The Mercy We Make

A low-pitched buzz emanates from the fluorescent light above my desk; it's been doing so for three hours now and it hurts the back of my teeth. However, I've chosen to remain seated at my desk and continue working on the card file that sits before me. The file contains information regarding a young girl who is eight years old. Her name is written on the tab in my own handwriting (the letters are small and uniform) and underneath that tab is every piece of information I possess concerning what occurs when she returns home.

To the left of the file lies a referral letter. This letter was folded incorrectly this morning and therefore bears a crease. Attached to the referral letter is a statement made by the child's teacher. The statement consists of two pages of observations that were written using very cautious language — indicating that another individual feared making mistakes. Although I've read the teacher's statements multiple times today, I've committed them to memory: the child's sudden silence during a class discussion about family units; how she started creating drawings of houses without doors; and how she questioned the school nurse about whether a person could become ill due to fear. Every single detail represents a small yet specific stone placed along a path leading in one direction. I've traveled down this same path previously. I'm aware of where it terminates.

My calendar indicates that I requested a consultation with the Safeguarding Office nine days ago — this was the earliest appointment available. There are four additional days until that meeting occurs. In addition to those four days passing prior to the consultation occurring, there will also be a group of individuals present at that meeting — each having differing objectives — deciding whether this particular child's fears meet the criteria necessary for taking action. As I tapped the date with the tip of my pen and subsequently set the pen aside — I felt the tapping transform into something far more intense.

My office space is quite small — one of three offices branching off the Ground Floor Reception Room. The walls are colored similarly to old putty — and the window provides views of a street that becomes deserted once darkness falls — aside from occasional buses hissing through puddles formed by standing water. When I choose to work late hours — I typically keep the blinds open — and although I tell myself it's because I enjoy observing rain — the actual reason is that I don't wish to be caught off guard by seeing a face staring back at me through the glass. Curtis Bell is aware of where I work. He has passed by my workplace twice — both times I witnessed him passing by — once early in the morning while I unlocked the front door — and another time after a session concluded — when I escorted his step-daughter to the Waiting Area — and discovered him standing near the Reception Desk — his hands resting within the pockets of his Work Jacket — his split Eyebrow giving his face a permanently questioning appearance — albeit mildly and uninterestedly — despite the fact that he hadn't been invited inside — he chose to enter regardless.

Twenty-three Session Notes exist within the Card File. Following each session — I've taken approximately an hour to write each note — while the tone of her voice remained present in the room. Initially — the Session Notes were carefully written and observational — noting that the Child was quiet but responsive — she drew pictures during Sessions — and referred to her Step-Father as "He" — without providing his name. Eventually — the Middle Session Notes began to reflect the burden of what she attempted to avoid stating. Presently — I've been re-reading the Most Recent Session Notes for the last Hour — and they are the primary reason why my Hands are Cold — despite the fact that the Radiator Clicks Against the Baseboard.

She informed me about the Lock on her Bedroom Door. She informed me that it is located on the Outside. She informed me this while organizing her Crayons into her Case by Color — Red to Purple — and her Voice was so Flat and Ordinary that I nearly missed it. I prompted her to provide further explanation — and she gazed at me with an Expression of a Child who has Already Realized that Speaking Does Not Alter Anything — and she replied — "He Says It Is So I Do Not Wander At Night. But I Do Not Wander."

I transcribed these Words. I Transcribed the Date — the Session Number — and the Exact Words. I Transcribed the manner in Which her Fingers Stopped Upon the Yellow Crayon — and Held it Without Moving. I Transcribed the Feelings of the Room — which were Quiet and Small — and Full of Something I Could Not Identify Then — and Can Identify Now. Then — I Closed the File — and Walked Her to the Waiting Area — and Curtis Bell Was There — and He Smiled at Her With Thin Politeness — and She Went to Him Without Looking Back at Me.

