Tucked Away

Part Three

THREE

When Sandra came by my foster home that night, she told me all about James Saxon, the man purported to be my biological father.  She had done quite a bit of research.  It’s never good to have to get information like that by reading police reports and arrest records, but as they say, you can’t choose your relatives.  According to the records, my dear old dad had quite the checkered past, earning himself an extended stay at the county jail about six months before my mother gave birth to me.  He’d been sentenced to a year in jail for assault and battery, but had been released early due to overcrowding.  I now knew why my mother had never wanted to talk about him, especially since she had been on the receiving end of his fists.  Truth be told, so had I.

 Early in her pregnancy, Sandra explained, my mother deduced that James would be a poor excuse for a father, and she had kicked him to the curb.  She told him she would never want or need a single thing from him, and only wished to be free to live her life with her child on her own. He became paranoid, convinced that she would come after him for child support, which was ridiculous.  He’d never earned a steady income in his life.  This paranoia and lack of reasoning could most likely be attributed to his narcotic use, which was considerably more reliable than his work ethic. 

He’d entered my mother’s home in the middle of the night using a key that he had failed to return to her when she’d kicked him out.  She had been meaning to change the locks, but money was tight and she was saving every dime for the expenses she knew were coming, having a baby on the way.  James Saxon had crept into the room and grabbed Lindsay Hartwell by the throat, his hands like a vice.  She had struggled against him, but wasn’t able to do much more than deliver some nasty scratches to his face, neck and arms.  When she lost consciousness, he believed she was dead.  Although a dead mother almost universally means a dead fetus, his drug-addled brain told him he needed to be absolutely sure I’d never have a chance at being brought into the world.  He delivered a steady torrent of blows to my mother’s slightly swollen belly until he was satisfied and then left, taking the meager cash from the Mason jar on my mother’s nightstand. The jar was labeled, “For baby Hannah.”  She obviously had chosen a different name for me in the aftermath, and now I knew why.  Mira was short for miracle.

“But that’s attempted murder,” I protested, appalled that he had gotten such a light sentence. “He tried to kill my mother.  He tried to kill us both!”

“Yes,” Sandra shook her head, tucking some loose papers into the folder. “But for some reason, he was able to convince the jury that his actions were only a result of his drug use, and that he was committed to getting treatment.  From what I’ve heard, criminal or not, your father is quite the charmer.”

It crushed me to hear Sandra describe what my mother had gone through.  She’d been beaten and strangled, had faced her attacker in court and described those horrors for a judge and jury, all while pregnant with the child she wanted more than anything.  For her life to have been taken years later seemed the biggest travesty of all.  If she had been there at that moment I’d have held her and told her that she was the bravest person that ever lived.  I knew she’d have held me just as tightly, because she would have loved me no matter how scarred my face was.  I had to turn away from Sandra then, my throat burning and eyes welling up.  I do not like to show weakness. 

“Mira, there’s more,” Sandra said gently, and I had a sickening feeling that I wasn’t going to be any happier about these new revelations than I had been the others.  “When your father was paroled early a few months ago, he immediately did an internet search to find your mother.  Of course he found out about the fire and that your mother didn’t survive it, but you did.  He’s been looking for you ever since.”

I shook my head. “Why?  Why would he want to find me? To finish the job?” I stood up and began to pace the room nervously.  I resisted the urge to peek outside to make sure my father wasn’t lurking in the shadows.  “I really doubt he’s looking to bond with me or that he would think I’d want to.”

“No, Mira,” Sandra caught me by my hand and urged me to sit again. “He doesn’t want a relationship with you, although he might say that he does.  He wants the money.”

           

            I looked at her incredulously. “The money? I can’t imagine that my monthly benefits would be enough for him to bother, but then again, the man did steal money from a baby’s coin jar.  I guess I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

           

            “You’re right, that would probably be enough in itself, but that’s not the money I’m talking about,” she looked down almost guiltily, and then began to explain. “The fire that took your mother’s life was caused by faulty wiring in the utility room of your mother’s home, and you knew this, right?”

                       

            “Yeah, I know,” I said, feeling unsettled but not yet knowing why. “It wasn’t properly insulated or something.  You told me a few years ago when I asked about it.”

           

            “The company that installed that wiring was sued on your behalf, and on behalf of several other victims of house fires, about ten years ago.  They were found negligent, and the money recovered from that lawsuit was put into a trust.  One that you will gain full control of when you turn eighteen.”

                       

            My mouth was hanging open, and I wasn’t sure I could trust whatever was going to come out of it, so I stayed silent.  I nodded for her to go on.

                       

            “Mira, the trust is definitely enough for him to try to reenter your life.  In fact, since he’s your only living relative, I would say there’s plenty cause for concern.”

                       

            I finally found my voice, and although I was terrified of the answer, I had to know.  “How much?”

Sandra paused, as if just speaking the amount aloud would put my life in danger. Her voice shook and I knew she was genuinely afraid for me.  “Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

           

            I left my foster home two days later.  I didn’t go to another one, because this wasn’t a transfer.  I left the home, I left the system, and I never looked back.  I knew that Sandra would worry about me, and knowing that brought on the only feelings of guilt I had about the whole situation.  I vowed that I would get in touch with her once I had settled somewhere, and I’d make my apologies then.  I still needed her, perhaps now more than ever before.