Haunted

When I started my job as a social worker...I was a pretty young and
naive thing. I didn't know about child abuse/neglect...hadn't known
what it was to not have a warm place to sleep and a person to love me
unconditionally. I began as a child welfare caseworker in August of
1996. At first, it was a lot of workshops, a lot of "what would you do"
- hypothetical situations thrown out to us. I was unprepared for the
reality of what some people endure in their lives.

In November of that year...3 months into my training, I got a referral.
Nothing that was too appalling from the sounds of it. Someone called in
to report that a grandmother was raising two of her grandchildren, born
to two of this woman's own children. So we had these cousins - one
about 6, and one 3 or 4. The person calling into the hotline stated
concern that the children were being hit with belts. Sad, but common.
Then, it went on to state that the grandmother got frustrated with the
children, and would lock them in their rooms. It got a bit darker, as
the referral then stated that the children would be put in their rooms
for so long that they urinated and defecated on the carpet. "Well, it's
concerning, but perhaps the children just weren't really potty
trained", I thought to myself. Looking through the confidential section
of the referral, as to who called it in, it was a bit surprising to see
that the person calling all this in was the son of the grandmother,
these children's uncle. He had stated to the phone room worker "I know
these kids are being maltreated, because it used to happen to
me".

I wondered then, why this grandmother's two daughters would allow their
own children to live with a woman who had this history of being
abusive. I checked some history, found that the two daughters of these
women were in no position to be raising children. One was mentally ill
and mentally retarded...probably the intellect of a 12 year old. Lived
from place to place, no job. Went from man to man, and it seemed a
minor miracle that she didn't have more children. The other, a long
time drug addict, who admitted to ongoing crack cocaine usage, stripped
for money, and who knows what else. She too, wandered from home to
home, no stability. The grandmother of these children, for whatever
reason, just decided that she would be the one to take these children
in.

But she wasn't exactly the cooking baking, hand holding, crocheting
type grandmother. From previous reports, I found that she had brought
the children into the Agency at one point, and just asked that we take
them, that she couldn't handle them anymore. We implored her to let us
help her, we'd link her up with services, and by golly, she could do
well by these children, they had no one else. Caseworker after
caseworker came into the children's lives, knew grandmother was not
happy being a caretaker, but thought that the kids would be ok. We
always hope, the kids will be OK.

So I was armed with some information before I actually met the family,
looked up some history. I went out to the home for the first time...a
dilapidated old single family home. Siding falling off. Bits and pieces
in the yard, like halves of bikes, rubber chew toys, dog feces, some
garbage bags. An old rusty fence surrounded the home, and I made my way
up to the front door. A huge dog, breed unknown, but knowing that by
god, it had teeth came to greet me, and I placed a card in the mailbox,
outside the fence's perimeter, stating who I was, and that I needed a
call back, that we had gotten a referral on the children living in the
home.

A few days go by, no call from grandmother. Not surprising, who wants a
social worker coming over to pry into family business? It's December
now, and I have to see these kids.

I make another visit to the raggedy home, noticing that there's wood
and plastic on most of the windows, can't really see into the home.
Make a faint yell up to the place.. "HellO?? Any one home??" Left
another note, this one a bit more menacing "PLEASE call me to set up an
appointment, otherwise I may need to involve law enforcement". My 3 day
time period between receiving a referral and seeing the children has
long since lapsed. Getting some heat from the supervisor. I have to see
these kids.

Finally, later that day, I get a call from a woman who sounded like she
had eaten some Marlboros for lunch and washed them down with some
gravel. She's no stranger to social workers, she says, and that she and
the kids are just fine, Children Services doesn't need to bother coming
out. She asked for help before, and she never got it. "It doesn't
really work that way", I tell her. "I want to know how you are doing, I
want to see if there's anything I can do to help. Let me at least
eyeball the children, and we can go from there."

