The Visitor Monica s Diary Sunday July 16
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The Visitor: Monica's Diary, Sunday June 25 free porn video
Monica's Diary
Sunday, June 25
The responding nurse called another nurse who called the resident on duty.
He walked in looking bleary eyed and rumpled, took a quick look at Timothy
and then at the iPad thing, had the nurses disconnect a couple of tubes
and one monitor, and then just kind of staggered out, back to bed I
assume.
Timothy was thirsty and hungry. The nurses were happy to give him ice
water but said that since the kitchen was closed, they had no food to give
him. I asked about the snacks that hospitals always seemed to have
available for patients and was told that because Timothy was a county
detention center patient, nothing but scheduled meals was available to
him. Neither could he have TV, WiFi, or make phone calls--something about
it all coming out of the county budget.
"But I can give him my food, right?" I asked, gesturing to the cooler
Nathan had left for me.
"Knock yourself out, hon," was the smiling reply.
Once the nurses had finished their ministrations, I dished up some chicken
salad, found the button on the hospital bed that enabled Timothy to sit
more or less upright, placed the dish and spoon on the mobile tray table,
and watched him eat until I fell asleep in my chair. It didn't take long.
"You said I would only be there one night! Do you hear me? You said I'd
only be there one night!"
I did hear him. I had only dozed off and hadn't gone completely under.
Still it was a surprise to hear him shout. "What?" I almost fell out of my
chair.
"You lied to me! You both lied to me, and see what happened. They hurt me.
They hurt me bad, and it's all your fault. I hate you." And then the tears
came.
Naturally my first instinct was to hug him, to hold him tight and assure
him that he was safe, that everything was going to be alright. But, how
could I? There was no guarantee that he wasn't going right back into the
detention center as soon as he was able. The church hadn't voted. We
hadn't applied to the foster program, and even if we did apply, things
being the way they are these days, state agencies are more likely to put
kids like Timothy with an LGBT couple than with a family like ours.
I pulled the tray table away from his bed and took his dish and spoon to
the bathroom to clean. I prayed for wisdom; what to say, what to do. When
I returned, he had himself back under control. I sat down. "I'm sorry you
have to go through this."
"Yeah, I've heard that before."
"Did you expect us to break you out of jail?"
"I expected you not to lie to me."
"Okay, Skyla." I pronounced the name very carefully. "I won't lie to you.
You are the one who got yourself crossways with your parents and ended up
at the boys' ranch. You are the one who ran away from the ranch and almost
died. We rescued you. We saved your life. We fed you. We turned you over
to the authorities because the law required it. We visited you in jail. We
came to the hospital as soon as we found out you were here. Why do you
think we did that?"
"Cuz you love me." His tone was sarcastic to say the least.
"What? Love you? Of course we don't love you. We don't even know you. You
are one scary individual, and we moved off into the middle of nowhere
because we wanted to keep our children away from scary individuals."
His mouth dropped open, and I could see where he was missing teeth. "So
why then?" He asked when he finally recovered from the shock.
"Because we think God loves you," I snapped. "Now I've been up with you
all day and into the night. I'm tired and need some sleep. If you're alive
tomorrow morning, you can hate me then." I moved over to the little sofa
and lay down. A few seconds later I heard his voice.
"Should I turn this light off?"
"No! The darkness gives you nightmares." That's the last thing I remember
until much later in the morning.
"Excuse me! Excuse me!" The voice was accompanied by a hand grasping and
shaking my right shoulder. I twisted around to see a sharply dressed young
woman looking down at me with a severe expression on her face.
A froggy sounding "yes" was all I could manage.
"Are you family, or FPS?" Her hand was still on my shoulder, and its grip
had not loosened.
"I'm just a visitor, but we're on the list."
"There is no list. This is a state and county matter. You have no business
in this room. Please leave now."
I sat up blinking, the sheet-thin blanket I had found in the closet still
wrapped around me.
"How did you get in here anyway? Who are you? I'm going to need to see
some identification." She was standing right next to the sofa and towered
over me as I sat looking up at her.
