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Listen to thisThe judge decided Blaize was going home on the 29th of October. I had protested loudly and frequently. It did not change anything. He would be returning to her care.
The sun was just beginning to rise as I drove to work. A brisk breeze dashed between solemn trees, dancing with the occasional leaf. The sky was clear and bright. Traffic was light. So far so good; the day promised to be a good one. Yet despite the good feelings and pleasant weather, I could not shake a strange sense of foreboding. I was reminded of a simple verse, a useless piece of trivia. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight; Red sky in morn, sailor be warned." I acknowledged the warning, then dismissed it.
It would have been a typical day at work if Blaize had not been leaving. I knew he would have to go sometime, but it seemed too soon. I wasn’t ready. We had more work to do.
I tried to keep my mind on my driving. I shook my head and smiled to myself, recollecting the first time I met him, but my thoughts kept drifting.
* * *
It was the beginning of May, the fifth I think, and I had just returned to work after taking a month off. It was my sixth year as a child care worker. The job was tough, physically and emotionally. You give so much because each child has received so little. But it was fun, challenging, and made me feel good. Never a dull moment, always something different. I know I made a difference. Because I cared, life was better for these needy children. Now I was well rested and ready to deal with the emotional turmoil of the eight children I worked with. All had been traumatized in some way. Most had been sexually and physically abused when quite young, and the scars ran deep. Each had been through numerous foster placements, hospital programs, or several failed attempts with their parents. Our program would not refuse them.
Blaize was our latest admission.
He confronted me directly as I entered the building. “You don’t look so tough," he challenged.
Apparently my reputation had preceded me. I looked him up and down. He was no more than four feet tall, of slight build, with a dark complexion. His jet black eyes were accented by high cheekbones. He was handsome though small for an eleven year old. His long black hair was spiked up with too much gel, and he had an incredible smile that displayed perfect teeth (which I would often have to remind him to brush). His features were perfect except for two thin scars that ran across his right cheek. The white contrasted with his tanned face. Those thin lines; a legacy of his past, a reminder for his future. I would later marvel at how intact he appeared outwardly, yet how deep the emotional trauma ran within him. It would take time, but he would come out of it okay. I promised myself that.
I noted his stern expression and “no nonsense" stance. I smiled before I spoke. “That’s 'cause you don’t know me well enough yet!"
He uncrossed his arms and broke out in a sheepish grin, blushing deeply.
"I’m Gerald, nice of you to greet me," I continued.
"My name is Blaize."
If I had known the impact he was to have on me I would not have been so eager to engage him.
Over the next few weeks I focused a lot of my time establishing a strong relationship with him. I was surprised by his keen insights and appreciated his constant dialogue. I really enjoyed our conversations and quickly realized that we had a lot in common. This made me vulnerable, and he sensed this. He used it to influence me when he could, getting his own way, monopolizing my time, and going with me on regular outings.
I remember him asking me about what it was like for me to grow up because I had been small and slight like him. It was difficult to know how much to tell him as he described the same battles I had experienced at his age. I can still recall one conversation vividly. It began during tuck-in one evening:
"Did you fight lots when you were a kid?"
"That depends on what happened, but only if I had to."
"What if they were bugging you, calling you names?"
"Like what kind of names?"
His eyes flashed, and anger instantly changed his veneer. The intensity puzzled me.
"Indian." His voice snarled as he said it. In the months to come, I would explore this in great detail. I promised myself he would feel good about his heritage and himself.
"No! Not just because someone was calling me names."
"You would, too, if it hurt your feelings!"
"Maybe, but ... “
He would not let me finish.
"You say that 'cause you’re big now and strong and have all those muscles."
Tears began to flow but he wasn’t crying. I was sitting on the edge of his bed so I bent over and hugged him tightly. He sobbed loudly for a bit and abruptly stopped. The room was silent.
"Someday it won’t matter." My voice seemed to echo. I offered little consolation.
He sat up and dried his eyes.
"Come on. Give me a smile. No sad thoughts before going to sleep." He gave me a weak grin, so I tickled him. He broke out laughing.
"Feel better?"
He nodded yes.
"I'll tell you something my dad used to say to me that might help."
"Help until when?"
"You know, until it doesn’t matter any more."
"Well?"
"He said, “Stand Tall, Be Proud!' “
His face lit up for a brief moment, then he became thoughtful.
"I will."
I rustled his hair and covered him up. He rolled over and went to sleep. We would have other discussions but he always remembered those words. Sometimes when I confronted him he would glance at me sideways, roll his eyes, and say, “I know, I know, Stand Tall, Be Proud."
I felt very connected to this kid even though I had just begun to know him.
One day I was teasing him about his name. It was unique, so I asked him what it meant.
"I’m not sure, but I think it’s Cree."
"Does that mean you know what it means?"