Suddenly, the dam breaks on this woman, and she starts spilling her
guts. This happens more than you'd think, that people confronted by a
social worker, a complete stranger, start talking. I reckon it's
because no one ever asks how they are doing, and sometimes, I'm the
first person to actually listen to them in a while. Or ever. She was
abused as a child, she tells me. Her own mother is a certified loony,
she was hit with brooms, told she was a bitch. She married the wrong
men, and her own children are no good. Now, she's only keeping the
grandchildren because there is no one else to do it. She tells me that
the children have Attention Deficit Disorder, and that she does too, as
an adult. Says that everyone there is on Ritalin. Says that the
children are compulsive liars, and that they urinate and defecate on
themselves to spite her.

"Eep" I think to myself "This woman has got some problems" Yet in my
newness, I don't see this as being out of the realm of possibility.
That maybe these are badass kids. She reluctantly agrees to let me come
out. It's about 4 pm now...I want to go home. She's been on the phone
with me for an hour, telling me her life story.

But I go.

I walk up the house, and am met by grandma, holding back Cujo at the
door. She's a bit on the heavy side, stringy hair, glasses, but
overall, nothing remarkable. She's like a lady you'd see in the grocery
store yelling at her kids to shuddup, but you wouldn't think a lot
about it.

She invites me in, and sweet Jesus. The stench. As long as I live, I'll
never forget that smell. Instantly gagging, I try to breathe through my
mouth, and try not to look horrified. As I'm invited to sit in the
living room, my senses fortunately begin to acclimate, and I'm not on
the verge of vomiting. I'm trying to think how I'd describe this smell
in my notes. It's definitely scat, to use a polite phrase. Human, or
dog, I'm not sure. It's body odor, it's musty, it's old food left
sitting out for a few days. It's cigarettes, and lots of them. New and
old. My eyes still water, and I'm wondering how in the hell can anyone
live with this odor??

From the corner of the living room, two figures appear. First, I see
the little boy. Nothing but a speck of a boy. Almost-white hair,
beautiful blue eyes, a pinched in face that breaks my heart. He sees
me, and give me a huge smile and says something that I haven't the
faintest what it means. "He doesn't talk good at all" grandma says. "I
should get him looked at, but he's just dumb like his mother".

He flops down at my feet and looks at me adoringly. I can't help but
just grin like an idiot at him. He goes over to the scrawny Christmas
tree shoved in the corner, and picks up some of the icicle-tinsel
that's laying at the base of it. He lays it on my lap, carefully and
proud. Grandma starts screaming "Stop messing the place up" and the boy
just cowers, sits by me on the couch and sticks his lower lip
out.

"Oh, he's just trying to pick stuff up" I protest in his defense. She
doesn't have much, but you can tell she takes pride in what she does
have. For the stench, I'm surprised to see that it's so neat,
really.

I then focus on the second kiddo that's not said much. She grins too,
in a way that makes you want to donate to Children's Funds. "This one
is the sneakiest liar you'll ever meet...she steals food, even though
she eats like a horse, and then bold face lies about it". The girl's
eyes go downcast.

"Aww", I say "I can't see this munchkin being so bad".

"Oh, believe it" grandma retorts. "She's the worst of the worst, she
fights with the boy all the time, no rest" She tells the girl to go get
a dinner plate, which she does. Grandma tells me that she fills it up,
and she eats it, then she wants more. "Can you believe it?" she
outrages. She wants me to believe it. All of it.

"What do you eat, honey?" I ask. She looks down at the floor, and tells
the carpet that she eats pizza and spaghetti. Grandma laughs, but it's
not funny.

Then grandma surprises me by telling me that these kids are her life.
They are all she has, she is all they have. No one can take away what's
hers. That pops up quite a bit after that. "No one'll take away what's
mine"

"You do love them" I comment. That's nice, I think. I don't take this
as menacing.

Grandma and I make chit chat..about this and that. She tells me more
about her string of abusive husbands, how crazy her kids made her, how
she's been vilified in the past by Children Services with both her
children and her grandchildren. How much she hated all her former
workers.

