Retrieval VI -Tween

It was brought to my attention by Franz that part of the problem of recurring life crashes also comes from the experience I had as a young girl and teenager. When the adoptive mother died, the adoptive father went into a severe depression. Oh, he went to work every day, but there was no food except potatoes and beans, no medical care for the child, no money for clothes or sanitary supplies (let alone going out with friends). Some of this was ameliorated by the advent of friends of his when the child was 14, but the damage - physical, emotional, mental - had been done.

So Claire and I go to the house of my childhood, dressed in business clothes, under the shade of the elm trees, and up the path. Claire reminds me very much in clothes and manner of Dana Scully [X Files]. The house has not yet been turned into a monstrosity, as it was later at the behest of his third wife. We ring the bell and wait. Behind the coloured glass of the door, there is a figure. It bends, peering out the letterbox.

'We are from Child Protective Services,' says Claire crisply. 'Will you open the door please?'
The door opens with slow caution. There is a thin child with dark circles under her eyes. About 12 years old. Wearing cheap, shabby, too-small tank top and shorts. She looks at us fearfully.
C: May we come in?
The girl stares at us.
C: we are here to help you. We won't hurt you.
She flashes a County employee badge. The girl nods, and opens the door wider.
C: Where is your father?
D: Out. I don't know where.
She is stammering.
C: That's as well.

We go inside and sit on the sofa in the living room. The child is sitting on the ottoman. No shoes. Claire takes firm but gentle charge.
C: I am Miss Offreduccio [St. Clare's last name]. I would like to ask you some questions about how you are doing.
D: Who sent you?
She is still stammering in fear.
K: A neighbour... Mary Lou. She is concerned about you.
This neighbour actually was apparently concerned at the time. She nods.
Claire proceeds to ask her how often the parent is gone, what she eats and how often, and asks if she has adequate clothes and medical care. writing down all the answers on a clipboard she has pulled from her briefcase. She betrays no emotion, simply nods and writes. At length, however, the girl is crying and she looks up with empathy.
C: you don't have to worry any more, D. You will be taken care of now. I promise.
D: what about him? [the adoptive father]
C: We will deal with him. Don't worry.
She stands up and looks at me.
C: Miss Watters will help you pack the things you want to take with you and change your clothes. Then we will go to a nice place where you will be looked after.

So saying, I take the child to her room, letting her lead the way, even though I know it. We search the closet for a dress. My hand hovers over the green-flocked white one that was worn to the adoptive mother's funeral.
D: Not that! I hate it. Burn it!
I pick a red plaid cotton instead. It is rather too small, being 3 years old, but clean. We search for whole undergarments and shoes. The only nice shoes are also too small. We opt for sandals. When she is dressed, I fix her hair in an ingenue style, half-up in a ponytail, and tie it up with ribbon.
Then I help her pack an old suitcase with the small treasures she wants to bring. We are ready.

We go out, and Claire has left a note on the dining table to the 'adoptive father' [who is of course not there; the girl has been alone all this while.] Nodding to us, she ushers us out and closes the door firmly.
C: Let's go.
Taking the girl by the hand, we walk to the end of the large street adjacent to the house and turn, upwards toward what would be a bridge over the river, but we are speeding along toward the Children's Centre.

At the Centre, we are greeted warmly by the Directress, who is out in front. Then, Patricia, my sister, comes running down the steps and flings herself with joy on the girl, who is crying now for a different reason. She is the same age as the girl [for convenience's sake]. and, arms intertwined, they go inside without a backward glance. She will be quickly assimilated with the other fragmented parts, and go to live with her sister in her cottage.

I feel emotional. The long nightmare legacy of want and deprivation, of no one to care for that young girl at a critical time in her life, is over.
Finit. Amen.

C: Apart from the resonance [of herself, St. Clare], the desire to escape to safety and being cared for forever was a large unconscious part of the motivation to be a Poor Clare.
K: Yes, I can see that.
C: It's not a reason for not being accepted, or remaining, but several key elements would have been missed [my kids, my brothers...]
K: Noted.
She smiles at me, St. Clare's brilliant smile.
C: Let's go home, shall we?