Then Macy didn’t hear him anymore at all. The voice became a drone of authority that pinned her down like gravity. Her eyes opened wider, and the largeness of the moment swallowed her in, and she clutched her chair. Then abruptly everything stopped. Everyone was looking at her.
“Is this okay?” the judge asked gently. He nodded as he spoke and Macy, wide-eyed and trembling, imitated his motion. Didn’t he know she was afraid? Couldn’t he see the Hummels were bad people?
As quickly as it began, it was over. There were congratulations and smiles. Everyone seemed happy. As Macy walked out, she saw her sister. She was eating a sucker and facing away from the door.
“Sissy.”
Noel turned, and Mrs. Thorup quickly put her arm around her to restrain her. Noel began to cry again. “Don’t go ’way.”
Macy’s lip quivered. “Where’s your heart, Sissy?”
“Macy,” Noel cried. She strained against Mrs. Thorup’s grasp. “Let me go!”
“Sissy,” Macy repeated. “Where’s your heart?”
Noel stopped struggling and put her hand over her chest.
“Keep me there,” Macy said.
Noel’s soon-to-be father lifted her and carried her into the room and Macy shuffled out with the rest of the Hummels. Macy knew she would never see her Sissy again.
The six Hummels went out for ice cream to celebrate. Macy had a single scoop of mint chocolate chip.
There is no amount of compassion or common sense that can’t be extinguished by government bureaucracy.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
It had been more than five years since Macy had talked to anyone from the state. The last caseworker she had seen had retired two years earlier, and the woman at the DCFS office referred her to the woman who had taken most of her cases, a middle-aged woman named Andrea Bellamy.
Macy had dressed up for the meeting. She wore an outfit she had borrowed from her roommate, a matching pink silk skirt and jacket with a white pleated blouse. She wanted the caseworker to know that where the state had failed she’d succeeded. She even carried a purse—for her, a symbol of respectability and stability.
The caseworker was a heavyset woman with frosted hair, heavy makeup and bright eyes. She greeted Macy in the lobby. “Hi, I’m Andrea.”
“I’m Macy. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she said. “Please follow me.”
Andrea led her back past a jungle of fabric-padded cubicles to a small conference room. She directed Macy to a chair, then sat down across from her, setting a large folder on the table between them. In the overcrowded schedule of a caseworker there was seldom time for formalities, and Andrea Bellamy quickly launched into the business at hand. “I looked up your file yesterday. I had a little trouble finding it with your name change.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“According to your record, you were adopted at the age of eight by Dick and Irene Hummel. Your little sister was adopted by another family on the same day.”
“That’s right. I just need to know where she is.”
The woman looked at her stoically. “I’d like to help you with that but unfortunately her file was ordered sealed by the judge.”
Macy looked at her quizzically. “Sealed?”
“It means I can’t give you any information about her without a court order.”
“How do I get one of those?”
“In a case like this you probably can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the seven years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen it happen.”
“But don’t I have a right to see my sister?”
“That right is negated by her and her adopted parents’ right to privacy.”
“Why would my sister want privacy from me?”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Could you tell me her name?”
“You don’t remember her name?”
Macy shook her head. “I’ve forgotten.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything.”
Macy rested her head in the palm of her hand. “Is there any way around this?”
“Only if your sister decides that she wants to see you and makes a formal request. I now have your phone number and address, so I’ll contact you if that happens.”
“But she might not even remember me. She was only four when we were separated.”
The woman looked at Macy sympathetically. “I’m really sorry. I wish I could be of more help, but it’s the law.”
Macy’s voice was sharp with anger. “But she’s my sister. We had no choice…” Macy looked into the woman’s eyes. “How can complete strangers make that decision for us?”
Again the woman didn’t answer.
“Do you think it’s fair?”
“No, I don’t. But we’re bound by the law, and sometimes the law and ‘fair’ are two different things.”
After a moment Macy pointed to the folder between them. “Can I see my file?”
“I can’t show it to you either.”
“I can’t see my own file?”
“I’m afraid not. There’s information in here about your biological parents and it’s been sealed as well.”
“Then I have no place to go.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Macy wavered between crying and raging. “What if someone told you that you couldn’t ever see your family again?”
“I didn’t say it was fair, Macy. Just that it’s the law.”
“It’s a bad law. Can’t you give me any help? This is my life—she’s my sister.”
The woman just looked at her. “I wish I could help you. I really do.”
Macy’s eyes filled. Suddenly a page came over the office phone system. “Andrea Bellamy, you have a call on line five.”
“I need to get that,” Andrea said apologetically. She glanced over at the phone in the corner of the room, then back at Macy. Her expression became thoughtful. “I think I’ll take that call back in my office.” Her eyes fell on the folder between them. Macy looked at the folder, then up into her eyes and understood.
“I’ll probably be five minutes.”
“You wouldn’t have a pen and paper, would you?”