"But you're different" she says after about an hour, "I can talk to
you".

I use this to my advantage, and I tread on more sensitive subjects. I
ask about locking the kids in the room, and she tells me that she has
to, the girl is always trying to run out in the middle of the night.
She tells me that her doctor told her to do it, so she can get some
rest. She tells me that the children never sleep, so what she did was
get a paper route early in the morning..might as well, she figured, as
I'm up all the time anyway.

I notice that no one in the family looks like they get a good night's
sleep. Both kids are pale, and so is grandma. Dark circles under their
eyes.

I tell grandma I want to help. "You've taken on so much, and it's so
stressful for you" I soothe. Grandma looks dubious. She's had Children
Services involved before. "We'll have voluntary services" I tell her
"We try to get you hooked up to the best community resources".

She's not convinced. "Maybe you could come out here every so often,
just play cards with me and talk. I like talking with you"

Sorry, I tell her...I'm just the investigative worker, I'd have to
transfer her case..but maybe, I'd talk to my supervisor. Maybe I could.
I'm falling in love with these little kiddies. As grandma and I are
talking, the children make me their new best friend. They interrupt, to
grandmother's exasperation, to show me a picture they made, and insist
I take it. Show me the few wrapped presents under their tree. Shake
them for me. Give me this 1,000 watt grins that fade as soon as grandma
tells them to sit down and shut up. They flank me on either side on the
couch, grandma in the chair across the room. They snuggle in. They've
known me all of about 2 hours.

Grandma invites me to stay for dinner, she's had a pretty good time
talking to me. "No" I insist, " I have to get home, but please, start
the kids' dinner".

So she slaps some Chef Boy-Ar-Dee on a plate, and the kids attack it.
Grandma and I talk alone, but then she explodes as she sees the kids
eating over my shoulder, and asks the girl "Did you touch his
spaghetti??"

"No gramma, I didn't"

"I saw you touch it!" She slaps the girls' hand. She protests "I was
just touching it to see if it was warm, cause mine isn't"

With that, grandma shouts, tells her to go to her room. She goes up
stairs loudly. Slams the door to her room.

"See what I go through?" she implores.

Hmmmm. I nod.

She then looks at the boy, and tells me "Watch this, watch what
happens". She tells the boy to go to his room. He looks indignant. What
did I do, his eyes seem to say. He then bursts into tears, and goes up
the stairs like a herd of buffalo.

"Of all the nerve", grandma says.

"You know, he was mad because he knew he didn't do anything wrong" I
reason.

Grandma shoots me a look, and I know to shut my mouth. She then
softens, and she's the polite hostess again. She gets up to show me
some of her velvet paintings (oh lord i'm trying not to snicker) I
compliment her on them, and she's so proud. So proud.

It gets to be 8:00 before I know it. I've been there for almost 4
hours. The kids have been in their rooms for over an hour now. Not a
peep from them.

I tell Grandma that I'm going to tell my supervisor what we talked
about, then call her tomorrow, to see what action I need to take.
Grandma smiles, satisfied. Probably thinks she put on a good show. I'm
torn. Maybe this is normal. Not my normal, but hers. And maybe all this
was OK.

I reconsider as I drive. The home's smell follows me, and I'm again
sickened. I get home, and I need a shower. I scrub. I want to burn
clothes. I almost got used to the smell while I was there, but once I
smelled fresh air again, I was bowled over by the smell that clung to
me.

I don't know what I'm going to do.

The next day, I sit down with the boss, and explain to her what I saw.
She's patient with me, prodding about details. After about 10 minutes
of me blathering, she's heard enough. "We need to open that case" she
tells me. No argument there.

I call grandma, and I tell her, let's open the case, no guarantees that
I could be her ongoing worker.

"I decided that I don't need your help, thanks" she says
abruptly.

"OK" I say, dazed, not sure what my next move is supposed to be. "Um,
I'll tell my supervisor".

