Family

This story is by Arnold Edwards and was part of our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

 

What is your earliest memory?  Have you ever been asked that?  I mean, I’ve heard it asked, but never to me.  What is the purpose of a question like that?  When people request it, the answers amaze me most of the time.  For them, they extoll memories of a dress or a toy or a party they went to or had thrown for them.  The memories always had somethin’ to do with kindness and good times.  My memories had neither compassion nor good times; most espoused regret and horror.

I watch too much television, daytime stuff mostly; soap operas, game shows, talk shows.  It’s funny because I like those judge shows; People’s Court, Judges Mathis, Judy, and Alex.  I especially like Divorce Court; that judge got it together.  I’m not too fond of Jerry Springer, even though the girls at the shelter never miss it.  Never fail to react to it.  I especially don’t like the Maury Show with all those stupid women looking for their baby daddies.  I mean, how many men can you be with during the time you get pregnant?  That’s too close to home for me.

The girls, they all knew my situation, my secrets.  I was stupid for sharin’ and more ridiculous for believin’ that they would support me; instead, I’m just a big joke.  I was a fool.  So, when these women come on the Maury Show tryin’ to prove who they baby daddy is and only prove that they fools, just like those would-be baby daddies.  The shelter girls just whoop and holler, laughin’ at those stupid, poor, sad women.  While all this goes on, they sneak a peek at me and try to smother their giggles, but they don’t.  It’s to the point I won’t be in the television room when that show is on.

The reason’s funny how I like the judge shows because here I am – me and Christian, he’s my son.  We’re sittin’ out on these hard benches waitin’ to see a judge so he can help me straighten out my life.  If he does, he needs to find my mama and straighten out hers.

He ain’t gonna ask me about my earliest memories.  If he anything like my social worker, he ain’t gonna be askin’ too many questions, just be doin’ a lot of talkin’ and lecturin’.  The girls at the shelter say he gon’ take my Christian.  He bet not.  If he try, we gonna fight.

My memories are like sores that ain’t never gonna heal, ‘cause I keep pickin’ and pullin’ at the scabs, so the cuts never get better, they stay festered and infected.  Deep down, maybe, I don’t want the memories to go away.  I don’t know.  I know I can’t let go of’ ‘em, these memories – they so much a part of me.  They all I got to remind me that I did come from somewhere and belong somewhere too, maybe.  They keep me in touch with myself; let me know I can only depend on myself.  Sometimes I think I keep goin’ over ‘em ‘cause I hope they’ll change and I will find out all this was a dream, more like a nightmare, and all I got to do is wake up.

We’re alone, all by ourselves, me and Christian, and he can only depend on me.  Nobody’s told me why I’m seein’ this judge, ‘cept for the girls at the shelter and they don’t know what they talkin’ about half the time, ‘cept when they wanna hurt me.

I wish he would ask me what my first memory was.  I would tell him.  My earliest memory is bein’ hungry all the time, bein’ lonely and scared all the time, wettin’ the bed ‘cause I was too scared to go to the bathroom ‘cause of who my momma had over.  She said they were my uncles.  How many uncles could I have?

When the girls at the shelter say he gonna take my baby, I tell them they fulla shit.  Why he gonna take my Christian?  Ain’t he got kids of his own?  They all laugh and call me dumb.  Even Leda laughed at me, and she was the best friend I ever had.

Staff announced my court date and who the judge was, and they all believed that he was gonna take my Christian away from me.  That judge gon’ help me; my social worker used those words in the same tone the childcare workers use to talk the younger kids into gettin’ shots or seein’ the dentist.  I don’t believe none of ‘em.  I didn’t want to.

Leda, she my friend.  Last weekend we got passes and went downtown to the movies.  It was so lovely.  I ain’t never been downtown before.  Fifteen years old and never rode the elevated train.  It was nice.  We went to Sears Tower and took the elevator to the top.  I was so scared; I could feel the whole building moving.  Leda thought that was funny.  We went to the movies and saw HIDDEN FIGURES.  I loved it.  We sat through it twice.  I believe staff told Leda to take me out, ‘cause on our way to the train, she started talkin’ to me.

