The following is a true story. The events have haunted me and continue to keep me keenly aware of my own intuition and God's presence in my life.
The day before was Thanksgiving, during dinner I remember saying a silent prayer I had said many times before, "Give Ciera an opportunity to do good".
We had just finished a two-day trip to Disneyland and had planned to go further South and visit my friend who I had known since fourth grade, she was living in San Diego. The next morning, I would take photographs of Lea, Michelle's three month old daughter.
After the photo shoot, Michelle's Mom told us where to go to get the film developed. It was a drop off and wait, Long's drugstore. We decided to kill some time and headed over to Starbuck's a few doors down. Between the two of us, Ciera and I shared lemon and chocolate cake. Michelle was still in line trying to figure out what she wanted when the girl walked in. Prior to entering the store, she taped a flyer on the window. Once inside, she unloaded a bunch of stuff in the trash receptacles inside of Starbuck's. She avoided eye contact at first. She was about three feet in front of me facing my direction. She was tall and poised. What I could see of her cheeks appeared sun burned and weathered, much like that of a homeless person. She had a familiarity about her. She resembled my Mormon friend, Sharlo from Montana.
I said to her, "Happy Thanksgiving".
Ciera never missed an opportunity to correct me and stated "It's not Thanksgiving".
I went on to try and explain the sentimentality to Ciera. The girl did not respond to my greeting. Ciera was bouncing in her chair and the girl continued her positioned stance, looking through newspapers and sometimes catching my eye. She was tall and dressed in Muslim garb, including head gear. I could see she was beautiful from her eyes and hands. Ciera needing constant attention began reciting the books of the Bible. She was to be tested at school on her return from Thanksgiving break. She wanted Michelle to hear, as well as the unknown stranger lurking behind her. Her memorization skills were a source of pride.
After getting through Ruth, which she always emphasized in an adorable and poignant tone, she quickly turned around and said "Mom she looks like my sister from Pennsylvania".
Ciera has an older sister residing in PA. I apologized to the girl with a smile and a roll of my eyes. She smiled back, seemingly, enjoying this little girl's free spirit with an understanding of her lack of containment.
They walked in. There were three of them, one of the men and the only woman were in Muslim toggles, as well. The girl did a quick 180 and followed them to a far table. They were all seated, except for the man in plain clothes who accompanied them. He stood next to the "muslim" man. Her back was to me now. I tried not to stare. A few things were running through my head as I watched them.
President Bush had just asked all Americans to do their part and look out for suspicious behavior. What had she stashed in those trash cans? Was this girl a San Diego State student wannabe Muslim with an ax to grind?
My special education English class was approaching our annual "play" of Julius Caesar and the sheet togas the students were bringing to class sometimes included cartoon characters and mysterious stains. I had been searching for costumes similar to what these people were wearing and I hadn't been able to find anything like it, even on Ebay.
Their shoes didn't fair well with their attire. The man wore the same shoes my friend's husband in Montana wore. We were in San Diego, near the University. He kept an eye on me.
A couple of police officers came in to order and the clan went without notice to the restroom. Ciera spotted my distracted attention and did what she could to regain it. "Mom, I've got to go the bathroom".
Great I thought, public restrooms disgust me, especially when a six year old's involved. I knew those people were in there and I did not want to join them, nor use the bathroom after they had finished. I told her we'd go later. Michelle and the baby joined us at our table. Ciera wanted to hold the baby. This had been a common theme on our visit and facilitating the process was quite annoying. Michelle was gracious, but Ciera had to be watched carefully and Lea was so fragile. When they returned to their seats, I was unable to keep Ciera from the bathrooms. I followed her and as she scurried past the group, she said, "Mom come in with me and stand by the door".
On entering, I did my usual scan to determine cleanliness and I was curious to look for clues. My gut told me to look for something. As I read the stall walls and peeked in the trash dispenser, Ciera asked "What are you looking for?". I chose to ignore her. Afraid if I spoke someone would hear me. I saw nothing unusual, but a terrible feeling came upon me to get out of the bathroom. I hurried Ciera along without forcing her to wash her hands and we walked into the hallway. There he was. He had been waiting for us. The man in Muslim clothing stood before us like a statue heavy in gaze.
Ciera ran back toward the table with Michelle and Lea and as she passed their table, the woman said "A little angel sent from heaven above". Many people were drawn to Ciera. She had deep blue eyes with white blond hair and tan skin. It wasn't unusual for people to take an interest in her, struck by her beauty.
I noticed the girl's eyes. They were swollen, red and filled with tears. After passing, the woman said something about Sister Mary Catherine. I knew a Sister from my church, Sister Mary who was a big part of my life at the time. I had recently come in full communion with the church. Did she recognize us from church? I felt compelled to ask, but Ciera was headed for the baby. I immediately transfered my struggles with Ciera onto their "family". They're probably conservative and she is a rebel. I began to have thoughts of what a difficult teenager she must be.
