Carly’s Voice (37 page)

Early the next morning we phoned the police department near Cedarview. They would
continue their investigation, they said, but we needed to try to get a statement from
Carly in their presence. It was a rainy, raw Sunday morning and we headed north, playing
the situation over and over in our heads, verbally wringing our hands. Carly would
be home in Toronto with no support network, no staff, no school. Once again we were
drowning in the whirlpool of autism. And now with a trauma to add to her already challenged
life.

Carly was driven from Cedarview by two female staff members and we met her there along
with Barb, who had driven down from her cottage where she and her husband were spending
the weekend. We knew we needed all the help we could get if we were hoping to get
a meaningful statement. In a dreary room with one-way glass and drab furniture, Barb
and the police officers tried for two hours to elicit answers to their questions.
Despite best efforts, the stress of the situation won out and Carly was unable to
type her statement.
Instead, she rolled on the floor crying hysterically until we drove her home.

There was no time to feel the remorse that would ultimately worm its way into my soul.
I could take a few days off work to come up with a plan, but by the end of the week
we needed to create a new life for Carly in Toronto. After Tammy and Carly came home
from seeing the pediatrician the next morning, we got on the phone desperately looking
to put together a schedule that would include days, but equally important support
for us at night given Carly’s unpredictable sleeping patterns. It was triage. While
we knew we’d need to deal with the emotional fallout the abuse would cause, we first
needed terra firma. While we were tossing around the logistical hot potato of planning
this next phase of Carly’s life, my anger burned—though there was little time for
revenge, much less justice.

Autism Resources, the team that managed Carly’s staff and therapy while at respite,
jumped into high gear. The founders and directors, a married couple who were both
psychologists, also ran a day school for children with autism. Although Carly would
be the oldest student, they created space and a program for her beginning the following
week. Howard offered to come in the mornings to get Carly to school and in the afternoons
to support her at home. This gave him time off during the day to be with his wife
and young son. But that still left us weekends and holidays with no coverage. Even
though she was thirteen, every moment of Carly’s day required a plan and a backup
plan. And we knew then that after this crisis, the Parkdale house—another group facility
not so different from Cedarview—would never be home to Carly.

Again, Autism Resources came to our rescue. The cousin of one of the directors was
a social worker who also had experience as a foster mother. These days, she mostly
took in exchange students living and studying in Toronto for a few months at a time.
Darlene
had just moved into a large, modern house midway between the Autism Resources school
and our house. She was experienced, having worked with young adults suffering from
brain trauma. Despite the betrayal we had just experienced, we knew we were unable
to live with Carly full-time at home and agreed to experiment with a night or two
a week in Darlene’s home. The house was a home; it was close by where we could easily
supervise it; there would be no men present.

When Tammy and I went to meet Darlene, she enthusiastically gave us a tour, pointing
out plans she had for improvements that would enable Carly to have room to work with
her therapists, a fenced-in backyard, a deck, and her own bedroom and bathroom. Darlene
had large, serious eyes and a demeanor that suggested she knew the drill. But along
with a tough exterior, she showed tremendous empathy for Carly’s situation and a keen
interest to be more than just a landlord, but a mentor as well. Darlene had two grown
children of her own, which I found somehow reassuring.

The school and respite plan looked perfect on paper. If I could compartmentalize the
raw emotion of handing my child over once again to a complete stranger, then this
arrangement looked plausible. A good thing, too, because it was the only option we
had. A move like this would require a final stamp of approval from Dennison Children’s
Services, the agency that had been funding Carly’s respite care—a stroke of a pen,
we were assured. After a flurry of emails, phone calls, and meetings to review the
proposal, Dennison Youth Services granted consent.

Carly had been home for three weeks now, and already we were feeling the strain. Once
again the house was filled with streams of therapists, noise levels at the pitch of
a dog kennel, and Carly’s boundless energy. Any guilt at having Carly leave our sight
was mitigated by the stress of having her home full-time. I didn’t dare
ask how she felt about being told she would still need respite. This wasn’t a decision
in which she had a choice. None of us did.

After a few overnight trials, however, we were pleasantly surprised at how easily
Carly transitioned to the situation. Howard spent a few extra hours with Darlene and
Carly, and we arranged for shifts of Autism Resources workers for evenings and weekends.
Momentum built quickly and within weeks, Darlene and staff were taking Carly swimming
and for outings to the country, shopping, and exploring the city. We noticed as the
spring wore on that Carly seemed to
look
better. Not that she was ever heavy, but with increased activity and better eating
habits, her body slimmed down. Her complexion looked smoother and brighter, her hair
thicker. As best we could tell, she seemed happy.

We began thinking that if Darlene was up for it, this was a far better alternative
to Parkdale in the fall when Carly got home from camp. Despite our months of effort
to launch Parkdale, it was no longer a palatable solution. If Carly wasn’t in our
home, we felt better that she was in
someone’s
home, not an institution. Darlene’s house was host to an ancient dog named Abuksheesh,
a huge aquarium of exotic fish, and her photographs and collections of artsy tchotchkes.
And Darlene’s elderly neighbors with tomato plants in their yard sure beat the ones
in Parkdale, with track marks on their arms.

