MY MOM HAD CONNECTIONS through her work with the foster system, and she found Moses for me. I don’t think she wanted to find him. But for whatever reason—maybe out a lifelong compassion for troubled kids or out of respect for Kathleen Wright—she tracked him down. We had to be on a list in order to see him. The list was comprised of doctors, immediate family, and people Moses had been allowed to add.
My mom came with me the first time and we waited outside an official area while our names were relayed to another reception area on another floor. It was a building with different levels and pass codes and key pads. The reception area was as far as we got. We weren’t related and Moses hadn’t added any names to his list. I wondered if there had been any family to see him. I doubted it. My mom patted my hand and told me it was probably for the best. I nodded, but I knew it wasn’t best for Moses. I would keep trying without her.
I skipped school and drove Myrtle to Salt Lake the next time I attempted a break in. Or a break out. I would take him away if he’d let me. It took me three hours to get there in that damn truck. I had to drive in the slow lane, pedal pressed all the way down, Myrtle shaking even worse than I was. I talked us both through it, patting Myrtle’s dash and telling her there was nothing to be afraid of. We would take it slow. Cars and trucks flew by me in a swarm of horns and angry fists. But I made it. And I went again the next week and the next and every week for a month after that. Week after week, Myrtle never could get over her nerves and Moses never did let me in.
Finally, on my seventh week in a row, a woman came to the reception area and escorted me into a private meeting room. I’d noticed families being led to these rooms. My pulse sped up and my palms started to sweat in anticipation. I had high hopes that I would finally be able to see Moses. I needed to see him. I needed to talk to him.
“Georgia?” the lady looked down at her clipboard and smiled at me, though I could tell she wanted to get this over with. If she was a therapist or a psychologist, she needed to work on her poker face. She was impatient and had an irritated little wrinkle between her brows. Maybe it was because I was in cowboy boots and jeans, with my hair in a long, swinging braid. I probably looked easy to get rid of, easy to brush off and send away.
“Yes?” I responded.
“You aren’t on Moses’s list.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what they tell me.”
“So why do you keep coming?” She smiled again, but she also looked at her watch.
“Because Moses is my friend.”
“He doesn’t seem to feel that way.”
The hurt that was now a constant companion grew a size bigger in my chest. I looked at her for a long second. So prim in her little white coat. I bet she liked wearing that coat. It probably made her feel powerful. I wondered if she wanted to hurt me or if she was just the kind of doctor who was comfortable dispensing bad news.
“Georgia?” I guess she wanted me to respond to her statement. I fought the urge to rub my hands on my jeans, my nervous habit. The denim soothed me.
“He never has. He’s always pushed me away. But he doesn’t have anyone else.” My voice didn’t sound very strong, and that seemed to please her.
“He has us. We’re taking very good care of him. He’s making remarkable progress.”
That was good. Remarkable progress was good. The ache in my chest eased a bit. “So what next?” I shrugged. “Where does he go from here?”
“That’s up to Moses now.” How wonderfully vague.
“Can I write him a letter? Could you give him a letter from me? Would that be okay?”
“No, Georgia. He’s been granted phone privileges. He could have called you. He hasn’t, has he?”
I shook my head. No. He hadn’t.
“He is adamant. He doesn’t want to see you or communicate with you. And we honor those wishes when we can. He has control over so little, and this is what he wants.”
I wouldn’t cry in front of this woman. I wouldn’t. I took the letter I’d written Moses out of my purse, slapped it on the table in front of the doctor and stood. She could give it to Moses, throw it away, or read it to her monster babies for their bedtime story. They could all have a good chortle at my pain. Including Moses. Whatever the doctor decided, it was in her hands. I had done all I could do. I headed for the door.
“Georgia?” she called after me.
I slowed but didn’t turn.
“He knows where to find you, doesn’t he?”
I pulled the door open.
“Maybe he’ll come to you. Maybe when he’s released, he’ll come to you.”
But he didn’t come. Not then. Not for a long, long time.
Moses
THEY PUT ME IN A DIFFERENT ROOM without pads, which was nice, because then I didn’t have to draw in the space above them. They told me to stop drawing, but short of tying my hands behind my back, which was apparently frowned upon since I wasn’t “violent,” I wasn’t going to stop. They started bringing me blank paper and letting me draw instead of write, as long as I would talk to them about what I was drawing, and as long as I left the walls alone. I didn’t like interpreting my drawings. But it was better than telling stories that were easier shared in pictures.