Page 36 of Dear Mr. Knightley

There were about three other homes after that, but I was barely present.

I had learned to hide well. I don’t mean to sound breezy about all this, but I actually don’t recall much outside the deep aloneness I felt when I was apart from my books.

I tore pages out of some of my favorites and carried them around in my pockets.

Maybe that’s why there were so many homes. I assumed no one could ever love me, but I didn’t give anyone much of a chance, did I? I would arrive, everyone hoping for the best, and then a few months later DCFS would get the call. “Sam has failed to connect again. Sam has failed again . . .”

Then one day another call came. My mother had passed the reinstatement tests, and I was going home.

Home? In the seven years we’d been apart, she had never contacted me, not once.

Yet she worked to pass her tests and now wanted me back?

I didn’t even recognize her when she came to pick me up.

Nothing about her touched any feeling inside me.

How did she fool them? That’s one question that still plagues me.

Within weeks of my moving home, my mother was drugged out and incapable of caring for me.

I played parent and went to school when I could.

That’s when I found the library. I volunteered to shelve books one day, and the staff sort of adopted me and “paid” me with food and gifts of clothing. I loved it there.

Then, about a year later, my father got released from prison. He’d been arrested that fateful day for armed robbery and assault, but with good behavior and early parole, he was back.

My mother was happy. She hadn’t been alone—a line of men passed through our apartment weekly—but once he walked in the door, it was all about him. I called Mr. Petrusky over and over and begged to be moved.

The last time we spoke he said, “Sam, you’ve got a mom and a dad and a roof over your head. That’s better than many.”

But I couldn’t be in the same room with my father without fear choking me and sweat dripping down my back. I couldn’t breathe—physically couldn’t breathe. I learned to avoid the apartment, but when he expected me and I was late, he hit me.

“Just a reminder, Sammy-girl,” he would whisper. “I’m boss here. You think you’re so smart, but I’m the boss here. Aren’t I, Sammy-girl?” Just writing that nickname, Sammy-girl, makes me want to vomit.

The end came a month before my fifteenth birthday.

My father came home and grabbed me by the arm.

Without a word, he pulled me down the stairs and around to the alley.

He shoved me into a group of greasy men.

They were small and had hard eyes; they scared me more than all my father’s size and brawn.

“Here she is. We square?”

The tallest of the three grabbed me with one hand and felt me up and down with the other.

“She ain’t worth a nickel.”

Another sneered, “You owe me a dime, Joe.”

“She’s worth more than a grand. She cooks, cleans . . . ,” my father begged the leader, who stepped back to appraise me. “She’s old enough, Fish. You can use her.”

I knew “use her” had only one meaning, no matter when or where it’s said. I looked at him, but he avoided my eyes.

“You’ll make at least a hundred a pop. We good now?” He nodded like it was done. Fish nodded back.

The first guy was still holding me with only one hand. I twisted with all my might and wrenched his wrist backwards and I ran. I heard shouting and footsteps behind me, but I was fast. Within two blocks, I lost them. Within twenty, I lost me.

I lived on the streets for a couple months before a cop found me.

I was too tired and hungry to run, so I bit him.

Detective Huber hoisted me over his shoulder and took me to Father John at Grace House without even processing me into the system.

And there I remained—excluding my three-month venture with Cara and my few months at Ernst & Young—living without really living.

Even the news of my parents’ deaths didn’t faze me: my father got shot somehow and my mother overdosed.

Father John thought I’d feel safer knowing the truth about them, especially my father.

But he didn’t realize they couldn’t hurt me anymore. Nothing could touch me.

Only people in books had any appeal for me, and it’s been like that ever since. Dr. Wieland had me on an intense talk-therapy routine for a couple years, and I’ll admit it helped. He’s a good man, and talking eased some of the pain. But the characters remained. I needed them.

Not anymore.

They can’t save me. They certainly can’t write for me. Heck, they don’t even show up like they used to. And when they do, they don’t fit inside comfortably. They jar me and leave me feeling even more disconnected and alone. But without them, who am I?

Did you think you were helping someone worthy?

Mrs. Conley might kick me out if she knew.

Wouldn’t you? Her children are so innocent and trusting.

And I’m a mess. I can’t be good for them.

And that girl today . . . I wasn’t good for her.

Seven bucks isn’t going to help her, and I, of all people, should have done more.

I looked for her after I came out of Starbucks.

I did that, at least. As I searched, I wondered about what I’ve become.

I feel like Dorian Gray. He sold his soul for external beauty, and his face remained young, unlined and perfect.

Only his portrait, hidden in an attic, displayed the horror and depravity of his life.

I’m no better than he. My insides feel so horrid.

But that’s not what I want or who I want to be.

Isabella Conley gave me a book a few weeks ago with the most haunting and beautiful passage I’ve ever read. I found a character in it that offered me, not just understanding, but hope. But I don’t know what to do with it.

The book is The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.

S. Lewis. There’s this boy, Eustace, a perfectly pugnacious little twerp, who turns into a dragon while thinking greedy, dragonish thoughts.

But once Eustace recognizes his true state, as a real dragon, he starts to behave more kindly.

He strives to change. But it’s too late and he’s too far gone.

He can’t do it. He can’t tear off the dragon skin.

Only Aslan, this amazingly huge and glorious lion, holds that power.

The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart.

And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt.

The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off.

But I’m still under that skin. It suffocates me, chokes me, and is killing me.

There’s no Aslan in the real world, so there’s no hope.

Mrs. Muir would say I’m wrong. She says there is hope in God and hope in Christ. They’ve invited me to dinner weekly since Thanksgiving and, during each meal, she drops hints and hope like bread crumbs for me to follow.

But I can’t see it. I just feel swallowed by darkness.

I promise to write at least once more when I figure out what to do. This isn’t your problem though, Mr. Knightley. Even a lovely apartment and new clothes can’t dress this up.

Thank you for everything. You gave me my best shot. I’m the one who failed.

I hate to do it, but I need to call Father John. He always has good advice, and I need some of that right now.

Sincerely,

Sam