With a plan in place, Tammy pressed for justice. The police investigation of Carly’s
allegations crawled along. The detectives had interviewed all the staff at Cedarview.
“Was it possible for the man in question to have access to Carly’s room? Was she ever
left unattended? Were there times when there was no other staff on the floor where
Carly’s room was?” We were not made privy to the responses, but all of the above were
possible. Carly’s room was at the end of a short hallway, out of view of the other
bedrooms. Night staff did not routinely stay on the floor where the bedrooms were;
they were responsible for doing laundry and other chores after the
residents were asleep. In our minds, with staff often attending to other duties during
the evening, we were confident that the accused could have had access to Carly’s room
without anyone else knowing. In fact, when we spoke with a staff member the day we
took Carly home, she encouraged us to pursue the matter with police. We took that
to mean she knew something.

The investigation, which required looking for DNA on Carly’s bedding (which had been
washed frequently), took several months. Not surprisingly, none of the employees had
witnessed anything, and the forensic work turned up no evidence. The staff member
who had encouraged us to call the police entered an official statement that she did
not see how the man could have had access to Carly’s room.

A month or two had passed, and Carly was sufficiently calm to broach the topic of
her abuse again. She agreed to speak with police, if they came to our house. The investigators,
a man and a woman, arrived and sat in our kitchen alongside Tammy and Barb and repeated
many of the questions they had put to Carly at the police station. Again, she gave
the same description of events she had recounted to Tammy and her therapist several
months earlier. In between typing her answers, she cried and slapped the table, clearly
in distress. But over several sessions, she persevered. Her description was consistent,
and it sickened us every time she recounted it.

The victim in these types of abuse cases, we were told, is not a reliable witness—and
one like Carly who has autism and is nonverbal is particularly problematic. Tammy
and I were infuriated, as Carly was in fact the only one who
could
speak up and right the wrong. She could not only be an advocate for herself, but
in doing so set an example for other victims. And yet it seemed the law could not
protect the most vulnerable. As the case weakened, our conviction to support our daughter
grew. In removing Carly from Cedarview, we had pulled the knife out, but the wound
would take years
to heal. Since she had returned home, Carly had been plagued with nightmares and bedwetting,
both of which her doctors believed to be consistent with trauma. We encouraged her
to write about her experience and talk to a psychologist.

One of the specialists we sought help from was Dr. Nancy Robards. Nancy, one of Canada’s
top experts in autism, had recently agreed to start seeing Carly again even though
much of her time was absorbed by her role as researcher. We had consulted with Dr.
Robards and her team many years earlier when Carly was first diagnosed and had kept
in touch. Parents like us know the value of networks and connections. Sometimes it’s
all we have.

Carly had a fondness for Dr. Robards. It was easy to see why. Nancy’s warmth and commitment
was apparent from the first moment we walked into her offices years before. She had
a patient manner of listening to Carly and a thoughtfulness that gave us hope when
we were feeling especially hopeless. We never left an appointment without a clear
action plan. On the rare occasions we had to call her on her personal cell phone,
we were never made to feel like we were intruding, although sometimes I wondered if
I would be as accommodating.

One afternoon after a particularly restless night, Carly wrote a note to Nancy.

“Dear Cool Doctor,”
Carly began. She had taken to calling Dr. Robards the “Cool Doctor” because she spoke
directly to Carly, treating her as an ally in her treatment, not a patient. She continued,

I need your help. Last night I had a really bad nightmare. I did not feel safe the
whole night afterwards. Even though it was a dream it reminded me of what happened
at Cedarview. I started freaking out and I could not stop.

My mom came in the room and told me to stop and even told me I cant go to L.A if I
act like this way. But how do I tell her it’s not my
fault. She has a preconceived notion that it’s easy to behave or that it’s in my power
to stop it. If only that was true.

I wish I could turn my dreams off. But I can’t. And I am too scared when I wake up.
I don’t find I sleep well any more. I find when I’m not in a deep sleep the dreams
come.

I need new night time medicine. The liquid meds don’t work. They make my body silly.

My dad does not think you will be able to find any thing else to help me sleep but
I can tell you this one is not working.

I have faith in you.

Barb thinks I should talk to a professional about my dreams and what happened to me.

I am scared to, but I agree.

Please, please, please help me.

Your cool patient,
Carly

Through Dr. Robards we met a therapist who had helped victims of abuse and, in particular,
young adults with autism. Beth was a godsend. She would come to our house and meet
with Carly, Howard taking a backseat on the couch while the two women talked. These
discussions were private—a piece of our daughter’s world we would never see. In the
months that followed, the therapy helped Carly find some peace and she seemed more
relaxed. Her sleep improved, although an uninterrupted eight or nine hours with Carly
is something we never rely on, even now. Over the coming months, she complained less
frequently of nightmares and moodiness.

While Carly worked hard to make sense of and peace with her trauma, we found little
satisfaction in the delivery of justice. About eight months after Carly left the respite
program, Tammy and I drove up to the local court handling the matter for a meeting
with
the Crown Attorney. We met together with the judge assigned to the matter and the
police for a case review. They said upon examining all the facts that there was insufficient
proof to proceed with an indictment. The witnesses were inconsistent, our daughter
would be seen as unreliable, and there was no DNA or physical evidence. “Unless anyone
else comes forward or new evidence is found, I don’t have enough to prosecute,” the
Crown Attorney concluded.

While the case may be legally closed, it will never be closed for me. On good days,
I can forget that I dangled my daughter in the mouth of the lion. On the bad ones,
the guilt rises through me, a vapor burning my insides. Several years later, Carly
told us she would one day be able to come to terms with the hurt and move on. Despite
the betrayal and torment, she loved us and forgave us. Once again I realized how much
I had to learn from my daughter. Perhaps one day I, too, will forgive. But just now,
I’m the last on my forgiveness list.