beatings from her mother or the hitting her with rings on her fingers? This little soul knows nothing of the times I’ve begged Andrea to stop this, to try to get help for her behavior, or the times I’ve called Child Protection to report huge bruised black eyes, starvation, drug use in front of the kids, and neglect. Andrea punished me greatly even though I told her it wasn’t me who called them. She would say, “Oh, yeah? Well, you’re the only one who comes over here. No one else has been here but you, so now you can’t see the kids anymore.” And with that, the door would slam in my face. She would tell the investigator the kids fell, and the kids knew to agree with whatever she said or suffer her anger later.
She had a long wooden spoon, and she would walk through the house hitting it against her leg, and all three would scramble to the sofa. Jackie, as the youngest and still in diapers, would need help from the other two to get onto the sofa before Mom came. They would sit close to each other, legs out in front, hands on their knees, and not move or speak. I witnessed this more than once and cringed at the number of times she must have hit them with that spoon to train them to behave this way. She never hit any of them in front of me. I only saw the results in the form of swollen lips, cuts, and bruises. They fell, was her standard answer. Laurene confided in me the most. JR was so rambunctious; it was hard to get him to focus very long, and Jackie was a baby. I was hoping the hospital staff would get involved with protecting these defenseless children from their mother, and even though ER nurses confided in me that they were admitted far too often, especially for their ages, nothing was being done. Even our family doctor refused to admit that they were victims of child abuse. Andrea’s husband, Floyd Sr., and the father of all three kids refused to lift a finger to help them at all. Andrea was all powerful, and she knew it.
*****
Finally, the phone rings. I grab it. It’s the agent. His voice sounds guarded. I know something is wrong. He says they have been to Andrea’s house to pick up Jackie, but no one is home. He says they are down the street waiting and watching, staying out of sight so she doesn’t run, but no sign of them. He says, “Ma’am, I don’t know how much longer we can wait. It’s getting late in the day.” Then he says some of the most terrifying words I’ve ever heard. “We may have to leave the baby here and just come back with the two we have. We can come back another day.” I sink to the floor. As fear like long skeletal fingers tightens its grip around my throat, I take a deep breath and start begging.
Rescued
“Officer, you don’t even understand. If you leave Jackie there, Andrea will take it out on her. She’s so little. Please don’t leave her behind. We may never find her again. Oh, my God.”
The agent says they will wait just a little while longer. He says they can come back another day. As stark terror takes over my being, I hear the agent say, “Wait, I think I see her. I’ll call you back.”
A rainbow came out over my clutching fear when he said those words, and I thanked God for his mercy. I dropped to the floor again, feet under me, head bowed grasping the phone, waiting… Waiting—it seemed like forever, not daring to breathe. I pound my fists on the floor and beg God to place his hand on this situation, my mind racing ahead to what to do if they leave Jackie behind. Going crazy with fear and knowing I am losing it, the phone rings in my hand, and I jump.
The agents says, “We got her.”
The flood of relief that washed over me was like a rushing wind from heaven. My heart nearly burst. I heard his voice say, “I think she was expecting this. She just stood there on the sidewalk when one of the agents showed her the court order. She was holding Jackie’s hand, and she held her hand toward the agent and said, ‘Have a nice life with Daddy and Grammy.’ Jackie came willingly, so we’re on our way. We want to take the kids to eat before we board the plane. You have our flight information, so I guess I’ll see you soon in Sacramento.”
To my hero I weep and whisper, “Thank you. God bless you, all of you. Thank you. Thank you. My hero says, very tenderly, “I know, I know.”
I had to sit still on the floor for a while, completely exhausted. I tried to clear my head and grasp what had just happened. Surely it was a miracle.
Soon we were on our way to the airport. The skies were gorgeous; our babies were on their way home; we had a big house for their homecoming; their father would be there to welcome them; and God was on his throne —all was right with the world. On the way to the airport, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to what we all had to go through to get to this point. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, but this coming home today and all the people and events hinged on the decision of one person. The well-being and safety of three precious children rested with a woman who didn’t even like them, even saw them as a threat. And that person was Opal. I knew the kids lived in peril as long as they were with their mother. I couldn’t count the times I had rescued them. But grandparents have no rights, and motherhood is sacred in the state of California.
I remembered a phone call between Laurene and myself while she was in Tulsa. I had been praying for an answer, begging for a sign, any way to help my babies. Laurene said in her sweet little voice, “Grammy, don’t you have savings accounts for all three of us? Could that help us?” There it was—“out of the mouths of babes.” Something clicked and gave me the idea to get legal help. It was the answer I had been looking for. I contacted their father and suggested we get a lawyer, and was he agreeable? He said go for it. So I found a family lawyer who was smart enough to notice on their divorce papers that neither parent was allowed to take any of the children out of state. Floyd and I sat in the attorney’s office and listened to this revelation. He then stated that Floyd, as their father, had the right to order her to bring them back. When I said she won’t, he immediately said she won’t have any choice; the courts and child protection will bring them back here. I was noticeably elated. It was hard for me to contain my exuberance, while Floyd sat conspicuously silent. The attorney says he will draw up the papers for the judge to sign, and he will need his fee. Depending on the court calendar, it shouldn’t take too long. He explained to me that even though I would be paying him for his services, Floyd and only Floyd was his client and that as the parent, Floyd had to sign the papers before anything would proceed. I said that was okay because their father and I both want the kids back.
Floyd said, “Wait a minute.” He had to talk to Opal.
Are you kidding? The lawyer tells Floyd to go ahead and think it over; his secretary will call when the papers are drawn up. Think it over? Once again, I realized how helpless I am. After that, Floyd began avoiding me and was unavailable for my phone calls.
Finally, in desperation, I went to their house. Floyd came to the door and just stood there. I said, “Floyd, you know the papers are ready for you to sign at the lawyer’s office. He can’t take them to court without your signature. What’s wrong? You know the kids are suffering. You, of all people, know that.” He just stood there, and I could see Opal in the background. I reminded him of how Laurene looked when I saw her at Christmas time. “What’s the holdup? I don’t understand you. It’s all paid for, so it won’t cost you any money.” I said, “Opal has no rights here. I have no rights. You are the only one with legal rights to those kids.”
He looked at me and said, “Yeah, I am, and it’s my right to think about it.” And he shut the door.
Several months and many sleepless nights later, he called and said Opal gave him the okay. I didn’t question it; I just said, “Let’s go.” We met at the attorney’s office for the signing and began the waiting game.
*****
Now at the Sacramento airport, we all stare at the door where the kids will disembark. Even though I am extremely excited to see them, I hang back so that their father will