"My mom told me once, but I don’t remember. I think it means true spirit or bright warrior."
I never knew if he was telling the truth. It didn’t matter. It sparked my imagination because he spoke it so proudly.
For as long as I knew him he would wander around the house listening to his Walkman, always trying to avoid chores or homework. He also spent a lot of time trying to con batteries for it from other children's toys or bugging me to buy him some. He never failed to miss out on shopping trips, and he would inevitably come back with something.
Once he came back from attending a garage sale with another staff person. I was just coming on shift. His hair was spiked up and slick with gel. He was wearing a black vinyl jacket masquerading as leather, covered with rows of silver studs, collar up, jet black sunglasses, a glove with half the fingers cut off, tight black pants, and black boots with silver buckles. When he saw me, he strutted over, chest puffed out.
"Pretty cool dude, huh?"
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You look like a Michael Jackson clone that shrunk in the dryer."
He continued to look serious, and I continued to laugh. After a few minutes he smiled briefly and said, “Nah! He’s not cool. Iron Maiden is cool!"
I put my arm around him and purposefully messed up his hair. He struggled away and playfully rejected me. “Back off, I’m bad."
That was the turning point in our relationship, and when he would get angry or off task I would tease him by saying “Michael" in a serious tone and his anger would dissolve. As the relationship solidified, he began to openly trust me. He knew I would not judge him. He could share his pain. He needed to. Cautiously he began to disclose little pieces of his past.
One of the most emotional occurred late one evening in August while I was checking on the kids about an hour after tuck-ins. Blaize was sobbing into his pillow. As I entered his room, he looked up at me. His face was streaked with tears.
"I was thinking about my mom."
I just nodded and sat beside him. He continued on without prompting.
"How come all the men that lived with us were mean; especially Henry. She was good to him, too, and fed him so he wasn’t so skinny. He was good, too, sometimes 'til he got drunk and hit her. One time it was late, 2:00 in the morning, and they were yelling in the kitchen. It was so loud. I came downstairs and he was hitting her hard. Her mouth and nose were bleeding. I tried to stop him. He knocked me down with a punch to the face and kicked me two or three times. Mom screamed and swore at him to stop. I rolled away and hit my head on the leg of the table. It was sharp and cut my head open. Blood poured out all over. I pretended I was knocked out. Henry stooped over me; his breath stunk like puke as he panted. Then he staggered to the couch and passed out. My mother picked me up and put a cloth on my head. Then she took out a knife, in case he woke up, and we went to her room. Even though she had been drinking, too, I knew she wouldn’t hurt me. I fell asleep again 'cause I knew she would cut him up if he tried to hurt us. After a while she had to kick him out for good because he was a drunk and a loser."
He was quiet, reflecting, catching his breath.
"Will I ever go home?"
I just shrugged and mumbled, “Maybe." I knew he wanted me to say yes.
He began to cry again. The depth of despair in his eyes, the longing and frustration in his face, and the waver of fear in his voice really saddened me. I hugged him close. I was on the verge of tears, but I had to console him. I told him that everything would be all right, but it was false hope. I lied. I knew it would never be okay, but I wanted him to let go of the pain for a while. I wanted to protect him, shield him from more hurt and pain, grasp that miracle, and fix everything. But I couldn't!
I don’t think anyone could.
He cried softly then whispered, “Don’t tell anyone I cried."
I promised and rocked him to sleep. He was so vulnerable and I felt so helpless. I had always been able to help the others before him. I was a professional. I wasn’t supposed to get emotionally involved. But how the hell could I not? I did not like feeling this way. It made me angry but determined. I would do my best for him.
His natural mother re-entered his life one month later. She was adamant that she had given up drugs and alcohol. She had a long history of alcoholism, physical and sexual abuse as a child, and a string of broken, destructive relationships with violent men. She had been living out of province and was now requesting to have legal custody. She had met with a judge and had the support of our consulting psychiatrist. She was saying all the right things, so a hearing was set for October 26th. Maybe she did care about him.
By all accounts it looked like he would be going to live with her. At first I was hopeful. Maybe the miracle had come. Blaize really wanted it to happen but deep down there was the fear of being hurt again. Despite this he worked hard at convincing himself and everyone else that it was going to be okay. His mother would not be drinking. She would have a job and be able to look after him. I was skeptical, but he was so sure.
Several visits were scheduled and I switched shifts so I could be there for the first one. Blaize was “flying" by that afternoon. His mother arrived, drenched in perfume, but it did not mask the smell of rye. My skepticism and concern deepened ...
* * *
The blast of a horn brought me back to my driving. The light had changed. Better keep my hands on the wheel and my thoughts on the road if I was going to get to work in one piece.
