to the mall to buy some new clothes for the trip back to Benton and her new foster home. Jenny had never bought clothes at a mall before and kept trying to tell Maudene that she would pay her back, but Maudene just waved her hand and told her not to worry about it. Now, four pairs of shorts, five t-shirts, a light jacket, underwear, socks and a set of pajamas were folded neatly in the brand-new suitcase at her side.

Ruth, the social worker, said she would be there right at nine and it was nearing nine-fifteen. With each passing minute Jenny’s anxiety rose. It took about eight hours to drive to Benton and Jenny figured with bathroom breaks they would arrive around six o’clock that evening. Jenny wondered what her new foster family would be like. Ruth had said that they sounded like a very nice couple who had two teenage daughters of their own living with them. Ruth said that they were looking forward to meeting Jenny. Jenny wished she felt the same way.

Last night, Maudene had made a goodbye dinner for Jenny. Ellen, Leah and Lucas came, too. Jenny really didn’t understand it all, but knew that the trouble Ellen was in magically seemed to have gone away. Jenny wished the same thing would happen for her, that her father would get out of jail, stop drinking and get a job so they could live together again.

Maudene told her that she would make anything that Jenny would like to eat. She had carefully flipped through Maudene’s cookbooks until she came across a stained page with the corner folded down. It was the recipe for homemade chicken potpie. “How about this?” Jenny asked. “This looks good.”

A smile emerged on Maudene’s face. “That was my husband’s favorite,” she said quietly. For a minute Jenny was worried that this might upset Maudene, but Maudene began to pull ingredients from the cupboards and chattered happily about how Wes had loved her chicken potpie.

It was a happy dinner, Jenny thought. Everyone was much more relaxed, there was laughter. Jenny tried to enjoy herself, but the worry about what was to become of her ate away at her stomach. After they had eaten the potpie and the strawberry shortcake with fresh whipped cream that Jenny requested for dessert, Ellen turned serious. “Jenny, can we talk for a little bit? I have something to tell you about your mother.”

Jenny scowled. She didn’t want to hear anything about her mother. She was a terrible, awful person who said terrible, awful things to her. “I don’t care,” Jenny said with a scowl. “I hate her.”

“Come on,” Ellen said, pushing her chair away from the dining room table. “Let’s go sit out on the porch. It’s cooled off some.” Jenny followed Ellen out to the porch. The sun was low in the sky and a delicate breeze wound itself through the trees. Together they sat on the porch swing, Jenny’s feet lightly skimming the floor as they swayed. “I don’t think that your mom said those things because she didn’t want you. I think she said them because she loves you.”

Jenny planted her feet on the floor, causing them to stop midswing. “That doesn’t make sense,” Jenny said angrily.

“I know, I know. But think about it. Your mom was going to run away with you. She had her suitcase packed and you were buying tickets to Georgia when James found you.” When Jenny didn’t comment, Ellen continued. “Your mom wanted me to tell you she didn’t mean the things she said to you. She was just trying to protect you from James.”

“You talked to my mom?” Jenny asked with confusion.

Ellen sighed. “I did.” Ellen paused, gathering her thoughts. “I knew your mom for a while, Jenny. She and James had a little girl named Madalyn.”

Jenny thought about this. “I have a sister?”

“Madalyn died a few years ago, Jenny.” Ellen took a deep breath. “Your mother believes, and I do, too, that James hurt Madalyn so badly that she died. Your mother was afraid that James was going to hurt you and said those things to get you out of the car, away from James.”

Jenny thought about this. “If he’s so bad why isn’t he in jail?”

Ellen shook her head. “Things don’t always work out the way they should. But the important thing is that your mother does love you and wants the best for you.”

Jenny had tried to tamp down the hope that filled her chest. “Can I see her?”

“No, Jenny, you can’t,” Ellen said gently.

Jenny sat for a long time on the porch trying to digest what Ellen had told her. In one day she found her mother, lost her mother, learned that she had a sister and learned that she had lost a sister. It was too much. Now she was once again sitting on the porch waiting for Ruth to come and take her to live with a family she had never met before.

A car appeared and pulled up to the curb in front of Maudene’s house. Ruth emerged and gave Jenny a cheerful wave. Jenny stood and slid her hand across Dolly’s velvety head for reassurance. A second car pulled up and parked directly behind Ruth’s car. Jenny peered through the lacy leaves of the oak tree trying to see who it was. The figure that stepped from the second car was that of a woman with hair pulled up into a high ponytail. “Connie!” Jenny exclaimed, rushing down the steps, throwing herself into her arms. “You came!”