I slither back to the supervisor, dreading her response to this, and
she doesn't surprise, saying "You don't take no for an answer.
Something's not right in that home, we need to open this"

"But...but" I stammer. I get nervous. Grandma doesn't want me coming
out, I don't want to impose upon her. I hate having to tell people
things they don't want to hear, especially telling a client that we're
going to start going over their lives with a fine tooth comb, telling
them what to do, and if they decide they don't like it, then we take
court action.

There are no buts to be had. My supervisor is firm. I need to get
grandmother's cooperation.

Another call to grandma about 10 minutes after the first one, and I can
tell she's not happy to hear from me. "I told you I don't want your
help, and I don't want anyone prying into me life."

I implore her, please, you are stressed, let us help. I make the vague
threat of court action, which I hate to do, but needs to be done.
Reluctantly, a bit angrily, she agrees I can come out again next week,
she'll think it over.

She cancels the appointment I had made that next week. Death in the
family. Uh Oh. She's avoiding me. Typical.

I drop by unannounced a few days later. The house is more cluttered
this time, and oh Lord, there's that smell again, worse I think. Worse.
I take a deep breath?

I'm pretending to take the hard line approach this time, I tell her
that we open the case or we pursue court action, even though my guts
are flopping in my belly. I hate being threatening. But I tell her, I'm
not to remove the kids necessarily, but to force her into services with
the Agency. An Order of Protective Supervison. No way she says. No way.
I persist.

" I need to look around, my supervisor needs me to see the kids' rooms
and the fridge and stuff"

"What??" she says indignantly

"Yeah" I stammer "I'm new at this, and I forgot some things the time I
was here".

"Fine", she spits "Come on. Maybe if I let you snoop around, you'll lay
off"

She leads me into the kitchen. Shows me piles of freezer goods, canned
goods galore. The kids, they eat me out of house and home she says. I
can't argue with her.

Shows me her "babies". No, not the kiddos, the dogs. They are in cages
past the kitchen. I'd heard the racket before when I was here, but now
I see that there are about 5 of them. Some of the little rat dogs,
medium ones, that huge one that wanted to eat me the first time I was
here. Their cages look clean. Smells more like wet dog over here. Maybe
dog feces. I can't distinguish smells anymore, I'm on sensory
overload.

I hadn't seen the kids yet. They are upstairs. We go up. Grandma
unchains the door to the little boy's room, and he emerges, immediately
coming to my side, a smile of recognition plastered on his wan face. Oh
my Lord. She had him chained in there

I know where the smell is coming from. As his door remains open, I''m
met by a wave of odor that I've never, and I mean never have
experienced before. I worked at a camp for three summers, with latrines
festering in 104 degree heat, and I never smelled this before.

I choke out "What smells in there??".

"Oh" says grandma "I told you that they pee and poop in there to spite
me"

"Um, if they are locked in there, how can they get to the bathroom??
And why don't you clean it up" I exclaim

"They can push the door open a few inches and yell. I can't never get
the place clean, they just do it over and over" she says. She grabs the
boy's upper arm, and shoves him back in and demonstrates. The little
boy looks stricken, as I see him push open his door about three inches,
and I see that little face, his eyes telling me "Do something". I nod
my understanding. But inside I scream.

This woman is not right.

She takes the chain off the boy's door, and then the girls. They assume
position right next to me, as the four of us are crowded in the narrow
hallway.

As I peer into the girl's room, I notice that there are no lights in
either room. None. "They don't need lights at night, they should be
sleeping" grandma tells me.

I note that the windows have boards over them, and plastic. In the
bright of day, only a sliver of light comes through. "I had to board
them up, or they'd escape out the windows, sneaky bastards."

I can't breathe at all now.

"I'm pulling up the carpet this weekend, my daughter is going to help"
she tells me.

I try and regain my composure. I see that what I've been smelling is
human feces and urine festering in carpet. Ground into the carpet.
Molding into the carpet. I'm shocked. I can't speak. I was never
prepared for this.

