Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) (4 page)

              James, the retired school teacher was a man in his early sixties with grey hair, a twinkle in his eye and a good sense of humour,  His wife Hillary was a very well-dressed lady,  extremely polite, sweet and kind.  He was of Italian descent and Hillary was American.  Miriam’s former boss, Bill, was slightly older, a tall man, again with a good sense of humour and hail-fellow-well-met attitude.  His wife Julia was tall and of Dutch origin and both were extremely kind and willing to help us.  No one asked us any questions, so there was no need to tell lies.  It was accepted that I was a single Mum who had come to the States to build a new life for myself and my son.  They assumed as a writer that I sought new adventures and experience for my novels and certainly we were to have those – but not quite in the way we had planned.  We went to Church with the two couples and had lunch with them afterwards and life seemed quiet, uncomplicated and full of promise in our new found land of opportunity.  My little boy was in his element, looking forward to starting an American School where sport was a major feature – especially ice hockey and basketball and much to his delight there were no uniforms.  

              Each night we would walk from the
Travel Lodge
and look at our future home with longing and anticipation of our life to come.  We couldn’t wait to move in and I had never seen my son happier.  He was confident, full of energy and all his stress had lifted. At last I began to relax too.  It seemed nothing now could go wrong.

Chapter 4

              At last we had the keys to our new home.  We were going to spend one more night in the
Travel Lodge
as our beds were not due to arrive until the following day, but we were able to spend the evening at the house and James helped us move in the few belongings we had with us and the items of cutlery and crockery we had bought for our home – towels and other essentials.   Our ten thousand pounds sent to my uncle remained as elusive as our relatives.  I had called them only once to show them the house, but they had been less than positive.  There seemed to harbour a slight jealousy at what we had achieved without them.   Showing them where we lived was a decision I was later to regret.

              We had spent the last couple of weeks walking to the Mall, about a two mile walk, laden with duvets, pillows, household items and the basic essentials needed to get us started on our new life. Dad had managed to get some money to us now that we had an account set up. 

              I had been astonished at the kindness of a shop assistant who had on finishing work for the day at a Department store, offered us a lift back to our hotel armed with pots and pans.  I vowed to go back and buy her a coffee – as soon as the  opportunity arose.

              Our Solicitor who had been found for us by Miriam to convey the house was also a lovely man.  I was a little nervous when I met him as I thought if anyone was to ask awkward questions, it would be him and I had become fearful of anything that smacked of the legal profession.   But Lenny and his wife Tania were kind and generous spirited.  They did all they could to advise us on schools, (they had 13 children between them.) Lenny had been married before and there was nothing Tania did not know about the local schools, the bus routes and all the things that parents needed to understand when coming from a foreign culture.  Whilst America is obviously similar in some ways to the UK, including language, there were things that were very different.  

              Eating, for example was a quite different affair.  Vegetables seemed of much less importance and there was an abundance of fast food restaurants.   My son and I both liked Sushi, so before we got the house we would often go to the Food Hall in the Mall and buy a tray of Sushi and a couple of root beers and have that for our lunch.   At least it was healthier than a
Big Mac
. 

              I looked forward to being able to cook proper meals again in our new home and not have to eat salad out of plastic containers, in an attempt to keep my son vitamin packed.  He was so strong and brave and didn't complain once when living in the poky hotel room.  However, whilst it was not luxury, we had the pool and the grassy area behind the hotel to play games and often we would spend our evenings at a large bookstore close by where there were toys for the children and a wealth of books to choose from.  Having struggled with reading all his life and suffering from the stress the Court had been putting him through, I saw him grow from a white-faced frightened child into a little boy that was learning to see the world through new and hopeful eyes and at last he was showing an interest in books and with a little help from me, he was reading each night and enjoying it. 

              Somehow everything seemed more vibrant again. We felt energised, excited and exhilarated at what we had achieved.  We were riding the crest of a wave with our whole life ahead of us and it seemed full of hope and joy and without fear.  It was ironic, that on the run, we felt more free than we had been in years and despite it all, astonishingly, there was a complete absence of fear.

              The next morning we left the motel and walked to our new home.   Immediately a young boy of about fourteen came out of the house carrying a basketball.  He was off to the park to play.  He introduced himself to my son and within a few hours they had become firm friends and were playing together.  He was already at the school I had picked out for my son and they would travel on the big yellow school bus together in four weeks time when term began.   Things couldn’t have been more perfect.  