"If you would be so kind as to excuse the impertinence," I said as softly
as I could, "but I might ask you the very same questions. I mean, after
all, you have no uniform, no badge, no gun and yet you order me about with
all the authority of a duly sworn peace officer."
"I am Doctor Olivia Van Norfleet of the Texas Department of Family and
Protective Services. This child's health, education, and welfare are my
responsibility." She made no move to produce any identification.
"Oh yes, Dr. Norfleet, Cynthia has told me about you," I said, sticking
out my hand. She took half a step back but grasped it weakly.
"You know this child's mother?" She seemed surprised.
"Yes, we're the family that found him in the creek. Nathan, that's my
husband, called Skyla's home to notify his parents; that's how we got to
know them. Well, her, actually, we've never spoken to Major Harp."
"You would not find that at all pleasant." Dr. Norfleet visibly relaxed.
She went over to Timothy's bed and moved the chair over to me and sat
down. I unwrapped my little cover and began straightening my dress and
hair as best I could. She looked at me curiously. "I notice you refer to
our juvenile as 'Skyla'."
"That's the name he gave me and the kids when we found him. I have no
desire to increase his distress, so I have no problem calling him that."
She smiled but almost instantly got the same curious look on her face.
"Are you Amish?"
"What?"
"Your hair, your clothes; you just look like what I think of when I hear
the word 'Amish'." It was my turn to smile.
"No, 'fraid not. We live pretty simply and out in the middle of nowhere,
but we go to a little mom-and-pop church right here in Amarillo."
"Mom and pop?" She looked confused.
"We're an independent congregation, not a part of any hierarchy. We are
entirely self-governing. Speaking of which, they are going to vote on
Skyla today."
"What? Vote?"
"Long story; have you time for it?"
"Go ahead."
"Cynthia told me about your visit and how you've tried to find a place for
him but can't, because no one has any room, or they just don't want
somebody like him. It occurred to both of us that maybe that's why he
wandered over to our place and that's why we found him. Maybe we're the
ones who are supposed to take him in."
"I still don't get why your church has to vote on it?"
"We told the congregation about Skyla from the beginning. He's been a
matter of ongoing prayer, especially after we learned that he was being
kept in the detention center. In fact, because of that Nathan and I have
wanted to sign up for the foster parent program just to get him out of
there. Cynthia told us that since Skyla is in your records as transgender,
he must be treated as such. We can't take him in, which means taking him
to church with us, unless our church is unanimous in its acceptance of us
doing so."
"I had no idea a church could do that?"
"It's the beauty of being independent."
"So, you're saying that if your church votes 'yes' on Skyla, that you and
your family would be willing to take this child in and treat her according
to her declared orientation."
"Nathan and I have talked about this at length. We both feel that given
the opportunity Skyla will not only find out that the grass is not greener
on the other side of the fence; it's not even edible."
"I hope you aren't thinking of some kind of brainwashing or forced
conversion therapy nonsense, because my agency sees that as child abuse
and will not stand by and let that kind of harm come to any child under
our care."
"We have no desire to brainwash or forcibly convert anyone to anything. In
terms of theology, we don't believe that a human being can change another
human being's heart."
"So then why all the bother with the church voting and praying?"
"Excuse me?"
"You're obviously a religious person. Church people are notorious haters
of anything LGBT. Why are you really doing this?"
I looked over at Timothy and smiled. He had apparently fallen asleep right
away and was still peacefully at rest despite all our talking.
"I can only tell you what I told Skyla last night after she woke up from
her coma. My husband and I think God loves Skyla. That's good enough for
us. We will treat her as she wishes to be treated until or unless such
time comes that she wishes to be treated differently."
Dr. Norfleet looked over at Timothy as I had. He didn't look any better to
her than he had looked to us on Saturday. His face was still grotesquely
swollen and there were tubes, wires, and bandages everywhere.