I don't know what to do. I want to take both children under my arms and
run.

So I leave.

But before I make my frenzied exit, I tell grandma that I need to talk
to my supervisor again. Oh, and can I talk to the school of the 6 year
old, and the doctor that they go to. I feel like I'm on amphetamines in
my brain, but walking through mud in my body. Grandma is taken off
guard, very hesitant, but she mercifully agrees..she signs the releases
of information and I run. I never want to see this place again. I want
to forget what I saw.

I pour the story out to my supervisor. She tells me to go see the
prosecutor and file a motion..maybe for Protective Supervision, or
maybe for custody.

To gain more information before I file, I call the doctor who treats
all three people in the family for Attention Deficit Disorder. He tells
me that he meant to call to report grandma, he's had some concerns, ,
but never got around to it. He does think grandma is too stressed out
to care for the kids. And yes, he told her to put locks on the doors of
the kids' rooms. To give grandma some rest. Yet then he says something
surprising. He tells me we shouldn't remove the children. "Why?" I say
incredulously.

"That would push grandma over the edge, I think" is the reply.

I call the teacher of the six year old girl. She says that the girl is
always stealing food. Eats crayons. Lies a lot. Poor grandma, she says.
That girl's a handful.

Maybe I was wrong about what I saw. Maybe the kids would be OK with
grandma, that I'm overreacting.

I make another call to grandma. I tell her that my supervisor told me
that I need to file in Court. She yells "No one takes what is mine!"
.

I shush her "No, no, I don't want to take the children. We'll file for
Protective Supervision. I called the teacher and your doctor. They see
that the kids are a handful, and you just need some help." I've
convinced myself that's all she needs.

Grandma hangs up on me. She's not convinced. Any fragile relationship
we had is gone.

I go to the prosecutor, I tell her what I saw. Her eyes get big. "We
are filing for CUSTODY of these children...TODAY".

"NO!" I tell her. "I told her we wouldn't take custody. Those kids are
her life, she told me!"

The prosecutor is scribbling what I've said down on the affidavit, and
my heart is pounding.

I take the paperwork to court.. The magistrate asks me what's going on
with the family, in my own words. She can't get a full picture from the
prepared affidavit, full of legalese. I tell her tentatively that I
don't think we need emergency custody, that grandma might comply with
services. The magistrate nods her head. She is trusting what I
say.

She doesn't give me custody, we set a court date...for now, the kids
stay with grandma. I am so relieved?.so relieved.

I tell grandma on an unannounced visit later that day that I asked for
custody, but we didn't get it. She hits the roof, and tells me I
betrayed her. I don't have the social work courage to tell her what is
wrong, and how wrong it is.

While grandma continues on her tirade, I notice someone else in the
house on this visit. The mother of the little boy, stretched out on the
couch. She can barely keep her eyes open. She looks strung out. Grandma
tells me that she told her daughter she could stay there. She was
kicked out by the latest boyfriend. The mom mutters something in
protest about what she's heard regarding court action, but I don't hear
her.

I notice something else, that her son can't keep his eyes open either.
Can't stand up. Looks woozy and confused. Yet I say nothing. I want to
leave, I just want to wait till I see grandma in Court. We can
straighten it out then.

Before I go, though, I see the little girl, standing in the corner. The
dark circles under her eyes look darker.

I'm starting to get some of my own.

In the days passing until the hearing, my resolve strengthens.

We come to Court. A different magistrate hears the case, not the one
who read the affidavit. The prosecutor tells me before we go into the
courtroom that we are unequivocally asking for custody. I nod my head.
It's right it's right it's right chants the mantra in my head.

Grandmother gives me the most surprised, hurt and indignant look as I
describe to the Court what I've seen in the home. There's no debating
to the magistrate. Custody of these kids. Now. Grandma spits out some
cussing. Security is called. She settles down, I tell her that I'll be
at the house, getting the kids in the next hour.