The Mandated Report is Open on my Screen. For Two Hours — I've Been Drafting It — and I've Made Sure That the Language Used Is Clean As Possible. No Adjectives Suggesting That I Possess An Opinion. No Summaries That Could Be Interpreted As Advocacy. The Safeguarding Office Requires Facts To Be Arranged Chronologically — Tied to Dates and Direct Quotations — and I've Provided Them. The Child Said This On This Date. The Teacher Reported This On This Date. The Step-Father Was Observed Performing This Action On This Date. Each Sentence Represents A Brick — and I've Placed Them In A Row — and Together They Form A Wall That Is Strong Enough To Stand Upon. That Is What I Tell Myself.

At Twenty-Nine Years Old — I Filed My First Report That Did Not Save Anyone. The Client Was A Woman In Her Forties — and She Had Been Living With A Man Who Broke Her Arm Into Three Pieces — and Told Emergency Room Personnel That She Fell Down The Stairs. I Documented Everything. I Wrote The Report Using The Same Carefulness As I Am Employing Tonight — Believing That Precision Would Be Sufficient — That The System Would Read My Words — And Act Upon Them Because The Words Were True — and the Danger Was Clear. The Man Was Notified Of The Report — As Procedure Required. Two Weeks Later — The Woman Was Dead. The System Had Done What It Was Designed To Do. The System Had Not Been Designed To Protect Her.

I Rarely Think About That Case Anymore. I Have Learned How To Place It Within A Box — And Close The Lid — Because Carrying It Into Every Session Would Render Me Useless To Those Who Require Me To Remain Steady. However — Tonight It Is Not Inside The Box. Tonight It Is Sitting In The Chair Across From My Desk — And It Is Watching Me Type — And It Is Asking Me Whether Anything I Do In This Room Makes A Difference Or Only Causes Me To Believe That It Does.

I Completed The Report At Eleven Forty-Seven. The Clock On My Desk Is A Small Digital One That I Purchased At A Pharmacy Three Years Ago — And Its Numbers Are Green And Steady. I Read The Report Twice. I Changed One Word — Then Changed It Back. Then — I Clicked Submit — And The Screen Indicated That The Filing Had Been Received — And I Sat There With My Hands Flat On The Desk While The Radiator Tick-Tocked — And The Rain Continued Falling Against The Glass.

The Submission Receipt Printed Automatically. I Folded It — And Put It Behind The Most Recent Session Note Within The Card File. Then — I Opened My Email — And Sent A Copy To Bethany Loomis With A Note That Consisted Of Only Two Lines: The Report Has Been Filed — The Consultation Is In Four Days — I Will Keep Her Updated. I Did Not Include What I Wanted To Include — Which Was That I Have Done Everything Procedure Requires Of Me — And The Child Is Still Going Home To The Man I Named.

Bethany's Response Arrived Within Minutes. She Is Also Working Late — Or — She Has Her Phone Set To Notify Her When I Send Something After Hours. Her Message Is Calm And Organized — Similar To How She Is Calm And Organized — Her Square Glasses Likely Pushed Up Into Her Hair While Reading What I Sent. She Asked Whether Curtis Bell Had Been Notified Of The Report. She Reminded Me That Notification Is Standard — That The Safeguarding Office Handles It — But That I Should Confirm That It Has Been Done. She Wrote "I Know This Is Hard" Before The Reminder — And The Qualifier Is So Precisely Bethany That I Could Hear Her Voice In It — The Way She Distinguishes Between Things With Care — Because She Has Learned That Good Intentions Do Not Substitute For Good Records.

I Typed Back That The Office Handles Notification — Not Me. I Typed It Quickly — And Closed The Thread Before I Could Add What I Actually Thought About A Man Who Is Allowed To Be Told That A Child Tried To Speak Against Him. The Anger Was Present — Flat And Hot At The Back Of My Throat — And I Have Been Holding It Down All Day — Because Letting It Out Would Not Help The Child — Would Not Change Procedure — And Would Only Provide Curtis Bell With Something To Point At If He Decides To Claim That I Am Biased. I Am Biased. I Am Biased Toward Believing A Child Who Told Me About A Lock On The Outside Of Her Door. But I Cannot Say That In An Email — And I Cannot Say That In A Report — And I Cannot Say That To Anyone Except The Empty Office — The Rain — And The Green Numbers On The Clock Telling Me It Is Almost Midnight.

