Memory

Last night, I was going through a bag of clothes a friend shared with us and set a pair of too-big Betty Boop patterned pajamas on the table next to me. Gabriella came in and said, "I know who that is. I saw her before. Remember when I went to that birthday party and they dragged me in to that red room and that girl was in there and there was a little table and a lamp and she was on it and then they started kicking me..."

 

It's been almost 2 years since it happened. 2 years since I left her in a room full of happy 5 year old girls, moms, balloons, cake and ice cream to be with Samuel (who had a cold) and said, "Mommie will be back soon. Have fun!" 2 years since I felt that urgent hiss in my head and gut to go back to her almost an hour early. 2 years since I heard her frantic, terrified "MOMMIE!!" before I even reached their house and ran the rest of the way, tearing through the back yard instead of going to the front door. 2 years since her tear streaked face told me on the walk home that her back hurt. 2 years since I lifted her shirt and saw the red rug burn and the ugly red welts...

 

I took pictures. I called the parents. I called the police. We filed a report...because the boy was nearly twice her age (9) nothing was done. Not. one. thing. No one even sat down with him to see if he'd been hurt that way, or seen a movie he wasn't ready for, or anything else. She had to ride the same bus with his sister and listen to the stories that it wasn't him, it was so-and-so, or that didn't really happen, or your Mommie is being racist. She loved her friend (his younger sister) so much. They were good playmates.

 

 

Thank heaven they moved...

The redness and bruising faded. But, somewhere in her head, she keeps the memory completely intact.