I call the police. I talk to the dispatcher, and tell her that I have
an Emergency Temporary Custody order, and need to remove two children
from a home. She asks me what kind of car I have, so the officer will
know who I am when I pull up. "I have a 1997 Chevrolet Cavalier, light
blue" I tell her. (it's December, 1996)

"Wow, they must pay you social workers pretty well for you to have a
brand new car!" she jokes.

I'm in no mood for jokes. "Yes, we get paid a bonus every time we
remove children" I say. "This will come just in time to make December's
payment"

"Really??" she says. She believes me. Dear God.

"Yes, really" I snap. Just get that damned officer out there and
pronto.

I take out one of the Master's level social workers. Certainly, she's
got to know what she's doing. She'll help me through this. I pray like
I've never prayed before. I want this to be the right thing to do. I
don't want to get shot. I don't ever want to have to go to this house
again.

I get to the home, and mercifully, the police officer is already there.
I see Grandma and the little girl in the back of the squad car. He
tells me that they were leaving as he was pulling in, and figured he
would have them sit tight. Thank God?thank God.

The girl is in the back of the car bawling her eyes out. I want to bawl
too.

Where's the little boy? I need the boy too. I tell the officer, there's
one more I need.

He leans into the squad car and asks Grandma where the boy is. She
shakes her head. He asks again, and this time, she knows he's
serious.

"Let me out" she scowls.

She gets out of the car along with the girl, whose gulping for breath
and wet down to her waist from her tears. I take the girl's hand, but
she cries "Grandmaaaaaaaaa" My heart is breaking. I hand her to the
other social worker who puts her in my car.

Grandma is walking away from us, and the officer shouts at her "Where
are you going?"

"I'm going to get the boy, just hold your fucking horses"

He leans against the cruiser. I look at him, disbelieving. Why doesn't
he go with her? But he's just hanging out.

I go to my car, and tell the girl it'll be all right. I don't convince
myself, much less her. She continues her wail "Grandmaaaaaaaa"

Grandma reappears about 10 minutes later, she had gone around the
corner to where her daughter and the boy were. Her daughter was more
lucid today, crying. She doesn't want to give up her son. Grandma tells
her she has to, and shoots me a look of disgust.

I take the little boy's hand, but he tries to elude my grasp, grunting,
pointing to his mother. He starts to cry when he sees all the tears
being shed around him.

The neighbors have all come to their porches. All this drama is
unfolding in the middle of the street. This is big news now. Yet I
don't feel threatened. Looking back, I think they were behind me. I
think they knew what had been going on.

However, Grandma has some troops rallied on her side.

As I lead the boy to my car to join his cousin, I see someone new.
Grandma's son comes up to me. He's about my age, probably a bit
younger. He's rough?hair that was cut by a blender, dirt under his
nails, and a tear tattooed on his face. I don't know till later that
meant he's a gang banger. He looks me straight in the eye and tells
me"You are ripping their hearts out. Can't you see that?"

(he's the one who called to report all this?he's the one that started
this all)

I say nothing.

Grandma shoves forward, and gives me both the children's medicine, what
I take to be Ritalin. She tells me I'm not getting any of their
clothes.

The police officer finally sees I've gotten what I came for. He tells
all the family members to just go into the house. Show's over.

I go back to the car, where the children's hands are pressed up against
the windows, windows fogging up from their hot, wet tears. I start the
car engine, and I feel tears of my own starting to well up.

I look in the rear-view mirror, and tell the weeping children that
everything will be all right. Oh, how I want to believe it.

As we drive towards the Agency, the crying abruptly stops. The girl
asks "Gramma told me that you don't get fed in the Children's
Home"

"Oh honey, that's not true" I comfort.

"Gramma said you don't get to play with toys in the Children's
Home"

"You are going to get a ton of toys to play with, sweetie" I
proclaim.

