Status: W.I.P.
Save Me
005.
The hotel was grand; I couldn’t remember the last time I had been to a HYATT as clientele. Actually, the last I had been to a HYATT, it was to use the toilet when I had to work the street.
The social worker I was to meet at the airport was late; however, she was apologetic.
Her name was Betty Lou Harris.
She was about fifty, petite, probably a young grandma herself.
She was modest, but in her wonder years, she was probably a real beauty.
She, did not say much, but when she did it was all business.
I couldn’t say whether or not I was fond of her, but I did feel ‘safe’.
We were told that we would meet my father after he went to the Social Services office.
About a month ago he went to court on my behalf, and up until this point, I have been at a state home for children.
It wasn’t terrible, but not the most pleasurable of places to be.
We had chores, which weren’t the end of the world. I had plenty of chores to do when I had to take care of my mother. I would rather take out the trash three days a week, than have to bathe a mother who could not bathe herself; near the end my mother wasn’t able to get herself to the toilet to urinate or defecate because she could not stand, let alone walk, to the bathroom.
The only thing I can honestly say I did not like about the state home was the amount of children I had to share it with. I couldn’t have more than three minutes alone in that house, each day. It was hard, incredibly hard, to go from a home where you’re alone 24/7 to a home where you can only have three minutes peace.
There were a lot of kids at the home, maybe seven of us? There were four girls and three boys. I was one of the older children; along with a young Hispanic girl whose name was Maria.
Maria and I were good friends; we were a lot alike in many ways. She was a great help, and I really hope for her sake that her parents find peace in one another and not the violence they had found prior as a solution.
It wasn’t until we were about to approach the check-in counter that I became aware of the persistent clap and gesture of her hands, that my social worker Betty Lou, had begun small talk.
I felt terribly rude, and I found that I was already in the process of an apology.
“I’m really sorry Betty, I’m afraid that my attention was elsewhere; what did you say?”
Despite the worry that she would be angry or upset at my inattention, she was actually more than sympathetic, “Oh! Oh, no dear, that’s alright! I’m sure everything has been all out of whack, and I’m sure that plane ride wasn’t the kindest- why if I were you-,” there was a small hint of abruptness as she became aware that she had begun to go off point, “If I were you, I would probably like to rest.”
“I would like that.”
Shortly after the bellhop would amass our bags and we were lead upstairs to our fourth floor, double suite.
The social worker I was to meet at the airport was late; however, she was apologetic.
Her name was Betty Lou Harris.
She was about fifty, petite, probably a young grandma herself.
She was modest, but in her wonder years, she was probably a real beauty.
She, did not say much, but when she did it was all business.
I couldn’t say whether or not I was fond of her, but I did feel ‘safe’.
We were told that we would meet my father after he went to the Social Services office.
About a month ago he went to court on my behalf, and up until this point, I have been at a state home for children.
It wasn’t terrible, but not the most pleasurable of places to be.
We had chores, which weren’t the end of the world. I had plenty of chores to do when I had to take care of my mother. I would rather take out the trash three days a week, than have to bathe a mother who could not bathe herself; near the end my mother wasn’t able to get herself to the toilet to urinate or defecate because she could not stand, let alone walk, to the bathroom.
The only thing I can honestly say I did not like about the state home was the amount of children I had to share it with. I couldn’t have more than three minutes alone in that house, each day. It was hard, incredibly hard, to go from a home where you’re alone 24/7 to a home where you can only have three minutes peace.
There were a lot of kids at the home, maybe seven of us? There were four girls and three boys. I was one of the older children; along with a young Hispanic girl whose name was Maria.
Maria and I were good friends; we were a lot alike in many ways. She was a great help, and I really hope for her sake that her parents find peace in one another and not the violence they had found prior as a solution.
It wasn’t until we were about to approach the check-in counter that I became aware of the persistent clap and gesture of her hands, that my social worker Betty Lou, had begun small talk.
I felt terribly rude, and I found that I was already in the process of an apology.
“I’m really sorry Betty, I’m afraid that my attention was elsewhere; what did you say?”
Despite the worry that she would be angry or upset at my inattention, she was actually more than sympathetic, “Oh! Oh, no dear, that’s alright! I’m sure everything has been all out of whack, and I’m sure that plane ride wasn’t the kindest- why if I were you-,” there was a small hint of abruptness as she became aware that she had begun to go off point, “If I were you, I would probably like to rest.”
“I would like that.”
Shortly after the bellhop would amass our bags and we were lead upstairs to our fourth floor, double suite.
♠ ♠ ♠
better late than never!