I had not told anyone that either of my parents had ever physically injured me or even threatened to physically injure me and yet it seemed to be taken for granted that indeed I had been injured, traumatized, threatened by one or both of my parents as well as by my brother Lionel. It was explained to me that my family situation did not provide safety for me at the present time; a Family Court judge had approved the order of removal, particularly since my older brothers were prime suspects in the Hadrian Johnson murder, and one of them lived in the house with me.

In the foster home we moved like zombies fearful of being touched. Fearful of being spoken-to, looked-at.

Is mental illness contagious? Mental retardation? I did not want to think so.

Recalling how we’d stared with fascinated dread at Liza Deaver. Liza Lizard. And if poor Liza glanced in our direction we looked quickly away, turned away giggling together.

No no no. I am nothing like you. Don’t look at me!

In the foster home there came a frequent dream in which the outer layer of my skin was peeled off and oozed blood. In such dreams headaches like corkscrews began and grew worse through the day after I woke up dazed and groggy.

We were allotted aspirin in the facility. Low-dose child aspirin that had no effect upon the hurt in my brain at all.

Here was a surprise—I’d been removed from school as well.

School! But I loved school . . .

It was explained to me that I would be allowed to return to school—soon.

Also, it was revealed to me that my family did not want me back—ever.

My mother and Miriam arrived at the foster home to bring me some of my things. Clothes, books haphazardly tossed into cardboard boxes that were soiled and torn. Winter boots, in a shopping bag with a broken handle. Fleece-lined jacket. Toothbrush, comb. (Both looking battered and shameful to see.) My mother and sister were allowed into the facility only after showing IDs at a security desk and submitting to an interrogation my mother considered “insulting” and for which she seemed to blame me.

When I saw my mother I rushed to her, to be hugged. I was crying, my swollen eyes leaked tears.

But Mom did not hug me, not exactly. Her arms lifted—weakly. It was all she could do not to push me away.

“Violet. What have you done.”

Her voice was faint yet accusing. A soft fading wail of despair.

It was a shock to me, I was nearly Mom’s height. A gangling big girl at twelve and soon to be thirteen, wishing I could shrink to a smaller size to the Violet Rue of just a few years ago when my mother and my father too had loved me.