A Very Sad Story

Like all of the children in our care, Jewel Hillock had a very sad story. One day, she inexplicably chose to share hers with me.

I recall Jewel as an affable Caucasian girl of about twelve years of age. She had unruly, medium length, dark blonde hair and a clumsy, medium build. She was an average looking Midwestern girl who would blend right in with a gang of youngsters kicking along down a set or railroad tracks or pinching candy in a run down convenience store. She was, in a raw and authentic sort of way, an All-American girl.

Jewel was discharging from the crisis unit the following morning and would be going to live in a foster home. She appeared rather wistful this day. Although we had formerly always shared perfunctory interactions, today she asked if she could speak with me in private right before I left my shift for the day. So we sat at the dining tables and talked.

“Mr. Dave,” she said, “I miss my mom.”

“Where does she live?” I asked.

“She’s dead.”

“Oh.” I cringed. “I’m sorry, Jewel. I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay. She died right in front of me. I remember that night like it was yesterday. It was the most horrible night ever.”

I shook my head, feeling awkward and unable to think of anything to say. I wondered why she was sharing this information with me now, as she had never before conversed with me about any serious matter. I surmised that perhaps sharing this experience was somehow her way of saying goodbye to me—or perhaps to her mother.

“My mommy and I were sitting on the floor playing rummy in her bedroom, and then all of a sudden she fell over. At first I thought she just passed out, ’cause she was drinking wine. But when I tried to wake her up, she wouldn’t get up. She just lied there.”

Jewel’s blue eyes welled up. “Then I got real scared. ‘Mommy, Mommy, wake up!’ I kept saying, but she just wouldn’t.”

“Oh, Jewel, that sounds—”

“Then I got really, really scared and started screaming: ‘Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! Wake up!’ And I was shaking her. Hard, like this.” She acted out the gesture. “But she still wouldn’t get up. I tried to wake her up for a long time. Her skin got real cold.”

I shook my head solemnly.

“I called 9-1-1 and the police and ambulance people came, and when they got there they drugged me out of the room. I was kicking and screaming: ‘No! Don’t take me away from my mommy! I want to be with my mommy!’ Then they tried to wake her up too but they couldn’t get her to wake up either. She was dead. They said she had a heart attack from taking too many drugs.”

Jewel looked at me sadly and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She then pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. “Anyway, Mr. Dave, I wrote you this letter. But you can’t read it until tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” Jewel looked at me suspiciously. “I swear, Jewel, I will wait.”

Reluctantly, she handed me the letter and I put it in my pocket, intrigued about its content. I gave Jewel a hug, and said, “Jewel, you take care of yourself. Be good in your foster home, okay?”

“I will.”

“And remember to use the coping skills you learned here.”

“I know! When I get angry I’ll write in my journal. Or go to my room and listen to music. Or talk with an adult.”

“Good girl, Jewel. I believe in you. I know you’ll do well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dave.”

“I gotta go now. Take care of yourself.”

“I will.” Jewel looked down sorrowfully at the tabletop.

“Bye,” I found myself straining to utter, suddenly fighting back an urge to sob.

“Bye!” Jewel’s face abruptly brightened and she leapt up and skipped away merrily to where a few other kids were playing a game of cards at a table. I hastily walked off the unit, rather bewildered at the swiftness in which her mood so completely flipped over.

***

Later that evening, I broke my promise and read Jewel’s letter:

“Dear mr. Dave,

“You have always be so nice 2 me. I hope we can be freinds when I at my foster home. I fell like I cold talk to you and tell you anything. You are very specal to me and I fell very cloose 2 you, can we be freinds OK????? here is the number 4 my foster home [xxx-xxxx]. I hope you call me please???

“Love,

“Jewel”

***

I failed to understand why Jewel suddenly felt so close and personal with me, intimate enough to use the word “love” in her closing. She had never before even remotely hinted to me of such sentiments.

The letter was rather unnerving, and I intentionally avoided contacting Jewel for several reasons: I did not know if it was professionally ethical for me to do so; I did not know Jewel’s true intentions and feelings, and I did not want to encourage a crush, if this letter indeed was a sign of such a perilous infatuation; and I did not want Jewel to stalk me, as the potential for it was evidently there. I sorely regretted having to disregard her appeal for friendship, as I’m sure I became yet another adult in her life in whom she was unable to have faith; I was yet another in a long line of big disappointments. But the decision I chose was the only way.

However, I still have her letter stored in a box somewhere in my home. Every now and then, when I’m sorting through my clutter of keepsakes, I come across it and think of Jewel. And wonder how she’s doing and if she is indeed using her coping skills when she gets angry. I hope so.


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© 2008 David Lee Cummings