Misfit Musings
Scripturient Fragments in an Online Jar
Handful of Moonlight
(“Touch has a memory.” ~ John Keats)
Prologue
She was my most favourite grownup in the whole entire world. We first met when I was six, and I’d noticed very quickly that where her right hand should have been was instead a rounded stump with five small circular bumps, which I imagined to be finger seeds. “Where’s your other hand?” I had asked, with the simple candour natural for children my age. She smiled and told me she’d been born without it. “I never grew one,” she said, “so it doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t even notice.”
I once asked her if I could touch her wrist-stump and the finger seeds that crowned it, and she let me. Each “seed” was like a tiny scar, and I ran my small fingers over and around all five of them before simply resting my hand over the roundness of the end of her wrist. The skin was exceptionally soft and I could feel her absent fingers filling the spaces between mine like waves of shimmering light. A calmness I’d never felt before flowed through me. I wondered fiercely what it would be like, to have only one hand. I tried to imagine how I would feel if I lost one of mine. “It’s different for me,” she said. “You can’t miss something that was never there.” And she continued to hold my hand assuredly with the one she never grew.
Act I
We met regularly and she helped me all the time – it seemed like there was nothing she couldn’t do. One day, I had formed an idea and it felt like my best one ever! I came up with an actual proposal, and I could hardly contain my excitement as I shared it with her. I outlined my rationale and objectives clearly and with not just a little earnestness. She listened intently.
“I just need my own apartment to live in,” I stated, matter-of-factly. “A small one, even. That’s all. I promise to keep going to school. You can check up on me anytime to make sure.”
I was absolutely positive she would make it happen. How could she not? My proposal was fair, realistic and totally achievable. My commitments were sincere, and my outline was airtight. Given the circumstances, it was a serious no-brainer. Win-win across the board. Easy-Peasy Lemon Squeezy.
“And then everything will be better for everyone,” I concluded, my succinctness both elegant and masterful.
As far as pitches go, it was fairly impressive for my first-ever attempt at such a formality. Just one fundamental shortfall had escaped my consideration. The teensy fact that decimated my otherwise infallible plan? I was only eight years old.
Act II
I’d been flying high, soaring on the vast oceans of independence I thought I’d effectively negotiated for myself. In one instant all those endless waves of freedom I could taste and feel disappeared, and I sunk like the Titanic. My ultimate voyage halted, ceased and desisted forever, doomed to rest thousands of leagues under a suffocating and thoroughly constricting sea.
“I’m really sorry – we’re just not going to be able to do that.” Thirteen little words that together carried a Tsunami’s force in rejection and the finality of a guillotine’s blade. I was blindsided and crushed by torrents of nausea. A tear of abject defeat rolled slowly down my face as the onslaught – and the reality it represented – washed over me. I sat motionless, my head hung low.
It was the words themselves that crushed me, and not messenger who spoke them. With her own tears welling slightly, her gaze soft and voice gentle, she was the anchor to all the complex realities my worldview couldn’t yet contain. She sat with me in my sadness, ever-patient as I moved myself through my own grief and into acceptance. She was my lifeline, and she held my hand until I was able to come up for air.
Act III
Judy Moon was the first of a long line of Social Workers who would eventually move through my life. I was absolutely devastated when she left (I learned years later that it was cutbacks to social services that had resulted in the quickness of her departure). Judy’s exit marked the first of many times the Ministry file that was “me” was simply shuffled onto the next desk.
Judy was the only one who had ever taken the time to say goodbye and prepare me for her “replacement.” She had been my Social Worker for five years, and I genuinely loved her. I grieved hard, shedding painful tears, when she told me we wouldn’t see each other again. She placed her left arm around my shoulders and I held her right wrist in my hands. “I’m going to miss your finger seeds,” I had sobbed.
“You’re going to be okay,” she had assured me, and we held hands for the last time.
Act IV
Excerpt: File # WIS – 721127
December 14, 1982: I don’t know of other services or resources to offer. The family has had family work over the past four years with myself and [name removed] (West End Mental Health Care Team). A’s Mother has been encouraged to take Adlerian or Family Service Parenting courses and she has refused to do so. This case has been assigned to a Youth Worker, Youth Counsellor, Special Services Worker and a Big Sister, and all have expressed concern for A’s self-esteem. Dr. [name removed] (Psychiatrist) has predicted that A. will be at risk for suicide or self-abusive street behaviour if things don’t change for her at home, and he recommends placing her. This family has also been assessed by Dr. [name removed] (UBC Psychiatry) and the report indicates that A’s Mother is unwilling or unable to accept the premise that if she changes her parenting approach, A’s behaviour will change.
March 14, 1983: A. has been placed in foster-care with [names removed]. Short term custody agreement for 5 months for decision making. A’s Mother is to have a complete break for one month and will then meet with [name removed] to discuss visitation and a final decision about permanent placement etc.
PLAN:
Transfer file to [name removed] , Social Worker, Office 02H
Encourage and if possible assist the Mother to make a decision about keeping/not keeping A.
Monitor A’s adjustment to her new situation. How difficult will she be? Should she remain in care long-term?
Effective April 1, 1983: File opened at 02H - assigned to [name removed].
Signed: Judy Moon, Social Worker, Office 14A
Epilogue
We’re talking about our relationships with our mothers, as adult women often do, and we’ve been reminiscing about highlights of particular note.
“Your mom wouldn’t even hold your hand during grace before meals? That’s seriously fucked up.” Shaking her head, my friend exhales a long plume of cigarette smoke. “It’s like she didn’t even love you in the eyes of God himself!”
I’m looking at my hands, clasped on the table between us. I think of finger seeds and moonlight. A smile curving my lips, I shrug and reply, “You can’t miss something that was never there.”