              James and Bill arrived later that morning armed with tools to put together our beds which had now arrived.  We managed to put together my son’s bed and decided that we could sleep on that for our first night as it was a much longed for bunk bed comprising of a single bed on the top and double below that converted into a couch for daytime use.  Having at last received the cheque from my uncle, we had also bought an office chair and desk and a small flat screen television.  It was to be a real boy’s den and he was thrilled.  The men left later, promising to come back the next morning to assemble my bed.  

              That evening we walked to the Supermarket and stocked up with food for our first proper meal in our new home.   We couldn’t believe how lucky we were and the horrors of the last few years melted away as we anticipated our future.   We fell into the bunk bed later that night exhausted and happy and slept deeply and without worry – we had made it.

_

              We woke early, keen to start the day.  We ate breakfast with the French windows open out onto the wooden deck – the sun shone brightly and we waved at our neighbours who were out on their decks.  Each house looked across to the back yards of the other houses and people were sitting outside eating breakfast, putting out washing, with children playing.  There was a gentle hum of life around us - a good life that held much promise.  

              We dressed quickly.  M pulled on shorts and a baseball shirt.   We decided to ring our friends on the Island and share our good fortune.  Sarah was a girl I had met when I first came back to the Island.  We had met at a Mums and Tots groups when our children were toddlers.   She was a lot younger than me, another single Mum and lived at home with her mother and her little boy.   M and her son had become best friends and she had been like a younger sister to me.  She lived nearby and we met regularly and the two boys played together.  She had been with me the night before we left and had helped us pack, hiding things in bin bags and taking them up to my father’s house to pack into suitcases so as not to draw attention to the fact we were about to run.   We had then spent the evening crying together, hugging, sharing memories and a bottle of wine and stayed up all night whilst M slept in my bed.   We didn’t know if we would ever see each other again.   It had been a sad night for us all and we had clung to each other when we said goodbye, maybe forever in the early hours of a June day in 2009 – the day we ran for our lives.

              Sarah was thrilled to hear from us and M showed his friend the house carrying my laptop around using the webcam on my
Skype
. There was much laughter as we planned for them to come out later in the year to visit us.  We talked of the boys playing football together in the yard and exploring the surrounding area - perhaps a trip to
Disney World
.  

              There was a knock on the door and the boy from next door arrived to ask M to come and play again at the nearby park.  The neighbourhood was quiet and safe and I agreed that M could go.  The fourteen year old was a sensible lad and promised to return him in an hour.  I carried on building furniture and then Bill and James arrived to put my bed together.  It turned out to be a much bigger job than anticipated. Bill had to leave at lunchtime to go to a Church meeting, but promised to return later leaving James and I to carry on.

              M returned soon afterwards for lunch and was full of the fun he had had playing basketball.  The parks were well equipped with nets and there was a good neighbourhood watch scheme in place, as well as a regular police patrol according to my neighbours who I had met the previous evening as they had set out with their children to go for a swim at the local pool.  They had a Labrador and M looked expectantly at me, I smiled back and nodded knowing his wish for a puppy and determined to fulfil it once we were settled. Life was idyllic and we were happier than we had ever been.  I knew I had made the right decision.  It had to be right – one only had to look at the joy in M’s face to see that.

              After a light lunch, we all got stuck into more furniture assembly.  Even M  helped with what he could and Bill was due back late afternoon to finish off my bed so that I could sleep in it that night.  We were making good headway.  Our little home was coming together.   Then at about four O clock there was another knock at the door – this time the knock was loud, insistent and urgent.  

Chapter 5

              Things happened so quickly.  It was all a blur.   Three armed police officers pushed their way into the house.  M ran to me screaming and clung hard to my leg.  A female social worker followed me as we ran into the bedroom where James was now standing alarmed and shocked as I blurted out, “please help us – we're on the run.”   James tried to protest as the police threatened to take M.  M carried on screaming and sobbing uncontrollably as James was taken at gunpoint to our basement, threatened with being arrested if he tried to intercede.   I tried to keep my head and asked for papers.  I was terrified but couldn't let M see this.   “You can’t take him.  You don’t know why we had to do this.  Please let me explain.  Please let me talk to you….Please don’t take my son….Please, please don’t take him….I begged," tears pouring down my cheeks.

              “We're under orders.  You can hand him over or we'll just remove him.”  They showed no emotion.  They showed no compassion, they didn’t want to hear anything I had to say.  The social worker waved a piece of paper in my face, but I couldn’t read it without my glasses and M was clinging to my leg, I couldn't move, paralysed by fear.  She said that a Care Order had been passed in our absence.  She accused me of knowing this.  I told her I knew nothing about it.  I didn’t know that they had had an ex-parte hearing after I left.   The Courts had ordered M to be apprehended under the Care Order - the American authorities were carrying out orders from home. 

