“Poe,” I tell her in a slightly challenging demeanor.
She picks her book back up and doesn’t even bother looking at me when she addresses me. “Poe wrote stories, not poetry. I’m only in junior high and I’ve even read ‘Tell Tale Heart’,” she says dismissively.
I pause for a second, examining her reaction to my choice, and then I laugh…loudly. The sound grabs her attention and she looks back up at me with confusion plaguing her expression. “What?” Her confidence wanes and I see the fractures in her tough exterior, her insecurities pouring out.
I sit down on the other side of the couch and fling my ankle across my knee to get comfortable. “Sorry. Edgar Allen Poe did a lot more than just dark stories that you read in middle school. Some of my favorite writing from him are his poems, many of which are a lot lighter. Loss and dark wrapped around the light of love.”
The girl puts her book down once more and gives me her full attention. I notice the scribblings on her arm again but she crosses them, hiding the markings, though not in a suspicious way.
“They are just drawings. I do it when I’m bored. It’s not what you’re thinking,” she defends when she notices me looking at her arms.
“I didn’t ask and I wasn’t going to pry,” I tell her. “If you need to tell me anything, I figure you’ll tell me.”
I’m sure she gets asked the question often. I knew a girl in the group home I lived in who was a cutter. She would hide the crimson lines along her inner thighs and arms with pants and long sleeves, but living in a group situation, it was hard to hide. Finally, a therapist joined the staff who suggested she draw patterns on her skin–turn the hurt into a different kind of beautiful. If she felt the need to cut, she was supposed to draw. I never saw how it would help, the pain was the release after all, but somehow she was able to battle the urge.
“No really,” she insists, holding out her arms in front of me. “I don’t always have paper, and I don’t want to draw on the books from the library, so I use my skin. It helps me keep my mind off of things I’d rather not think about.”
I nod in acceptance of her answer. Even if she did self-harm, that wasn’t something she was going to share with a complete stranger. I look at her arms one more time and see no previous scars nor any fresh markings. There is no need to push this girl to possibly confess something.
“So tell me about Poe,” she asks after a long pause that has her squirming in her seat.
I turn to better face her and relax into the cushioning of the couch. “There really isn’t anything to share. His work can mean a lot of things to a reader. For me, I like how even when it feels like the darkness may swallow you whole, there is always a light, a memory of how your world may not be what it seems.”
She smiles and nods slowly. “I can understand that. For a long time, I refused to give up on my mom. I really believed she would eventually get her life together because she loved me enough to do it. Then when it didn’t happen, I thought, maybe I would find a family to adopt me. But now that I’m at the facility and my world is what it is, I try to find the light to make it to the other side. I figure I have to love myself enough to not be a statistic.”
I offer a tight smile as an image of my younger self is reflected back at me. I feel a pull to this girl that I don’t even have a name for. Fifteen years ago, this would have been me sitting on this couch with my book of poetry and funky clothing. A simple girl who had just wanted a family but gave up on that dream, in hopes of just making it. My heart aches for the girl I was and the one before me.
“If I learned anything from my time in the system, it’s that you have to maintain focus on the end of the tunnel. It’s when you lose sight of what you want that you get lost. Sometimes there is no one but yourself to pull you back on course.”
She looks gravely down at her lap and briskly nods as though I’ve confirmed her worst fear. It feels like I’ve upset her. The kids come here to escape their lives, get a break, and here I’ve made this poor kid feel like shit with my philosophy 101.
“Check him out though, I think you’ll like his poetry,” I say, standing and moving away from the couch, ready to give her some space, now that I’ve shit all over her day.
Her head snaps up and moves closer to the edge of her couch cushion. “You don’t have to go,” she says.
“I better make my way around to the others. You know, see if I can make an attempt at sentence diagraming or maybe lose a game at ping pong. I’ll be around though.”
“Okay,” she says with a nod. “I’ll be sure to grab Poe next time I’m at the library.”
“You should. It was nice to meet you. I’ll see you around again some time.” I turn and take a few steps before she shouts back at me, prompting me to turn around.
“My name is Leah by the way,” she hollers, her eyes scan the room, looking to see if anyone noticed her outburst. “I don’t think I told you,” she adds in more of a hushed tone.
I smile at her attempt at manners. “I’m Campbell. I hope to see you again, Leah.”
Her eyes light up, a spark of hope, a flickering of light at the end of the tunnel shining back at me. Her soul is begging to be held onto, pleading for something she’s lost, the same something I once lost, too.
Someone to care.
Someone to love.
Someone who won’t let go.
Instead of wandering the room, I travel back down the office hallway from which I came and burst into Vivian’s office. She’s rocking Joslyn and before she can hush me, I ask her for something I don’t think she can give me.
“I want all of the information you have on that girl, Leah, who is out in the commons area. I want case files, phone numbers to caseworkers, everything you have access to, and want it before that girl leaves here.”
Her eyes widen at my abrupt demands. I don’t normally demand anything of anyone, but this overwhelming feeling to help this girl, strikes a chord. Maybe somehow by helping her find a permanent home, the lost girl I once was, who still exists in my heart and in the dark recesses of my mind, will finally be laid to rest.
I don’t know how, but somehow I will make things right.
Campbell
I should know by now that things don’t go as planned in my world. Life has been a constant teeter-totter, so I just grip onto the handle and hope to stay on.
Vivian had nothing in her records at the foundation about Leah, only a first and last name she used to sign in at the front desk. I called around to the different social service departments and, of course, I was given no information. I should have known better. Lakin stepped in and offered to use his investigator to find out, at least, a backstory. We were supposed to be meeting to go through everything he discovered when life stepped in and put everything on hold.
My phone rang, and on the line was someone who would be calling for only one reason.
“Get here as quickly as you can. There isn’t much time left,” is all he said. Evan didn’t need to say anything else. My focus changed instantly. Leah would have to wait; my past was calling.
I didn’t tell Lakin where I was going; I just grabbed the file and left.
It took almost an hour to reach Sharon’s house. I drove as quickly as I could, hoping I would make it in time.
But now, I’m sitting outside her house, the same house I left so many years ago, and I’m finding it difficult to leave my car and go in. When I got the news that her cancer was back and had metastasized, I knew this battle wouldn’t go our way this time. I knew this day would come, but now that it’s here, I can’t bring myself to face it.