"Poor thing really has suffered terribly," she said. Then she turned back
to me. "There is an awful lot involved in becoming certified to take
foster children. It is a lengthy process. But when will you know the
outcome of the vote?"
"They vote at 2:00 this afternoon. I'll know when Nathan comes to pick me
up."
"Couldn't you call him before then?"
"Can't make calls on this phone; it's restricted."
"What about your cell?"
"Don't have one."
"What?"
"My husband supports me and our five children. We have food, clothing,
shelter, and some gasoline. There's precious little money for much else."
"Yes, I can see that." She glanced at my dress. "Do you have a landline at
home?"
"Yes, we do."
"Okay. I've got to interview doctors, nurses, the detention personnel, and
probably Skyla too, if there's time, and then fly back to Austin." She
pulled a card out of her purse and handed it to me. "Here's my number.
Call me when you find out how your church voted. Do you have an email
address?"
"Sorry, no."
"You sure you're not Amish?" She said it with a half smile.
"Pretty sure," I answered.
"Well, just call me then. Leave a message if you have to. If your church
votes 'yes', I can arrange an emergency, temporary authorization for you
to take care of Skyla while we do the necessary checks, visits, and
investigations."
"That would be great," I said.
"Okay then; have to dash," and she was gone.
I went into the bathroom and washed my face and combed my hair. When I
came out Timothy was still sleeping. I began to worry that he had slipped
back into his coma and even asked Nurse Allie about it when she came in.
"Nah, typical teenager," she said as she checked and noted three different
things at once. "They can sleep all day and party all night. Add to that
the fact that his body has taken so much abuse, he needs all the rest he
can get to rebuild the damage."
"What about feeding him?" I asked.
"He's too late for breakfast--wasn't on the list--but I can get you a menu,
and he can have lunch when it's served."
"Great," I said. After she left, I turned to fixing my breakfast and
looking through the closet and drawers in Timothy's room. We had come into
Amarillo yesterday expecting to spend a few hours and return home. I had
not brought a change of clothes or a Bible. There was nothing I could do
about the clothes, but I hoped that whatever Baptists ran Baptist St.
Anthony Hospital had not decided to outlaw the Gideons, as so many other
places had. Sure enough, I found a little green New Testament in something
called the Revised Berkeley Version. Since it also contained the Psalms
and Proverbs, I was able to continue with my daily Bible reading from
where I had left off in the Psalms.
Timothy's lunch came about an hour later. I rubbed his arm and spoke to
him softly. At first his only response was to groan and try to roll away
from me. That's what woke him up. Apparently, the shoulder that had been
dislocated was still very tender.
"Just relax," I said. "I'll get you upright again and you can eat a real
meal. I'll bet you're starving." He looked surprised to see me, but only
for a moment. The fragrance of the beef and rice smothered in some kind of
gravy instantly drew his attention. He grabbed the fork, stopped, and
scowled.
"I guess you want me to pray."
"You're not thankful?" I asked.
"For what?"
"Well, there's this hot meal for one thing. I'm not going to steal it away
from you and beat you to death if you try to resist. I'm here and not some
guard who'll whack you with a club or shoot you with a taser. You're in a
hospital room surrounded by women who are caring for you and not in some
detention pod filled with women stealing from you."
"Okay, fine; you pray then." I did so, but when I looked up, he was calmly
chewing his food, his eyes daring me to say something.
"The LORD bless thee and keep thee, Skyla: The LORD make his face shine
upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: The LORD lift up his countenance
upon thee, and give thee peace," I quoted.
He shook his head 'no'. "That's just it. There is no peace. People hate
me. People always hate me. I don't do anything to them. I mind my own
business. I go my own way, and still they hate me. Why can't they just
leave me alone?"
"Perhaps they lack your imagination," I suggested.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"How do you see yourself?" He looked confused, so I added, "when you look
in the mirror, do you see Timothy or Skyla?"
"I'm Skyla," he said simply.
"You don't see your body at all?"
"I know what I am on the inside."
