Tarnished Dreams Page 5

  At forty-eight, I made a conscious decision to start trying to give myself permission to cry.

  Finally, the call we had been waiting for. According to the phone’s caller ID register, the public defender called at 2:31 p.m., but no one was home. Allison was the first to see the caller ID when we got home from school.

  “Hi, Jeanette. Give me a call back,” the public defender’s voice said from the answering machine. No indication of what our conver­sation would cover, just a request to call her back.

  By 4:00 p.m., I finally heard the words Allison and I had been waiting over forty days to hear: “The charges are being dismissed.”

  I wanted to collapse with relief into the nearest chair, but the public defender wasn’t done.

  “I haven’t seen the actual paperwork, yet,” she continued, “so, Allison still shouldn’t have any contact with Daniel or anything until I get the document in my hand.”

  Yikes.

  “I’ll give you a call as soon as I have it, but it might not be until tomorrow.”

  The seventeen-year-old child was free, but she still couldn’t have her cell phone, her iPod, her camera, unsupervised Internet access, or contact with her boyfriend until a piece of paper made its way from the prosecuting attorney’s office on the fourth floor of the courthouse to the public defender’s office—across the street.

  Allison and I waited. We waited because it was important for me to do the right thing.

  Twenty-four hours after she told me the charges were being dismissed, I called the public defender’s office again. “Just checking in,” I began.

  “Well, I still haven’t seen anything from the prosecutor’s office, but we also haven’t received our afternoon mail yet.”

  Four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon. When would the afternoon mail arrive?

  “Let me look on the computer,” she said. “It shows that we are off the docket for court tomorrow. The charges are dismissed by the prosecuting side. But, this other screen still shows it as an open case.”

  Doing her job, the public defender advised me to wait. “Be careful,” she said as though reading my mind. “And good luck,” she added before we each hung up.

  I didn’t need luck—I needed strength, patience, and Allison’s cooperation.

  I also know how slowly the wheels of justice can move. On April 1, 1998, for example, I appeared in court to obtain a divorce from the children’s father. Since he didn’t hire an attorney, or come to court, I was divorced by “default”—but the paperwork wasn’t signed by a judge until April 13, 1998. For twelve days I considered myself divorced although it wasn’t official. During those twelve days, I didn’t do anything that would bring my marital status into question. When I received the official document in the mail, it felt anti-climactic—and somewhat false.

  Fifteen years later, I’m still using April 1st as the marker of my divorce, not April 13th.

  The official document, dismissing the charges against Allison, was signed April 12th. I received a copy in the mail Friday, April 15th. According to the envelope’s postmark, it was mailed on Thursday, April 14th.

  With Allison cleared of all charges, then, the return of the com­puter became a priority.

  Every day, I waited for the police car to pull into my driveway. Every day, I checked our home phone’s answering machine for pick-up instructions. Every day, I hoped to get the laptop back. The morning of April 19th, I decided I had waited long enough. I dropped the kids off at school, then drove over to the police station with my yellow carbon-copy property receipt.

  “Hi, I’d like to pick up my property,” I politely said to the girl sitting behind the bullet-proof glass as I slid my property receipt under the glass.

  “And you are?” she asked.

  While I told her my name, she pointed down to my name written on the yellow paper, nodded, then turned to the computer on her desk.

  “Have you made an appointment to pick it up?” she asked after verifying my photo identification through the computer on her desk.

  “Um, no. I didn’t know I had to do that.”

  “Yeah, they like to make an appointment so they can get it out of the property room. Let me call the investigator and see . . .” I didn’t hear the rest of what she said, because she turned away from the bullet proof glass while reaching for the phone to the left of the computer.

  “The investigator said he hasn’t received a release form yet. You have to contact your attorney. Your attorney will contact the county attorney’s office, and the county attorney’s office will send a release form to the investigator.”

  “But the charges were dismissed.”

  “The county attorney’s office hasn’t sent over the release form, though.”

  “Can I just go over to the county attorney’s office myself?” Considering all three of these offices are adjacent to each other, it seemed like a logical solution.

  “Well, I suppose you could. But then you’ll still need to make an appointment to pick it up.”

  Aaaaaarrrrghhhhhhhhh. I’m here, right now. Why can’t I have my dumb computer back right now?

  I left the building starting to boil, and walked halfway across the street to the courthouse doors before I remembered the security screening doesn’t allow cell phones to enter the building. I pivoted back to the left, and walked to the car instead.

  I was faced with two choices. I could either: a) Put my cell phone into the car, go through the screening at the courthouse, ride the elevator to the fourth floor, and walk over to the county attorney’s office where someone will tell me the request will be passed along to the attorney herself, or b) get into my car, call the public defender from my cell phone, and drive back home to get some work done. Considering the futility of option a), I proceeded with option b).