“Of course I did, silly,” Connie murmured. “Of course I did.”

Chapter 41

A
round one in the morning Adam falls asleep in the reclining chair in the corner of Avery’s hospital room. I find an extra blanket in the small closet and tuck it around him. I cannot sleep. Don’t want to fall asleep. I take my place in the chair next to Avery and watch her. The hospital room is not completely dark. The light from monitors casts a ghostly aura around Avery’s crib. She doesn’t appear to be suffering, but every once in a while a pained expression spasms across her face and a low-pitched whimper escapes her lips. I wonder where it hurts. In her nearly parboiled organs or maybe it’s her chest where Jade pressed down in quick, firm chest compressions. Maybe it’s the pinch of the IV needle. Or maybe she is recalling the straitjacket of her car seat, the suffocating temperature of the van rising rapidly, her unanswered cries for me. Maybe that’s what pains her.

A slice of bright light appears and then is gone as the night nurse slides deftly into the room. She turns on a small light over a counter and sees me sitting vigil. “Hi,” she whispers. “Remember me? I’m Meredith, Avery’s nurse tonight.”

“I do remember you,” I say. “Thank you for taking such good care of Avery.” Meredith seems too young to be a pediatric intensive care nurse, but she moves purposefully and efficiently. I watch as she works, washing her hands, slipping on gloves, quietly lowering Avery’s crib, taking her temperature, scrutinizing her IV site, checking the monitors, changing Avery’s diaper, tossing out the gloves, washing her hands again and finally turning her attention to me. “She’s resting comfortably,” she assures me. “And she’s passing urine. This is what we want—it shows us that her kidneys are functioning. If all goes well tonight we’ll move her to a regular pediatric floor.”

“Oh, thank God,” I say with relief. “Thank you. Can I hold her when she wakes up?”

“You can hold her right now if you’d like,” Meredith tells me.

“Really?” I ask in surprise. “Even if she’s asleep?”

“There are worse things than waking up in your mother’s arms. Sometimes that’s the best medicine. I can get a more comfortable chair in here for you,” she offers. “Another recliner if you’d like. Those chairs are brutal.”

“That’s okay,” I assure her. “This is fine. I just really want to hold her.” Meredith is already lowering the side of the crib. “Here, I’ll hand her to you. We just have to be careful of her IV tubing and monitors.” Carefully, Meredith transfers a still slumbering Avery into my awaiting arms. Immediately she snuggles more closely to me, as if even in sleep, she knows it’s me, recognizes my scent, my touch, the beat of my heart against hers. “Thank you,” I whisper gratefully to Meredith.

“No problem,” she answers. “I’ll stop back in a little bit to see if you need anything or press the call button and I’ll come running.” Meredith turns to leave, hesitates and walks back to me. “Two weeks ago,” she begins, “there was a little boy in here who was electrocuted when he poked a bobby pin into a light socket. Last week there was a little girl whose neck somehow got tangled up in a window blind cord and a little boy who choked on a hot dog.” I cannot respond. We have safety covers on every single one of our electrical outlets in our home. We have trimmed our window cords so that not even Leah can reach them. I rarely buy hot dogs, but when I do I cut them crosswise and lengthwise so there is no chance a piece will get lodged in my children’s throats. But I understand what she is trying to tell me. Accidents happen every day to everyday people. She’s trying to be kind, to offer some kind of comfort. She turns to leave but before she reaches the door I call out to her in a loud whisper. “Are they okay?” I ask.

Even in the dim light I can see her measuring her words. “I can’t comment on the specific situations,” she explains. “Some of the kids are going to be just fine. Some are not.” I want to ask if she knows if Avery will be one of those who ends up in the just fine group, but know that she doesn’t have the answer. That none of us do just yet.

There is something about holding a sleeping child. I remember when Leah was an infant and I had the time to just sit and hold her for hours at a time. It didn’t matter that there were stacks of dirty laundry piling up or dirty dishes in the sink. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t swept a floor, cleaned a toilet or cooked a decent meal. Leah didn’t care. All that mattered was that I was able to sit on the couch, cradling my newborn. I could sit and stare at her for hours. A few years later, when Lucas was born and Leah was a busy toddler demanding my full attention, I had less time to just hold him. When Leah was taking her nap or was off with Adam, I would greedily snatch Lucas from his crib or playpen and just sit and look at him. The arch of his eyebrow, the slope of his nose, the minuscule indentation in his chin. Then when Avery came along, it was nearly impossible. When I was able to hold her, I was either feeding her or carting her from one room to another while I picked up the dirty laundry or ran the vacuum cleaner or was helping Leah with her homework or tying Lucas’s tennis shoes for him. I wish I would have held Avery more. I wish I would have held that time as sacred for her as I did with Leah and Lucas. I would go back and take the time to memorize the way her dark hair curled around her ears, the curve of her cheek, the way her dimpled fingers clutched at my breast as she drank. I never paid attention. Now as I stare down at her, I try to see past the IV, see past the identification band wrapped around her ankle, the pulse oximeter attached to her foot, to memorize all that is Avery. Little mercies, I remind myself. Little mercies.