"Okay. You have an image of yourself--a self-image--that no one else can
see, right?" He nodded. "That's what is called imagination. The person you
see so clearly in your mind's eye is totally invisible to everyone else.
And because it is invisible, as far as everyone you come in contact with
is concerned, it doesn't exist. The you that you have defined does not
exist."
"So, people get to beat me up cause I'm invisible?"
"They certainly do not have the right to, but what if I told you that I
was Napoleon?"
"Who?"
"Napoleon; you know, Napoleon Bonaparte--overthrew the Republic, became
Emperor of France, conquered Europe?" He stared at me blankly. "Okay, bad
example, let's say I came to you and said I was Washington."
"Washington D.C., or Washington state?"
"George Washington."
"The one who crossed the Rubicon?"
"No, the one who crossed the Delaware. Caesar crossed the Rubicon."
"Why would you say that?"
"Never mind why I would say that, just picture me coming up to you and
telling you that I am George Washington. How would you react?"
"I wouldn't beat you up. I wouldn't make your life miserable."
"No, of course you wouldn't, but would you believe me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"He's dead."
"Yeah. He's dead, and we can visit his tomb. He's also in the history
books for us to read about. But if I insisted that I was someone that I
was obviously not, what would you think about me?" Timothy was silent and
by the look on his face, angry. "I'm not saying you're insane, okay? All
I'm saying is you would not be able to deal with it very well if I said I
saw myself as George Washington and began to dress and act like this was
18th century America."
"This is different!"
"I know it's different. It's very different, but can you see why your
father, the boys at school and the ranch, and the women in jail with you
can't handle it. They cannot possibly see what you see so clearly."
"Some people can see me," Timothy protested.
"Really?" I asked.
"Dr. Norfleet can see me. And there are doctors and surgeons who will give
me hormones and do surgery. They can see me too."
"Very true," I agreed. "There are TV shows, plays, and movies in which
George Washington, and any other person you could wish to name, appears,
but they are not really George Washington. They are actors playing a role.
When the role is over, they go back to their real lives." I paused.
Timothy said nothing. He concentrated on eating. "You may very well
succeed in attaining your goal, but will you be living a real life, or
just playing a role?"
Timothy finished his food in silence, then lay back, folded his arms, and
closed his eyes. Here endeth the conversation, I thought. So, I moved his
tray table away from him and returned to my place on the sofa. Before long
we were both asleep again.
I was awakened by the phone ringing sometime after 2:30. My first thought
of course was that Cynthia was sneaking a phone call. It turned out,
however, to be Nathan.
"How's it going with our boy?" Nathan asked.
"Great. He came out of his coma sometime after midnight. He's eating and
talking." I glanced over at him, "but mostly sleeping. Are you calling
from church?"
"Pastor let me use his cell phone. You'll never guess what happened?"
"What?"
"Well last night, after we got home, I called the pastor and told him what
had happened to Timothy. He sent out an email and made some calls. Just
about everyone in the church got the word. I recounted everything to the
congregation again this afternoon. The vote was unanimous. If the state
will let us take him in, so will Grace. Linda is already organizing women
to come spend time with him in the hospital until he has to go back."
"Praise the Lord! And now you'll never guess what happened."
"What?" Nathan asked.
"Olivia Van Norfleet paid us a call."
"The Family and Protective Services lady?"
"I told her what we were willing to do if the church allowed it. She took
one look at Timothy and not only did she consent to the idea, she said she
could arrange his emergency, temporary placement with us pending
completion of all the other investigations."
"So, he doesn't have to go back to the detention center?" Nathan asked.
"No. When he's well, we can take him home with us!"
"Praise the Lord, indeed. I've got to tell the pastor this."
"No, wait. Before you do, let me give you Dr. Norfleet's number. See if
Pastor will let you call her with the outcome of the vote." I read it off
to him.
"Right. The sooner the better. This is great just absolutely great. Well,
look, I've got to go. We'll see you when you see us. Love you."
"Love you too." And we hung up.
"What was that all about?" Timothy asked. And suddenly I was afraid.
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