I Closed The Card File — And Placed It In The Locked Drawer Of My Desk. The Referral Letter Was Placed Into The Folder With The Teacher's Statement. The Calendar Remained Open To The Week Ahead — The Consultation Marked In Blue Ink. I Turned Off The Desk Lamp — And The Room Went Gray Except For The Fluorescent Bar Still Humming Above Head. I Stood There For A Moment — With My Coat Over My Arm — Looking Out The Window — And Beyond It — The Rain Was Steady — The Kind Of Cold March Rain That Smelled Of Wet Brick — And The River Half-A-Mile East. No Headlights. No Figure In A Work Jacket Standing By The Curb. I Told Myself I Was Not Looking For Him — And Then — I Stopped Telling Myself Things — Because I Was Too Tired To Manage Lies.

When I Walked Out — The Practice Was Quiet. The Reception Room Was Dark Except For The Exit Sign Over The Door — A Red Glow That Reflected Off The Linoleum In A Dull Smear. I Checked The Lock On The Front Door — Then The Rear Door That Opened To The Shared Corridor. Both Were Secure. I Pulled My Coat On — A Dark Wool One I Have Had For Five Years — And I Stepped Outside Into The Rain.

The Street Was Empty. The Bus Stop Across The Road Had A Shelter With A Cracked Panel — And The Light Inside It Flickered At Long — Irregular Intervals. I Walked Toward The Corner Where The Street Turned Toward The River — My Bag Heavy On My Shoulder — My Hair Coming Loose From The Clip At The Back Of My Head. The Rain Was Not Hard Enough To Soak Through My Coat — But Steady Enough That I Could Feel It On My Face — Cold And Fine — Each Drop A Small — Patient Clock Marking The Distance Between Where I Am — And Where I Am Going.

I Knew The Distance Between Filing A Report — And Protecting A Child. I Had Measured It In Days — Hours — And In The Space Between A Teacher's Observation — And A Safeguarding Meeting — And I Had Measured It In The Weight Of A Card File That Holds Everything I Know — And Cannot Act On. The Report I Filed Tonight Is A Good Report. The Language Is Precise — The Disclosures Are Framed Correctly — The Claims Are Tied To Dates — And Direct Quotations. It Will Be Read By People Whose Job Is To Read Reports Like It — And They Will Decide Whether The Risk Is High Enough To Justify Intervention — And In The Meantime — The Child Will Go Home To The Man I Named — And He Will Know That Someone Has Named Him — Because Procedure Requires That He Be Told.

I Walked Past The Closed Bakery On The Corner — The One With The Handwritten Sign In The Window That Says "We Bake While You Sleep" In Looping Script. The Sign Is Always There — And I Always Read It — And Tonight It Made Me Think Of The Child Arranging Her Crayons Red To Purple While She Told Me About The Lock. She Was So Careful With The Crayons. She Lined Them Up Exactly — Each One Touching The Next — And When She Was Finished — She Looked At Them Instead Of At Me — And I Knew She Was Waiting For Me To Do Something She Did Not Have Words To Ask For.

The Anger Sharpened As I Walked. I Had Been Pressing It Flat All Day — Under The Weight Of Procedure — Professional Language — And Knowledge That Losing Control Would Help No One. But It Would Not Stay Flat. It Rose Through My Chest — And Into My Throat — And I Let It Come — Because There Was No One Here To See It. My Hands Were In My Pockets — And They Were Fists — And I Did Not Unclench Them. The Rain Kept Falling. The River Smell Got Stronger As I Turned Onto My Street — A Smell Of Cold Water — Old Stone — And The Things The Current Carries Away.

My Building Is A Brick Walk-Up With A Mail Slot That Sticks When It Is Wet. The Light In The Entryway Was On — A Soft Yellow Pooling Across The Floorboards Where Someone Had Left A Flyer For A Pizza Place I Have Never Ordered From. I Climbed The Stairs To The Second Floor — My Shoes Leaving Wet Prints On The Wood — And I Unlocked The Door To My Apartment — And Stepped Inside — And Closed It Behind Me. The Hall Was Dark. I Did Not Turn On The Light. I Stood There With My Back Against The Door — My Bag Still On My Shoulder — My Coat Dripping Onto The Floor — And I Listened To The Quiet Settle Around Me.