“They gon’ take Christian,” she said.

That stopped me dead in my tracks.  At first, I couldn’t quiet realize what she was saying or what she meant.  I never, ever thought of me without Christian.  Every thought, every dream, every minute of my future, had Christian in it.  I do everything for him that people never did do for me.  It was always us.  He was the only one who ever cared about me.  He was the only one for me to care for, to shelter, and love.  If they took him from me, who would protect him, care for him, raise him, and love him?

“You crazy,” was all I could say.

“I’m tellin’ you, girl, they gon’ take him.  I know.”

“You don’t know nuthin’.”

“I know they took mine.  I know that much.  Jason was three when they took me to court, so a judge could ‘talk’ to me and help me out.  I spent an hour that morning fixing him up to look so pretty, thinkin’ that the judge would see how I took care of my baby, and he would tell me what a good mother I was and how lucky Jason was to have me.  I had to go alone, just Jason and me on the bus then on the train and had to walk the last four blocks.  Then when that woman clerk took him from my arms, I still had his bottle in one hand and his rattle in my purse.  My social worker met me there.  Met me there.  She drove me back to the shelter.  I cried on the ride back, that bitch dronin’ on and on about how this was for the best.  I could get a new start without the burden of raising a child.  She called my baby a burden.  I was only sixteen.  All I could think of was how I wanted to kick that bitch’s ass.

“A new start my ass.  New start for what?  The only reason I had to do anything; they took from me.  Shit.  I didn’t even get to take Letitia home from the hospital.  I figured now that I was seventeen, I would decide if I should keep my baby, I didn’t do nuthin’ to my baby.  At risk, please.  I been at risk my whole damn life.  Where was all of them helpful judges then, them concerned social workers:  At risk?  We all at risk, and they all bastards.”

Tears formed in her eyes and fell down her face.  I never saw Leda cry.  It felt strange, almost like seeing your world change before you.  We were quiet the rest of the ride home.  When I got back to the shelter, I ran to my Christian grabbed him from the playpen.  I sat down and held him, rocking him until he fell asleep.  I could only hope he didn’t know I was cryin’.

My memories ain’t pleasant or friendly.  They just memories; memories of a mother who would leave me by myself for hours at a time, sometimes days.  She always stank of beer, brought strange men home almost every day.  When I woke up in the mornings, I always said a silent prayer that me and momma would be the only ones there.  Then came a time when I prayed that I would be the only one there.  In my memories, my momma was always high, always drinking, still passed out.

I remember going to school.  All the other kids avoided me because my clothes were dirty and ragged.  I always stank.  They laughed at me, made fun of me like it was my choice to be that way.  I didn’t want to, but I did.  These are my memories; what can I do?  They are not only part of my life; they are my life as I remember them, and as I live it.  It won’t change.  I don’t even know if I can make a difference.

I do remember the day my uncle came to get me.  “After all, we family, Bitsy.  What’s family for?”  My momma, when she was sober and clear-headed, she called me Bitsy.  I always knew that when she called me ‘Bitsy’, that day wasn’t gonna to be so bad or at least the next couple of hours.  Bitsy, I guess that would be a pleasant memory.  No one else called me Bitsy, that is until this uncle I could barely recognize called me by that name.

Of course, no one else had the power to make a day of mine bearable.  They took me from my momma, sayin’ she was unfit.  She was unfit for years, but she was the only person I had to love or pretended to love.  She did love me, at least when she called me Bitsy, she did.  But they say she unfit, always drunk and trickin’ for food stamps or money or liquor.  They put me in a foster home.  I have never been with anyone but my momma, and I wouldn’t say I liked it.  I tried to, but I couldn’t.  I kept quiet so that I would bother nobody.  Then one day, all of a sudden, they took me out of there.  The foster mother told my worker she wanted no retarded kids.  Retarded, that’s what she said.  Retarded.

