Chapter 3

When I woke up, I was hooked up to some monitors and there was that same chunky, middle-aged white woman sitting in the chair. She was reading some papers from her briefcase. The monitors gave off a regular beep-beep, which was good I guess. It meant I was alive and likely to continue to be so.

I felt carefully on my left side and found a lot of bandages around my middle. My left arm was taped down across my chest. I was breathing shallowly, ‘cause I knew it would hurt to take a larger breath. After a minute gathering myself, I thought I might as well get the parade underway. I moaned, loud enough to get the woman’s attention.

She shuffled her papers and put them back in her briefcase. “Hello, dear. I’m Mrs. Delworth, and I’m from the state Department of Child Protection.” She was speaking everything slowly ... like my hearing was gone. Or maybe, she figured I was just an Indian girl, and may not understand English. I had forgotten how the world was in 1977: poor Indian girl ... assume she was mentally not all there, or that she was under educated...

“Could I ... get some ... water ... please?” I on the other hand couldn’t take in enough breath to make a whole sentence.

“There is a call button by your right hand. That will bring a nurse.” Maybe she was mentally addled and couldn’t speak faster.

I fumbled around, found the button, and pushed it. Within a few seconds, a nurse came in. I explained what I wanted and asked about what happened when I was out. I made it a point to speak as rapidly as I could – maybe Mrs. Delworth would get a clue. The nurse told me that my questions could be answered by a doctor, who would see me in due time. She bustled out to get water.

“Who are you, Mrs. Delworth?”

“Well, I’m from a state agency. I’m here to see what happened. What did happen? You told the policeman that somebody hit you?”

“Yes, well ... that bitch ... sorry about the language. But she’s hit me before. She was asleep because she partied with a trucker most of the night. I guess I made too much noise for her when I was getting ready for school. She came out of the bedroom, said some nasty words to me, hit me with a pipe and then went back to bed. She always had a piece of pipe near by, in case – you know – the truckers got rough with her – you know – in bed.”

“And she is what relation to you?” Mrs. Delworth was talking more normally now that she was in interview mode.

“The b ... I mean ... she is my mother. She’s hit me plenty of times before, but never with a pipe. She said I was going to have to earn my keep after I turned thirteen. That’s March 9.”

“She hit you before? You mean like a spanking?”

“No, mostly it was a punch in my belly. Or with a belt on my bare feet. Sometimes she’d beat me with an electric cord on my back. I don’t have to go back there, do I?”

“No, I don’t think so. I really don’t. Do you feel up to talking to a policeman?”

“Could it be a woman? Some of the things she said, I wouldn’t want to say to a man.” I was really getting into the role of an abused child. I knew I was going to be in the foster care system, but it had to be better than what Carla had in mind for me.

She strode over to my bedside table and lifted the receiver. It took me a moment to realize that nobody had a cell phone in 1977. “Hello, this is Mrs. Delworth of Child Protection, let me talk to a detective, please.” Well ... I won’t go through the whole fifteen-minute conversation, but she said a female officer would be over soon. I also learned that it was the same day, only about twelve hours later (judging by the clock on the wall).

By the time the policewoman arrived, I was talking with the doctor. He told me the good news. I only had three broken ribs, that would eventually heal. Emphasis on eventually. He guessed that meant three to six months. How can that be? I remember (from my Las Vegas days on my first go ‘round) pro football players who got broken ribs and were back in six WEEKS. What? Ribs heal slower in 1977?

When the doctor left the female cop came in. “Hello, I’m Corporal Mathis. Want to tell me your story?” So ... not a detective. No female detectives in 1977, I guess. Or maybe she was a Detective Corporal – like a Detective Sergeant in training. She was a muscular 5’6” with brown hair and eyes. “I have a detective outside, but he’s a male. I was told you wanted to speak with a woman. Your call. He’s very good and will probably read what you have to say, anyway.” She looked at Mrs. Delworth.

“Um...” I didn’t really want to go through all this twice. “Okay, let him in. But if I hear one crack about me being an Indian, or me deserving it...”

“I’ll beat him up for you,” said Mathis. She went to the door and waved him in. He was an older guy – probably about forty – and carried the evidence of too many donuts at the cop shop. “This is Detective Sergeant Martίn.” She pronounced it ‘marTEEN.’

So, I told her the whole made up story, including the pipe by the bedside (which was true). I embellished it further with a couple of stomach punches, getting whipped and then told her what Clara hadn’t said (yet) but what I knew was going to happen in a few weeks. All told it was about half an hour.

Corporal Mathis listened and took notes. Mrs. Delworth recorded everything on a comparatively large tape recorder (compared to modern pocket-sized units), and Martίn just listened. Everybody was looking at him.

Finally, he spoke. “Can you tell me, once again, what she planned to make you do once you turned thirteen.” I did so, different words, but the same story. I remembered on a cop show somebody said if you told a story in the exact same words, it sounded rehearsed and fake. Carla was gonna make me do sex-related things with various guys, who would pay her for the privilege. He thought it over. “Now tell me about your racial makeup. Mathis, write this down.” I did so, including the one-quarter Algonquin from my grandmother.