  The public defender sounded surprised when I told her all of what I was told at the police station, but cheerily said she would email the county attorney right away—even though they were going to see each other in court in an hour—so there would be a document trail.

  As I drove home, I also called the investigator. In my best efforts to remain calm through my growing rage, I left a message on his machine. “I was unaware of the protocol, so I would like to now request an appointment to pick up the laptop and its extension cord. Or, do I have to wait to make the appointment until after the paperwork has been sent over? And since I have to do all of this, rather than you guys just bringing it back to the house like I thought would happen, since you got it from the house in the first place, I would also like the two phones that were taken two years ago. I have a receipt for the one cell phone and charger, but not for the second one that two officers who weren’t assigned to the case took with them when they came over to the house.”

  Five minutes after I got home my phone rang, but I was too angry to risk picking it up.

  “Yep,” the investigator’s message began, “that is the protocol I have to follow. As soon as I get the release form, I’ll be able to get the computer back to you. However, it’s still at the BCA office (250 miles away), and I don’t know when it’s going to get shipped back up here.”

  Wednesday, April 27th. I still didn’t have the computer back from the police, or word on when it might be made available to me, but another piece of normality had returned. The previous night, Allison and I had one of those silly mother-daughter fights. In order to “punish” me for yelling at her, Allison walked into my bedroom, picked up her pillow and stuffed animals, and announced she was going to be sleeping in her own room for the night. Fifty-three nights after Allison’s house arrest began, I got to sleep in my bed alone again.

  Finally, the investigator on the case called the house on July 1st, letting me know the computer had been returned—wiped clean of all information.

  5. Counseling, Again

  Apr
il 19th, someone from the Child Services office in town called the house. She told me I needed to get Allison into counseling, and asked if I had insurance to cover the expense. When I told her I already set up an appointment with a therapist, she asked me for the name of the therapist, asked when our initial appointment was scheduled for, and told me to keep in touch with her throughout the process. On the one hand, I was thrilled to discover there are safety nets in place to catch kids after they hit the courts. On the other hand, I was annoyed by the requirement I “keep in touch” with the county social worker. I wasn’t a dead-beat parent, I wanted to tell her. I wasn’t the one who created the behavior Allison had been exhibiting since we moved to town in 2008.

  (I never spoke to anyone from the Child Services office in town again. Is this how kids fall between the cracks?)

  I got tired of everyone’s well-meaning advice how to help Allison, because it felt like empty words when no follow-up support was offered. The police investigator, for instance, called and asked if Allison had ever been molested—after I endured watching both the computer and my teenage daughter leave my house in police custody on February 28th.

  “That’s what she said,” I answered matter-of-factly. “She told me about it when we lived out west.”

  “Did she ever see anyone about it?” the investigator asked.

  “Yes, but no one did anything about it. That’s part of why we moved back.”

  “I ask because sometimes that can cause this kind of behavior.”

  I knew the police investigator meant the best with his comment, but I bristled at what I felt was an attack against my parenting. He didn’t know Allison. He didn’t understand Allison had claimed to be sexually active long before she claimed to be molested by the boy at the library in Wyoming. He didn’t understand Allison constantly seeks the attention of men. He didn’t understand Allison tells stories in order to gain attention from people in general. He didn’t understand the generalization he was making to a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.

  He didn’t understand I had given up so many personal dreams and opportunities for the sake of my children.

  Frank and I moved to Minnesota in 1991. I wanted to work in advertising. I had been a copywriter for a mail-order catalog house in Chicago before we moved. I didn’t have a bachelor’s degree, though. None of the advertising agencies I interviewed for in Minnesota those first months would hire me.

  When Frank moved out of the house in 1997, I tried to figure out how to make ends meet. I finally decided to return to college full-time. A year and a half later, I graduated with a B.A. in English.

  The degree didn’t solve everything, though. The new problem was I lived too far away from the advertising agencies in Minneapolis.

  I also had two young children at home.

  I pursued a career as a realtor next, but discovered the complexities of doing that as a single-parent of two very young children.

  I’ll never forget the fears of showing a house to a man by myself. I’ll never forget the fear I felt the one night a male realtor asked to stop by the house after 10:00 p.m. to drop off or pick up some paperwork. I still remember the embarrassment I felt while trying to show a young couple a lovely house in the country—when my children came running through the empty house, squirting each other with the water toys they had been given in their fast-food drive-through kids’ meals.

  I sold one house, but without the court ordered child support payments Frank neglected to make, I quickly discovered I couldn’t afford the lapses between commission checks.

  My social life took a worse hit.

  I had none.

  Allison and I met with her third counselor in four years. Our third female counselor, our third counseling office, our third chance to get Allison’s life back on track.

  “Hi,” the counselor greeted us in the waiting room. “My name is Mary. Why don’t you both follow me.”

  I let Allison go first. I wanted her to be comfortable. I wanted Allison to select her chair in the office first.