Then came another foster home.  All this woman did was have the foster kids do everything while her kids sat around and made messes we had to clean up.  She always pointed us out on the street, tellin’ anyone who would listen how we was ungrateful little heathens; state kids she called us.  They all called her a good Christian woman and told us how lucky we were.  Lucky.

One night her oldest son came into my room, pulled down his pants, and said, “Suck it.” His thing stuck straight out at me.  I said no.  He tried to force me.  I kicked his ass.  He blamed me for everything even though he was the one in my room. The next day I was gone.  This time I wasn’t retarded; I was a ho’.

I never trusted another foster home after that, not that I ever did before.  In the next few months, they gave me five not to trust.  Some might have been okay, but I wouldn’t know, I never gave them a chance ‘cause I never let my guard down.  I never even tried to get along any more.

Finally, they sent me to my uncle, or I should say he came for me.  At least they say he was my uncle.  I knew him, kind of.  I mean, I saw him with my momma all the time.  All those men she brought home were my uncles, according to her, like I was dumb.  Maybe he was, I didn’t know then.  He never spent the night.  He was never there for more than a few minutes.

I sat in my worker’s office while she and my uncle worked things out.  I could see them on the other side of the room at her desk, talking.  I couldn’t hear them; I could only watch them.

She used the phone.  My ‘uncle’ turned and saw me, lit a cigarette and winked at me.  Winked.  I guess maybe I smiled, I don’t know, maybe.  Before long, they were both standing over me.  My social worker bent down and smiled.  “You’re going home with your uncle, Bitsy.”  She smelled so good.  Her hair was yellow and hung down the sides of her head, covering her cheeks.  “You’ll have three cousins to play with and your own bedroom.”  She hugged me, placing her cheek against mine.  She smelled like butterscotch and flowers.  I cried.  I didn’t know why, I just did.

When we finally left, I sat in the passenger seat, slumped against the door.  “Everything gonna be fine, Bitsy.”  He put his hand on my knee and left it there the whole trip.

The trip seemed to take forever.  The neighborhood wasn’t what my uncle said it was.  There were many two flats with little postage stamp grass plots in front, but there was no grass on the entire block as far as I could see.  Some kids were playin’ out front; they were jumpin’ rope with a frayed, plastic clothesline.  Some little boys were bouncin’ a ball.  They wore gym shoes with no socks and some with no laces, skinny legs; dirty and ashy, shoe tongues flapping with every move.

When we pulled up, they all stopped and looked.  They didn’t come near us.  I guess they weren’t my cousins.  Maybe they were inside playin’.  He led me to one of the two flats.  My ‘uncle’ had the windows boarded up on the top floors, but not the basement.  There were no leaves on the trees, and it was already June.  He took me around to the side, locked with burglar bars.  He had the key.

Inside, cold emanated from the dark, smelling of cigarettes and stale grease.  I knew these odors.  I could make out the shadow of my uncle moving to the far wall, where he switched on the lights.  The basement was actually like a small three-room apartment.  In the larger room were several chairs and a couch.  A small bar with three card tables, set up with mismatched folding chairs, four and five to a table centered the room.  Things didn’t seem right.

“You live here?” I asked him.

My uncle made his way behind the bar, fished out two beers, walked towards me, and offered me a can.  Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach.  Everything was closing in tight.  He stood next to me and put his arm around me.  First, he rubbed my arm.  Then, before I knew it, it was on my breast.  I tried to pull away but couldn’t.  He grabbed my arm and held it tight.  His hands were rough and dirty, nails filthy and ragged.

“I don’t live here all the time, but yo’ momma worked here, that is until she got too drunk and sloppy.  She got to be useless; nobody wanted to touch her.  All she did was drink and shoot up.  She owed me a lot of money.