The shift went by slowly. I kept as busy as I could, trying to keep my mind off the inevitable. The house was gaily decorated with streamers and balloons. A proper send off! His party was set for 4:30, just after school. His mother was to pick him up at 5:00. He had already packed two days earlier. I was supposed to be off shift at 3:00, but I stayed to say goodbye. He had been distant all week, preparing to leave me also. I had made no such preparations. I had intended to take him aside before the party began, say goodbye, and then go home.
He bounded through the door and called for me while searching in the kitchen. He questioned my co-workers. “Where is he? Did he leave?"
I sat in the office, took a few deep breaths, and called to him. In he came, smiling. He was wearing the new clothes I had bought him the week before. I sat him on my knee and smiled back. I gave him a great big crushing hug.
"Goodbye, Blaize, I’m going to really miss you!"
He squeezed me tightly, and as he looked up, his lips began to quiver and his eyes welled with tears.
I spoke first. “Are you going to be okay?"
He nodded and burst into tears. I hugged him close again. He stopped sobbing.
Silence.
"I love you and wish you could come and live with me."
I had not expected this. I did not know what to say. I choked up. More silence.
"You know I can’t."
I said it weakly. He curled up into my shoulder. Emotions thundered through my brain. I couldn’t think. I felt so empty, yet he was still here. I began to cry, too. Big crocodile tears. He looked up, puzzled at first, then he began to laugh as tears rolled down his cheeks. I laughed too, wiping my tears away. His whole mood changed.
"I have a present for you. My lucky loonie."
He handed me his bright, shiny dollar coin. I took it and felt the sadness creep up again.
"I have something for you, too. It’s my special pen." I wrote out my address and phone number. “Now you have to write to me."
"Stay with me until she comes."
Even though I had other commitments, I agreed. I hugged him again before we were interrupted by another staff member. It was time for his party. I sat beside him until 5:00 enjoying his company and reminiscing with the other staff and children about his stay here. He looked at his watch.
"She’s not here!"
"Probably stuck in traffic. You know she had to take a cab."
We continued to wait until 5:30. Someone went to
phone to see if she had left yet, but there was no answer at her hotel
room. Blaize was very anxious and suddenly distant. He stopped smiling
and talking. Sheer disappointment covered his face. By 6:00 he was
frantic. Desperation, shame, confusion, he reflected it all. He asked to
go to his room. I let him; he needed to be alone.
It was my turn to check on him at 6:30. I walked into his room. He had
changed. He no longer wore his new clothes. He was wearing the ripped-up
sweatshirt and grass-stained jeans he was wearing when I first saw him.
His socks were mismatched and he was lying on his bed crying. He would
not speak or look at me. I walked over and sat beside him. I did not
speak; I waited for him. About 10 minutes later he rolled over.
"Is she coming?"
I nodded while thinking the stupid bitch couldn’t even be on time. His eyes brightened and he sat up. I felt sick. I had given him hope when it was probably hopeless. The inevitable question.
"When?"
"I don’t know, maybe tomorrow."
He winced as if I’d slapped his face.
"You have to wait and trust."
"I will!"
He was determined. He was back in control of his emotions.
"But I have to go so give me a quick hug."
It was 7:00.
"Can’t you stay?"
I was too emotionally torn. My thoughts were jumbled and I could barely remember the party.
"No. I really need to go home."
My chest was tight, my throat constricted, and it was difficult for me to speak. But I knew I could no longer stand to see him hurt like he did. I felt guilty, angry, frustrated. Was this how I was helping him? Leaving, when he needed me?
He followed me to the office while I got my coat and sports bag. I ruffed up his hair and gave him one last hug.
"Goodbye, Blaize!"
He stood there in the doorway as I walked to my car. I threw in my bag and got in. As I started it up, he came running out of the house. He was crying again, his voice more desperate.
"Please. Please stay. Just 'til she gets here!"
I couldn’t bear to see him reduced to this. I had to go. He had to leave. I got into my car.
As I started to drive away, I looked into the rearview mirror to see him standing there. The image burned deep into my memory. He looked so helpless, standing on the curb, tears streaming down his face, soaking his sweatshirt. He stood in the street light in his tattered jeans, one foot in a boot, the other in just a stocking, staring at my tail lights.
He looked beaten, lost, a defenceless soul in a cruel world of humanity. His lot selected not by choice but the random chance of some long-forgotten sexual episode. I wish that I had stopped. Instead I turned back to the road and whispered to the reflection, “Stand Tall, Be Proud!"
It was not fair. The decisions were made by others. I wasn’t ready. Neither was he. I had promised him a better life, a chance, but I needed more time. I had failed. Too much unfinished business! All my expertise and experience useless.
Maybe I should have stayed, yet I drove away.
It was his time to fly.
He left that night at 10:30.
I wish it had ended differently – I never saw him again.
This feature: Mykytiuk, G. (1993). Unfinished Business. Journal of Child and Youth Care, Vol.8 (4), pp. 13–20.