              I protested hard, pleading with them to let me explain why we had had to run, but they threatened to say I was crazy and throw me in jail if I tried to prevent them taking M.  Somewhere deep inside me I knew I must try and stay calm.  I couldn't help M if I lost my freedom.  I could do nothing as they pulled him from my body and carried him out by his little arms whilst he screamed, “Please don’t send me to Daddy he hurts me,” all witnessed by James who could hear it from the basement, but like me was powerless to anything at all.   Within minutes the police car drew away.  The social worker said, “we’ll be in touch.”  She walked out behind them.  I could do nothing.  I had no idea where they had even taken M.  It was the worst moment of my life and I am sure will stay with M forever, as it will me.  It was barbaric, cruel and inhumane and as quickly as we had found paradise, in that moment, we lost it.

              James came up from the basement after they left and I told him the whole story, in between sobbing and shaking.   I could barely think, but there was no judgement from the friends we'd made.  He called Bill, Miriam, Julia and Hillary and one by one they arrived, the women offering hugs, tea and sympathy, whilst the men tried to think what we could practically do.   It was nearly five o’clock on a Civil Holiday weekend, but having abandoned lawyers, there was nothing we needed more right now. 

              James began frantically searching through the phone directory and ringing round, but it was a Friday afternoon and he drew blank after blank.  Miriam suggested we try my conveyancing lawyers who may know someone.   James rang Lenny and he said he would contact his ex-wife who was a family law lawyer.  This was particularly kind as the two had barely spoken for years and had a healthy disrespect for each other.   However, Lenny put his own feelings aside and made the call.  Martha-Jane Barry was a piranha in the business and she promised to email me her advice once she had a chance to consider the case from the limited facts I gave her in the terrible state I was in.

              Our next task was to contact the CAS.  The Children’s Aid Society and try to ascertain where M had been taken. The CAS is the equivalent of the British Social Services and equally responsible for the child-knapping that seems to go on without rhyme or reason now all over the world. 

              Long gone are the days when taking children from homes legitimately where they are abused, have parents with drug or alcohol problems, or are seriously neglected are the only reasons– the trend now seemingly was to force children to live with fathers to redress the balance of the mother always getting custody.  Children, like M, who are loved, cared for, come from good homes, private education, supported and nurtured in every way, can be the target of the crimes of social workers, trying to hit their targets.  I am sure there are many good social workers, good departments and professionals with integrity, as much as there are excellent loving good fathers – but sadly there are also those whose only ambition is to the hit their quota, take innocent children from good homes, often to force them to live elsewhere often with people who see them as possessions to be gained, not spirits to be loved, and thus destroy the children as well as the loving parents who are left bereft and unsupported.

              The Duty Workers at the CAS could not give us any information.  They could only say that M had been taken to temporary foster care.   I could only imagine how frightened he would be.  He had barely been away from my side for a day since he was born and we had the closest and most loving of bonds.  I begged them for information, but they could give me none.   However, the social worker who had been with the police arrived soon after to collect some of M’s clothes and his hay fever medication – she was shaking uncontrollably – perhaps she had a heart somewhere after all.   I asked her if I could write M a note and hurriedly scribbled:-

             
Be Brave my Darling, I will get you back, I love you the world and back, Mummy xxx

              I sprayed some of my perfume onto one of his teddy bears and handed it to her.  “Please,” I begged; "look after my little boy, he is the most precious thing in the world to me.  You have this all wrong.  This is a much loved, well cared for child.  I don’t know what lies you have been told, but I ran here to keep him safe from a child abuser, you have to believe me.” 

              “I am not able to discuss it.  We’ll be in touch.”  She said without emotion, but I could see a glimmer of fear in her eyes, perhaps somewhere deep in her soul, she knew this was wrong.

              I don’t know how long I lay on the floor after they had gone.   Even my aunt and uncle had shown their faces but given how they had treated us, I didn’t want them near me – especially when I knew they had given up our address to the police.  My aunt had tried to persuade me to pray, but how could I pray?  What God could allow this to happen to my beautiful innocent M?   What punishment for a child who had never done anything wrong, had already experienced abuse, and now was being abused by the system, wrenched from his mother in a foreign country and taken to God knew where?  No - no God could allow this.  Whatever faith I may still have had flickering inside me was extinguished in that moment. The pieces of the puzzle of how I lost M, were about to come together and cause me the deepest pain and sense of betrayal.   My American relatives were only the first piece, sadly there were more shocks to come.