“It’s okay. Calm down, kiddo,” he says, but I won’t. I want my daddy.
The man sits down on my father’s bed with me still in his arms, fighting. He continues to coax me to calm down, but my screaming and thrashing don’t falter until I grow tired. My body is limp as I’m crumpled against his chest.
“Can you tell me your name?” he asks.
I don’t speak.
A moment passes and then he says, “I’m Officer Harp. Michael Harp. I’m a policeman. You know what that is, don’t you?”
I nod my head against his chest.
“Can you tell me your name?”
Still scared, my voice cracks when I tell him, “Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth. That’s a nice name,” he says. “I have a daughter whose middle name is Elizabeth. She’s much older than you are though.”
He continues to talk, but I don’t pay attention to what he’s saying. I’m so scared and all I want is my daddy. I close my eyes; I can see him on his knees crying. He was scared just like me.
After a while, the door opens and I lift my head to see a chubby woman walking in. I think I’ve seen her before but I can’t remember where. As she gets closer, she says, “Your red hair is beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Where’s my daddy?”
“That’s what I am here to talk to you about,” she tells me. “Would you like to join me in the kitchen? We can get a snack or something to drink.”
“Umm . . . O-okay,” I mumble as the policeman sets me on the floor. When I follow the two of them out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, I look through the house to the front door, but nobody’s there anymore.
“Why don’t we have a seat?” the woman says, and I walk over to the table and sit down. “Do you want something to drink?”
I nod my head and she prompts, “Can you tell me what you want?”
“Juice box.”
Looking over at the policeman, he opens the door to the pantry, and I say, “They’re in the fridge.”
He walks over, pops the straw in, and sets it in front of me before he leaves the room.
“Confusing day, huh?” she says as she folds her hands together on top of the table. “What’s your name?”
“Barbara,” she answers but it doesn’t help me remember how I know her.
“When’s my daddy coming back?”
She takes in a deep breath and then tells me, “That’s what I’d like to talk to you about. Your father broke some pretty big rules and just like when you break a rule, what normally happens?”
“I get in trouble.”
She nods her head and continues, “Well, your father is in trouble, and he won’t be able to come home right now.”
“What did he do?”
“I’m not quite sure just yet. But for now, you’re going to come with me. I work for the Department of Children and Family Services, which means I’m going to find you a home with really nice people that you will stay with while your father is in trouble and can’t be here with you, okay?”
“B-But, I don’t want to leave.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t let you stay here alone. But you can bring some of your things with you. How does that sound?” She says this with a smile, but it doesn’t help the churning of my stomach.
Quietly, I slip off of the chair and start walking to my room. I go over to the tea set that’s on the table and pick up the pink daisies. My princess flowers. I sit down in the chair that he was sitting in and look over my shoulder to see Barbara walking into the room.
“Do you have a bag?”
I point to the closet and watch as she starts going through my dresser, packing up my clothes. She roams around, going back and forth between my bedroom and the bathroom as I clutch the flowers to my chest.
“You ready to go?” she asks when she steps back into the room, but I don’t want to look at her because I don’t want to go.
Staring out the window and up into the blue sky, I ask, “When can I come back?”
“I’m not sure,” she responds. “Probably not for a while.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her move across the room and kneel down beside me. As I turn to look at her, she says, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.” She looks down at the daisies. “Those are pretty flowers. Do you want to bring them with you?”
Leaving the house, we walk out to her car and I hop into the back seat. As I look out the window, I watch the policeman shut the front door to my house and lock some sort of black box onto the door handle.
“What’s that?” I ask Barbara, who’s sitting up front.
“What’s what, dear?”
“That thing he put on the door.”
She looks over to see what I’m talking about and responds, “It’s just a lock since we don’t have the keys,” and then starts driving away while I hold tightly to my flowers.