“We had a sweet setup here, ‘til she went and messed up everything.  Now, I got you.”

“I don’t wanna stay here.  I wanna go back.”

He threw his head back and laughed really loud and mean.  “You mine now.  I got the papers to prove it.  You know how I got these papers?  Your momma signed you over to me.  I’m her brother, her only relative.”

“Where’s momma?”

He laughed again.  “She s’pose to be in rehab, cleaning up so she can come and get you back.  But damned if I know where she really is.  I gave that bitch two-hundred dollars to sign those papers for you and swear I was her brother.  I told her we would be even.  She couldn’t wait to get her hands on that money; she practically drooled when I handed it over to her.”  He laughed again, pulling me closer.  I cried and couldn’t stop.

Whispering in my ear, he stuck his tongue in my ear.  He told me that he was having some friends over and that I should be nice to them like my momma used to be.  He pulled me towards the third room.  I tried to fight, but he only laughed louder.  He said he liked that I had spirit because, towards the end my momma just laid there like a dirty dishrag.  My spirit was right, he told me.  The room had two beds.  Both of them covered with grimy sheets and spreads.  Only one had a pillow, and it reeked with stench and filth, with what, I couldn’t tell.

He pushed me down on one of the beds, the one with the pillow.  It was the closest.  I cried louder and harder.  He said it was about time for me to make up some of the money my drunken slut momma owed him.  He lied down next to me, his hands all over me, under my shirt, my pants, my face.  He stood up and started taking off his clothes.  I tried to get up; he slapped me across my face.  I thought my head exploded; the pain rushed through my whole body.  I tried again; he hit me harder.  The room went blurry; my head grew light like I was floating away from my body, leaving pieces of my clothing floating behind me, my skin pimpled with goosebumps as I got colder.  He stopped laughing.

Soon he was naked next to me, telling me what to do and how to do it.  I wouldn’t.  He hit me again and again because I wouldn’t do what he wanted.  Finally, he stopped slapping me and did what he wanted.  I couldn’t stop him.  All I could do was close my eyes.  It hurt me and made me feel dirty.  Maybe that foster mother was right, and I was a ho’, and I was the only one who didn’t know it.  I was my momma’s child after all.

When he left, I pulled the overs over me and stayed put, whimpering and shivering.  I don’t know how long I was there before I heard voices and music from the other room.  At first, I thought someone would help me, and then I just got scared.  I got out of bed and looked for my clothes.  They weren’t there.  I got back in bed and covered myself under the filthy covers.  Soon the door opened.  A man came into the room, big and dirty.  My ‘uncle’ was behind him.

“I tol’ you, young and healthy.  Real fresh.  I broke her in myself this afternoon.  First time.”  They both laughed and slapped each other with a high five.  My uncle left.  All I could do was whimper and pray, soft and quiet.  When the big man left, there were others; how many, I didn’t know; they just kept coming through that door.  I didn’t count.  I didn’t want to know.

I don’t know how long I was there.  It felt as if I grew old there and died.  I had no feeling anymore.  Somebody must’ve called the police, ‘cause one day they were at the door, puttin’ handcuffs on my ‘uncle’ and a blanket around me.

Now, I’m sittin’ here waiting for the judge to help me get my life together.  Christian’s sleeping now.  I guess that’s good.  When he wakes up, he’ll be with new people.  I even think that would be for the best.  Because one day he will ask me about his daddy and what could I tell him?  I don’t even know who his daddy is.  His daddy was just one of many shadows out of the worst night of my life.

At least with a new family, Christian won’t have to worry about an uncle coming to take care of him.  I made sure his bottle, pacifier, and rattle were in his buggy.  I didn’t want to get back to the shelter and come across anything that would remind me of him, breaking my heart all over again.  I don’t think I could take it, not now, not ever.  I didn’t need those things; I had my memories.