Andrea pulled a plastic pen from her valise and handed it to her. “There’s a note pad by the phone. She walked to the door, leaving Macy staring at the folder on the desk. She turned back once more. “Five minutes.”
“Thank you,” Macy said.
“For what?” Andrea Bellamy replied. “Like I said, I can’t help you.” She shut the door behind herself.
Macy grabbed the file and began thumbing through it. It was half an inch thick and contained a complete record of each of her placements. There was a psychological profile of her, which she didn’t have time to read so she folded it and put it in her purse. She found a report with her father’s name and an address. She retrieved the notepad and copied down her father’s information.
By the time Andrea returned, Macy was on her way out of the building.
I have puzzled over the phrase “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Does that mean people intend well but never actually do it? Or that they do good things with bad results? I suppose it doesn’t matter much. Either way the right thing doesn’t get done.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
AUGUST 17, 1978
Every other month Irene Hummel had her hair done by Sadie, a cousin of hers who lived an hour south in the small town of Nephi. Macy looked forward to those days, as she was always dropped off at her Aunt Stephanie’s. Macy liked it there. Aunt Stephanie lived in the country. She had a secret garden and a large gray cat named Tabitha. Aunt Stephanie made her honey and butter sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup with lots of saltine crackers. She kept Twinkies in the freezer, and in the afternoon they’d take one out and eat it with the filling still cold. She was the only one who still called her Macy. Macy McGracy.
Things had been getting steadily worse at the Humm
el house for Macy. One Saturday afternoon, Mr. Hummel packed his bags and left for good. Not long after, Mrs. Hummel started hitting Macy on nearly a daily basis. That morning, as Macy sat quietly in the back seat of the car on the way to Aunt Stephanie’s, a thought crossed her mind. Maybe if she told Aunt Stephanie about Mrs. Hummel, she’d invite her to live with her. It seemed reasonable. Aunt Stephanie always told her how much she liked having her around. Still, it took Macy all day to get the courage to tell her. Her Aunt was sitting in the parlor tying a quilt when Macy sauntered into the room. She looked up and smiled.
“What are you up to, dearie?”
“Nothing.”
She continued working on the quilt. Suddenly Macy blurted out, “Mrs. Hummel hits me.”
Aunt Stephanie turned and looked at her. “What’s that, sweetie?”
“Mrs. Hummel hits me.”
“Oh, your mom would never hit you. She probably spanks you sometimes.”
“She hits me every day. Sometimes in my face.”
Aunt Stephanie stopped tying and looked at her. “Is that so?”
Macy nodded, “Uh-huh.”
For a moment she seemed unsure of what to say. “Well then I’ll just have to talk to her.”
Macy’s blood went cold. “Please don’t tell her.”
“If she’s hitting you, someone’s got to talk to her. We can’t have that kind of nonsense going on. Now run along while I call.”
Macy walked from the room, nearly paralyzed with fear. She desperately regretted telling her aunt.
Three hours later Mrs. Hummel arrived to pick her up.
“Nightie night, Macy McGracy,” Aunt Stephanie said as she walked from the house. “Come back soon.”
“Good night,” Macy said.
Macy climbed into the car as somber as a condemned man climbing the gallows. She was afraid to look at Mrs. Hummel, but Mrs. Hummel acted like nothing was wrong. Maybe Aunt Stephanie forgot to call, Macy hoped. It was dark when they pulled into their driveway. Macy walked into the house, followed by Mrs. Hummel.
As soon as the front door shut, a hand caught Macy across the back of her head. “So I hit you?” she said.
Macy knew better than to answer. She backed up against a wall and stared at her mother in fear.
“I spank you for being naughty. It’s your fault. It’s your fault for being such an awful girl. We never should have brought you into this family. It’s been nothing but trouble since you came here.” She slapped a hand across the top of Macy’s head. “Dick left because of you. Because of all the trouble you cause.”
Macy held still, careful to do nothing that might add fuel to the woman’s ferocity.
“I hit you, you brat? You don’t know what hitting is. This is hitting.” She smacked Macy across the side of the face and Macy fell back against the wall. A thin trickle of blood fell down her nose to her chin. “And this. And this…”
Macy did her best to protect herself from the barrage of blows, but they were too fast, and too random. The beating went on for another five minutes until Mrs. Hummel had exhausted herself and stood over her, panting, her eyes wild and cruel. Macy slumped down on the floor, covering herself the best she could and afraid to look Mrs. Hummel in the eyes. She whimpered softly, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you’re sorry now.” Mrs. Hummel’s coup de grâce was a kick to Macy’s side, but it wasn’t hard. She hadn’t much strength left.
“You stupid brat. If you ever tell anyone else that I hit you, they’ll tell me just like Stephanie did. Then I’ll really show you what hitting is.”
Macy sniffed. “I won’t say anything.”
“I say you won’t! And the dishes better be done when I get up in the morning.”