  Allison picked the single chair closest to the window, then pointed for me to take the chair between her and the door. Mary sat at the chair in front of her desk, forming the third leg of our triangle.

  “So, tell me what brings you here today,” Mary began.

  Allison and I exchanged looks, waiting for the other one to speak first.

  “Well, I got in trouble again,” Allison finally said.

  “Trouble? What do you mean by trouble, Allison?” Mary asked.

  “I was charged with a felony, because they said I was distribu­ting child pornography to a guy I met online. But the charges were dismissed, so I don’t really know why I had to come.”

  “Tell me more about this guy you were sending pictures to.”

  “What do you want to know?” Allison’s tone became defensive quickly, I noted.

  “Well, you said you met him online. So it’s not somebody you ever knew before?”

  “No. Just some guy.”

  “So, how did you end up sending him pictures of yourself?”

  “He asked for them.”

  “And what would he do then? Would he send you pictures of himself back?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t really want them.”

  “So, why did you send him the pictures of yourself? Was this guy you met online sending you money for the pictures you sent?”

  “He sent me stuff more than he sent money.”

  “Stuff? What kind of stuff, Allison?”

  “Like gift cards.”

  “And the box, Allison. Don’t forget that,” I interjected.

  “The box?” Mary asked.

  Allison looked at the floor, then looked back up at Mary. “Yeah, he sent me a box with vibrators.”

  “What were you supposed to do with the vibrators, Allison?”

  “What do you mean?” Allison asked with a giggle.

  “Were you supposed to use them? Were you supposed to send him pictures of you using them?” Mary continued.

  “Oh. Yeah,” Allison replied as her eyes reverted back to the floor in front of her chair.

  “Did you use them?” Mary asked. “Did you send him the pictures he wanted?”

  “No. My mom totally freaked out about them even being in the house, and made me take them over to my friend Erin’s house right away.”

  “Did Erin want them? Was she going to use the vibrators, and send pictures of herself using them to the guy?”

  “I don’t know. I told my mom Erin had ordered them and sent them to my house so she could replace her mom’s vibrator, because I wanted my mom to stop yelling at me.”

  “Does your mom yell at you a lot, Allison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No I don’t,” I said in my defense.

  “Yes you do, Mom.”

  “So tell me more about the pictures you were sending, Allison,” Mary prompted, getting us back on track.

  Five minutes later, Mary told me I could leave the room. She would bring Allison out when they were done.

  On the way home from their first session together, Allison told me Mary gave Allison a homework assignment. “She gave me the names of two books I should look at, Mom. So, when can we go to the bookstore?”

  I never asked Allison about the books. I simply took her to the bookstore the following weekend, and watched as she approached the store clerk with her list of titles.

  “They have one of the books, Mom, but I have to order the other one.”

  “Okay.”

  I never saw the titles of the books until we got home—but noth­ing could have prepared me for what they were: Ghosts in the Bedroom: A Guide for Partners of Incest Survivors by Ken Graber, M.A., and Out of the Shadows: Understanding Sexual Addiction by Patrick Carnes, Ph.D.
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  Once the initial shock passed, I stopped to wonder why in the world Mary would suggest Allison read either of those books. Was Allison telling Mary lies about having a sexual relationship with her father? Frank’s problems weren’t with sex, I didn’t think—drugs were the problem. But was it possible? Then I remembered the one time, several years earlier, when Allison gave me a note saying she had some sort of memory about being in the bathtub with her father when she was little. She said he had touched her “inappropriately,” but I could never ask her any questions about it, or bring up the subject in any way, shape, or form. Already knowing Allison’s penchant for drama, and her tendency to tell stories as a way to gain attention, I honored her request never to ask. I honestly believed it was nonsense anyway. Frank moved out of the house before Allison celebrated her fourth birthday, and moved two states away when I filed for divorce a month after her fourth birthday. In all the years since, Frank hadn’t sent child support, or cared to see the children more than the three or four times I drove them to his place for a brief visit. Even when Allison ran away from home in 2009, all Frank could do was talk about himself. While I didn’t believe Frank molested Allison, I wasn’t about to argue with Allison, either. I held my breath, and waited to see what Mary would uncover.

  Allison read the book about sexual addiction in two days.

  “Here, Mom, you have to read this book,” she said when she was done. “It’s very interesting.”

  I tried. I could only read through page thirty-six, though, before I became too sick to my stomach to read any further. I couldn’t wrap my head around the logic of my seventeen-year-old daughter being the type of person described in the book. But, Allison sure liked the label. I don’t know how many times since I have heard her referring to herself as a sex addict. Another way to gain people’s attention?

  Allison met with Mary several times a month for the next sixteen months. I can’t say whether the talks with Mary slowed down Allison’s behavior with boys or not, or if Allison just got better about hiding it all from me.