Ripple

When the Southwood project first started, there was a huge kickoff party with a bounce house, food, games, and lots of people. It had been announced ahead of time, so turnout was good. But, as the project settled down into a weekly routine, the residents seemed a little wary of joining in. Three girls, Marisol, Shoshanna, and Rebecca have been mainstays, though; they were the first kids to show up, and have attended consistently.

Marisol lives with her father, whose physical appearance betrays at least a history of methamphetamine use, if not current use. He always has a cigarette, and often a beer, in his hand. We don’t see him out very often, but when he is around, he’s invariably very sharp and critical of Marisol. A confusing array of female motel residents takes turns being responsible for Marisol. She refers to them as her “aunts,” though ethnically and in age they are a bit of a motley crew, and it’s difficult to tell whether there are any blood ties between Marisol and the women. Where her father is harsh and critical, the aunts seem to be very indulgent, promising to buy Marisol nail polish or toy jewelry from the dollar store down the street, advocating for her in tiffs with the other girls, and making sure she gets her share of anything being given out during playtime.

Marisol is a pretty little girl with shiny blonde hair and deep blue eyes set in an elfin face. She invariably shows up in the kid version of being dressed to the nines: very girly skirt and top, usually in some shade of pink; hair band or barrettes, usually sparkly; and lots and lots of shiny plastic bangle bracelets and rings. She is sharp, and crafty in an almost instinctual way. She likes to take charge, definitely of the other kids, but sometimes of the adults. Marisol seems indomitable; if one adult tells her, “No,” she sets her sharp little chin and approaches another, or just ignores the “No” and seeks another way to whatever she wants. Marisol struggles with some of the things that the other children find easy, but is competitive nonetheless. She struggled with learning to jump rope, but fiercely insisted on jumping in and attempting tricks that were way beyond the skill of a child who’d never played with a jump rope before, even though we encouraged her to take her time and offered individual help. She is usually last to finish a craft project, but will demand a second project if the other girls do. She is the only one of the kids who will stand up to Rebecca, another girl with a strong personality. All the girls try to take extra turns in games, talk one another out of some of the books and other small gifts we give out, or take control of a story or craft project, but Marisol rarely loses out; she is already, in second grade, tough and streetwise.

Today, though, Marisol arrives late to playtime, her tough exterior cracking. She’s not interested in crafts or looking through toy donations, rare behavior for Marisol. She doesn’t want to play games with the other girls, instead choosing to color alone, so I color with her. Every few minutes, after looking around to assure no one is watching, she fiercely wipes tears away with her hand. Thinking this is one of the times when my skills as a therapist can be useful, I take a chance: “What’s wrong, Marisol? It looks like you’re upset.”

Marisol wipes tears away, angrily. “I can’t call my mom.” One of the aunts has materialized and joins us at the table. She eyes me, warily.

“Do you usually call your mom?”

“Yes. On Fridays. Last night, I can’t.”

Not sure of the situation, I investigate gently. “Can you leave her a message, or call her another time?”

“No. They don’t let her call.”

The aunt breaks in, “Her mom’s in—“

“—prison!” Marisol hisses. “I want my mom!”

“Wow,” I say. “I’m sorry, Marisol. That’s very hard for you. You miss her a lot.” Marisol nods, wetly.

“Can you visit her?”

“No. She’s in…someplace that sounds like ‘hamsters.’”

“New Hampshire,” the aunt volunteers. “New Hampshire,” Marisol confirms, “It’s far away.” She begins crying in earnest. It turns out Marisol’s mother has been there for a couple of years, and will be there for a few more. I learn this from the aunt, who also tells me that there was some kind of problem at the prison last night, and the prison staff stopped calls for inmates. I’m sad for Marisol, almost on the verge of tears myself, but having worked for years with kids in state foster care, many of whom hadn’t seen their parents for years, at least I’m in familiar territory.

“Marisol, I know you’re really sad, but you know your mom loves you, right?”

The fierceness flares. “My mom loves me!”

“Right, she just can’t be here now. She’d be here if she could, and she’d call if she could. Sometimes parents just can’t be with kids.” Marisol nods.

“She loves you and you love her. Nothing can change that.”

“But now I can’t call her.”

“You can’t call her today, but can you do something else for her? Can you send her a picture?” The aunt confirms that they have an address for Marisol’s mom, and, just as important, a stamp. Marisol writes, “MOM” across the top of the page she’s coloring, then adds some hearts and writes “Marisol” across the bottom. She’s very good at coloring, and finishes the page with her usual meticulous job. The aunt leaves momentarily, then returns with an envelope. The colored and dedicated picture of a mother cat and her kitten is carefully torn from the coloring book and placed in the envelope, prison-bound.