We stayed for a bit conversing at the table. They proceeded to leave. In procession, they walked out of Starbuck's and sat on a bench in front of Michelle's car. I opened the door for my friend and Ciera and turned to read the flyer. It said something about a Mormon group of musicians playing at a local park. I am a black and white thinker, a pragmatist. The demographics were all wrong, Mormons in San Diego dressed as Muslims, post 911, playing music in the park? Well, it was Southern California. I began to enter the arena of gray thought. Never a prudent thing for me to do.
I was driven to ask the girl if she was alright. She had been crying. Maybe, she wasn't an oppositional teen. Conveniently I dropped my keys beside the group as we passed. I went to pick them up and the "Muslim" woman side pushed me away. I was able to retrieve the keyes, but dimissed my question. Physically I could feel my body wanting to urge around and sit in front of her, look her in the eyes and ask "Are you o.k.?". But, I did not. This visualization of doing so replayed itself in my head.
A van was parked next to Michelle's car and the side door was open. There were shoes lined up on the back seat. The feeling from the bathroom to flee returned. The woman walked over to the van and exchanged a pair of shoes. Michelle and I were very close to the littles ones. Ciera jumped in the car first. I was relieved once she was in. I put our drinks in the cup holders and sat in the passenger seat. Michelle was struggling with putting the baby carrier back into the car seat. The girl sat staring straight out into the parking lot. The man in Muz garb offered her a piece of gum and kept his eyes on our car. She rejected the gum. I tried not to look too hard and draw more attention to my curiousity.
I felt a sense to call the police. I did not want Ciera to notice or she would become very loud and explain what I was doing to Michelle. The man might hear. I dialed 911 on the seat and picked it up to listen while trying to distract Ciera. There was a busy signal on the other end. I hung up. By this time, Michelle and Lea were in the car and I said to Michelle, "These people don't seem right".
She casually responded with "They're way too ugly to have her as a daughter".
Then I prayed, I asked God to give me a sign. I said "If Michelle needs to breast feed then that is a sign to do nothing, but if not, then I should intervene."
"Michelle, do you need to feed Lea soon?"
"No, I think she'll be o.k. for a little while."
I ignored God's sign.
Michelle and I had played Nancy Drew as children. I was grappling with interfering with a peaceful and child focused visit and creating drama that would effect Lea's schedule and feed into Ciera's insecurities. Would Michelle think I was still into Nancy Drewing as an adult? My own personal insecurities took over my better judgement.
During foster parent training, we were taught police ignite an unfolding of negative emotions in foster children. Since the police are typically involved in the removing of the children from their homes.
At this time, as a foster parent, I was hungry for privacy. Ciera enjoyed embarrasing me publicly in meetings with social workers. Often depicting me in the worst possible light. Ciera had two female social workers, who were childless and loved to get into my business. The dynamic was adverse and I wanted to avoid it. I could forsee the numerous meetings and inquiry that would ensue after Ciera would report back from the Southland.
I was really unsure if the girl was an adult, child of theirs, prostitute, college student, drug addict, etc.
While the woman was changing her shoes, the girl walked off and stood near Starbucks and a walkway. She attempted to pull off her head gear. However, as she lifted it off, the woman had caught up with her and with both hands pulled it back down. I was unable to see her face.
The whole lot of them formed a line and spaced themselves several feet between each other. They began walking toward Longs. They passed a lady with crying baby in a shopping cart. I said to God, "God if she turns her head around, I'll go ask her then". She did not turn around. I could once again feel the pull of my body wanting to physically run after her and ask if she alright. I visualized myself doing this, but I did not.
I memorized the license plate by way of making up a rhyme in my head, which I recall included my Dad's name and some cuss words. I wrote it down on a postcard. A police car drove in as we were driving out. I felt a loss. I should stop him and tell him I suspect there is a girl over there who might be in trouble. As Michelle drove us to our hotel, it stayed with me. The distance grew greater. My opportunity to help was further away.
I called the non-emergency police number while Ciera took a bath that night. It had been at least three hours since we had seen her. I was asked why I had called after I had relayed all of the details. Two phrases which appear odd next to each other were my responses, "I think she may be being held against her will and drugged" and "President Bush told us to look for anything unusual". The latter may have undone my credibility.
I declined having an officer come to the hotel and show me sketches.
I thought about the group the next morning, while getting into a cab on our way home.
Several weeks later, while going through some old magazines, I found the postcard with the number of the license plate on it. I briefly thought of them. Were they in jail? I threw it out with the trash.
It was in March of the following year, when I saw them again. They were on the evening news and it showed a photograph of them sitting at a picnic table in a park. They looked the same as they had several months prior.
I called Michelle and we both knew then what we had witnessed that rainy Friday in November, the day after Thanksgiving.
She was found alive and was happily reunified with her family.
But those four months in between November and March didn't have to be. If only...