She brightens. So does he. I see Grandma's game here. She had filled
their heads with stories. I tell them that they are going to get new
clothes, new shoes, plenty to eat and a nice clean bed. They start to
look like people who just won the lottery.

We get to the agency, and my supervisor gasps. She sees two little
kiddos that are too small, dirty and lice ridden. This should have
happened a month earlier, I tell myself.

While we wait for the foster parents to arrive, we give the kids some
milk. Between the two of them, they drink almost a gallon.

The foster parents come. A different set for each of them. Because
Grandma had told me that they fight so often, I'd thought it best that
they go to two separate homes. They are going to need so much
attention.

The girls' foster parents come first. They crouch down to talk to her,
tell her they live on a farm, she'll have her own room, and they're
happy to have her. She runs into their arms, and doesn't leave for
weeks.

The boy is distraught after the girl leaves. He won't let go of me.
Another supervisor tells me that I'm his guardian angel. I tear up. His
foster parents come..a grandma and grandpa. I have to follow the foster
parents to their home with the boy in my car, he's not going to let me
go. We get to the foster home, and he just collapses. He's so tired.
The foster grandma takes the lice kit I brought, and goes off to the
bathroom with the now sleeping boy.

My job is done.

For me, this was just about the end of my involvement with the
children. Soon after, I transfer the case to a worker who has been
around the block. But before I do, I start therapy with the children.
This is what transpires:

The girl has odd behaviors...she clings to the foster mother like she's
2 years old, she hoards food under her bed, she eats until she stuffs
herself and throws up, she doesn't talk to any other children, she
hides around the foster home when she's done something wrong.

The boy doesn't talk, even though he should. He had lice all over him.
He eats and eats until someone pulls the plate away. He cries at bath
time and diaper changing time. He's no where near potty trained. But,
the foster parents say, that smile of his will light up a room.

The new social worker is good. She pries. She listens to anyone who
will talk, and gets the therapist to delve deep with the girl. She goes
back to that neighborhood, and knocks on doors.

A new picture of this home emerges.

Grandma locked them in their rooms for hours, if not days. Kept in the
pitch black.

The children didn't eat a regular meal. Ever.

A neighbor saw the children made to eat dog feces.

The girl was tied to her bed, and tied to the wall.

The police are called, and a report is made.

A seasoned detective says it is the worst case of abuse and neglect
he's seen in 25 years on the force.

Charges are pressed, and convictions are passed down. Grandmother will
spend 10 years in jail.

After my testimony in Court against Grandma, I try and forget this
case. I'm still in training at this point?and even though this case
involved so much work, the other cases never stopped coming. I'm
emotionally drained, and I have to let go. By March I had gained about
40 pounds?I ate through the stress.

I lost track of the case for about two years. Later, I find out that
the girl had to be moved from her first foster home, the family was
exhausted, and couldn't cope with her insatiable needs for food,
affection and attention. She goes to an institution for a while.

I saw her in the respite center about two years ago, she vaguely
remembers me. Her behavior is terrible, the workers there tell me. I
sit down, and I play a game of UNO with her. After we're done, I look
at her, and tell her to be good. She looks right into my eyes, and
remembers. "You protected me" she says.

The boy fortunately does a bit better. I see him in our clinic one day,
with new glasses, and talking like a little boy should. He looks at me
and smiles that smile. Then runs to play.

The reason all this has recently come back to me is because I was
looking through our adoptive listings database just a few weeks ago.
Without meaning to, I pull up my little boy. I see a little heart by
his name, and I'm overjoyed. It means a family wants to adopt
him.

I then input search data for a girl around her age. And there she is.
She's growing up fast. A smile on her face. But her eyes. They still
have those dark circles. In those eyes, I see a girl haunted. Probably
always will be.

I've been at the Agency for about 5 years now. I don't think I'll last
another 5. I've moved on, and worked with plenty of other children,
with their own stories to tell.. Yet I've developed a shell that leaves
me mostly impervious to it all.

But I have to tell you?

Sometimes, I'm haunted too.