She swaggered off down the corridor. After her bedroom door slammed shut, Macy went to the bathroom and got some toilet paper and held it to her nose until the bleeding stopped. Then she went to the kitchen and began to wash the dishes.
Macy didn’t go back to school for a week, not until her black eye and bruises had faded. Mrs. Hummel told the school that Macy had the flu. The next time Macy saw her aunt, she looked different to her. She was no longer Twinkies and honey sandwiches. She was now part of Mrs. Hummel and just like the rest of her world—a wobbly rope bridge over a raging river.
Her aunt was doing the dishes when she casually asked if Irene ever hit her anymore.
“No, ma’am,” Macy said quickly. A proud smile crossed her aunt’s face.
“See, isn’t it good to just get these things out in the open? People are good at heart. It’s all about communication.”
Macy never again told anyone else what Mrs. Hummel did to her.
C. S. Lewis said it best, “I like bats more than bureaucrats.”
MARK SMART’S DIARY
On the way home from work, I stopped at a 7-Eleven to use the pay phone and called Macy. Before I could say anything she blurted out, “They separated us on purpose.”
“Who did?”
“The state.”
“That’s what they told you?”
“No, they couldn’t tell me anything. But in my state file there was a psychological profile on me. Some social worker wrote that I was my sister’s primary caregiver, and he thought if we stayed together it might hurt her chances of bonding in a traditional family setting. He therefore, and I quote, ‘strongly recommends that the sisters be separated and sent to different homes.’
“Can you believe that? They separated us because I loved her and was taking care of her!”
“That’s real genius,” I said sarcastically. “So did you find out where she lives?”
“No. But I got my father’s address. He should know where she lives.”
“I’d think so,” I said.
“I’m going to drive out to his house.”
She said this casually, as if seeing her father was something she did on a regular basis.
“How long has it been since you saw your father?”
“Fourteen years.”
“How do you feel about seeing him?” I asked.
“I’m a little nervous.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Would you?”
“Of course. When do you want to go?”
“I was thinking first thing tomorrow. Maybe around nine.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“Great. Oh, and Jo will be there. You two can finally meet. Let me give you my address.”
I scribbled it down. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow my world changes.”
I believe that whatever good or evil we do in this life eventually comes back to us. But in the case of rampant evil, it brings its friends.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
JUNE 16, 1981
It was a year and a half after her husband left when Mrs. Hummel took to her bed. She stayed in her room for days at a time, the blinds drawn, occasionally summoning one of the kids to her side to bring her food. For the most part, Bart, Ron and Sheryl ignored her, embracing her absence as an opportunity for pleasant anarchy. Ironically, only Macy, who was now fifteen, felt sorry for her. She did her best to keep the house in order, sometimes using her own money, earned by babysitting, to buy groceries.
One night Macy’s best friend, Tracy, followed her home. She stood outside the door while Macy walked into Mrs. Hummel’s darkened room.
“Where have you been?” Mrs. Hummel growled. “I’ve been calling for you for hours. I’ve practically lost my voice.”
“I could only wish,” Macy mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just got home. I went grocery shopping. We were out of milk and cereal.”
“Where’s Sheryl?”
“I don’t know.” Macy actually did. She had seen her down the street, smoking with a group of boys.
“Get over here.”
Macy walked to her side. Irene lunged at her in an effort to hit her, but her sw
ing was sufficiently slow that she missed. Macy was now bigger and stronger than Mrs. Hummel and could have easily retaliated but never did.
“You find your sister. It’s your fault she’s not around.”
Macy turned from her.
“Don’t you walk out on me! Don’t you walk out on me!”
Macy walked out of the room. Outside in the hallway her friend Tracy was seething. “I’m going to give that witch a piece of my mind.”
“No, you’re not. Let’s just get out of here.” Macy led her friend out to the living room.
“Why do you put up with that?”
“She’s just sick.”
“She’s sick in the head. Even my mom says so. The woman’s a nutcase.” Tracy exhaled in frustration. “Listen, Mace, I can’t be your friend anymore and watch what goes on here.”
“Yeah, well what am I supposed to do about it?”
“My mom says you can live at our place for as long as you need.”
Macy glanced back at the room. After a moment she said, “I’ll think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about. Get your things right now.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s me or the witch. I’m not going to watch this anymore.” Tracy walked to the front door. As she turned the handle, she looked back once more. “Are you coming?”
“Wait,” Macy said.
Tracy’s voice was calm but emotional. “I mean it, Mace. If you won’t let me help you, then I’m leaving.”
She glanced down the dark corridor, then back at her friend. “Give me a minute to pack.”
It took Macy less than ten minutes to collect her things. She threw everything into a canvas duffel except one small box that she carried separately.
“What’s in the box?” Tracy asked.
“It’s my Christmas ornament. My father gave it to me the day they took me away.”
“May I see it?”
“Yeah. But be careful.” Macy handed over the box as gingerly as if it held a Fabergé egg.