Epilogue

I
never thought I would get used to the institutional smell, the sight of worn-down women in orange with the word
prisoner
inscribed down one pant leg. The Iowa Correctional Center for Women in Cravenville houses over five hundred and forty women, including Deidra Olmstead. It could have been my home, as well, if it wasn’t for Joe Gaddey, Ruth Johnson and Jade Tharp, my former client and the woman who gave my daughter CPR when she was pulled from the car.

That was the first miracle. The second was Avery. Just two days after I was allowed to see her again, she was moved to the regular pediatric floor and three days after that she was discharged. I’m not so arrogant as to believe that my daughter’s recovery was due to my reentry into her life. I know it had everything to do with the excellent medical care she received and the prayers that so many had thrown up to the heavens on our behalf.

Her homecoming was a wonderful day. Adam, my mother, Lucas and Leah—we all went to the hospital to bring her home. I invited Joe to join us, as well, but he declined. He said that this was a special time and we needed this time alone as a family. I told him that he was like family to us and he smiled, a little sadly, I think, and said he would stop over once we were all settled in. We gathered up all the balloons, stuffed animals, cards and flowers that people had sent us over the weeks and piled them into our newly purchased car. The van could have been fixed but forever I would think of it as the place where my daughter almost died, so we traded it in and got an SUV. Once at home, we had cake and ice cream and Leah and Lucas showed off the huge “Welcome Home, Avery” sign they created.

My mother stops by almost every single day and when she doesn’t, we go over and see her or talk to one another on the phone. After taking several weeks of personal time to help me out with kids, she has returned to work at the restaurant. I know she is sad about Jenny going back to Nebraska, but she knows that it’s the best thing for Jenny, whose mother is now in prison at Cravenville for the murder of her husband. She pleaded guilty to manslaughter and will serve up to ten years. She was Prieto’s new project once he figured out that I wasn’t going to be the big case for him anymore. He initially charged her with first-degree murder and if Iowa had the death penalty would surely have fought to have Deidra die by lethal injection. With a little begging on my part, Ted Vitolo served as her pro bono attorney and as part of her defense requested the exhumation of little Madalyn’s remains. The judge denied the request.

I don’t think Deidra should have to serve ten years after what James Olmstead did to Jenny and to Madalyn, but I also know that Deidra is by no means innocent in all that had happened. She knew that James was abusive. She saw what James was capable of doing. She was his victim, as was Jenny, but she is Jenny’s mother and should have protected her. At the very least, she should have left James after she saw the beating he gave Jenny. But she didn’t. She went with him, had another child. And that child died. Deidra should have called the police, let them deal with James, but she didn’t. She shot him with his own gun while he slept in their bed.

I visit Deidra every few months at Cravenville, give her an update on how Jenny is doing, which by all accounts is amazingly well living with Connie. Deidra tells me that she writes letters to Jenny every week, asking her to come and see her. I advise her to give Jenny some time, that one day maybe they will find their way back to one another.

I resigned from my job as a social worker with the Department of Human Services. I didn’t have to, but thought it would be best for my family and for the department. Right now, all I want to do is be with my children. I take Leah and Lucas to school every day and then spend the day at home with Avery. I know that each minute with them is a gift. I also know that I will have to return to work one day soon. Adam’s teaching and coaching salary doesn’t cover all our expenses and I’m thinking about applying for a job as a social worker at a nursing home or with a hospice, but for now we are content having our family back together again.

I watch my children closely for any long-term damage that my inattentiveness, my neglect, has left behind. They seem fine, but I don’t know, not for sure. Leah is a bit clingier than she used to be, Lucas is the same worrier that he has always been and Avery appears, remarkably, back to normal both physically and emotionally. I guess time will tell.

For now, I will hug my children, will talk to my mother, kiss my husband, and tell them all every single day that I love them. Each day, each hour, each minute we have together is all I have. It restores me, slowly helps me forgive myself. Leaves me a little bit less broken. It’s all that I dare hope for, but it’s everything.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from ONE BREATH AWAY by Heather Gudenkauf.