The Quiet Was Not Peaceful. It Was The Quiet Of A Room Where No One Else Was Waiting — And It Reminded Me That The Child I Filed The Report About Is Not Standing In Her Own Hallway. She Is In A House With A Man Who Locks Her Door From The Outside — And He Has Been Told That Someone Is Asking Questions — And The Meeting That Might Help Her Is Four Days Away. Four Days Is Not Long. Four Days Is A Lifetime If You Are Eight Years Old — And The Person Who Controls Your Movements Knows You Tried To Speak.

I Pushed Off The Door — And Hung My Coat On The Hook By The Entry. My Bag Went On The Floor Beneath It. I Walked Into The Kitchen — And Filled The Kettle — And Set It On The Stove — And I Watched The Blue Flame Catch Under The Metal While The Rain Tapped Against The Window Over The Sink. The Question I Had Been Refusing To Ask Arrived Anyway — And It Did Not Knock. It Walked In — And Stood In The Middle Of The Room — And Waited For Me To Look At It.

Whether What I Do At That Desk Is Protection Or Paperwork That Buys Me A Clean Conscience While A Child Goes Home To The Man I Named.

The Kettle Began To Hum. I Reached For A Mug — And My Hand Was Steady — And The Anger Was Still There — Hot And Sharp — And Not Flat Anymore. I Did Not Know What To Do With It. I Have Spent Years Learning How To Put It Away — To Channel It Into Careful Language — Proper Procedure — To Trust That The System Will Work If I Give It The Right Words In The Right Order. But The System Told A Man His Stepdaughter Disclosed Against Him Tonight — And The System Will Not Send Anyone To Check On Her Until A Meeting That Is Still Four Days Away — And I Am Standing In My Kitchen At Midnight — With My Hair Dripping Down My Neck — My Hand Wrapped Around A Mug That Is Still Empty.

The Kettle Clicked Off. I Poured The Water — And Watched The Steam Rise — And I Did Not Sit Down — Because Sitting Down Would Mean The Day Was Over — And The Day Is Not Over. The Day Is Still Happening In A House I Cannot See — To A Child Whose File Is Locked In My Desk — And I Am Here — Dry And Safe And Furious — And Neither The Dryness Nor The Safety Nor The Fury Changes Anything.

I Left The Tea On The Counter — And Walked To The Living Room Window. The Street Below Was Dark And Wet — The Pavement Shining Under The Streetlamp — The River Invisible But Present In The Smell And Sound Of Water Moving Somewhere Close. I Stood There For A Long Time — Watching The Rain — Cataloging The Distance Between What I Can Document — And What I Can Prevent — And The Anger That Has Been My Companion All Day Settled Into Something Quieter And More Dangerous. It Settled Into The Knowledge That I Trust It More Than I Trust The Procedure. That When The Procedure Fails — The Anger Will Still Be There. That It Has Never Failed Me The Way The Careful Words Have.

The Rain Keeps Falling. The Street Stays Empty. And Somewhere In The City — A Child Who Lines Up Her Crayons Red To Purple Is Lying In A Room With A Lock On The Outside Of The Door — And I Do Not Know If She Is Awake — And I Do Not Know If She Is Afraid — And I Do Not Know If The Report I Filed Tonight Will Reach Her In Time — Or If It Will Only Mark Her On Paper — And Leave Her Where She Is. The Not Knowing Is The Worst Part. The Not Knowing Is The Part That Makes Me Want To Do Something The Procedure Does Not Allow — Something That Would Put Her At Greater Risk — And Me At The End Of My Career — And Still Might Not Save Her. I Stand At The Window — And I Do Not Move — And The Tea Goes Cold On The Counter Behind Me — And The Clock On The Shelf Ticks Once — Twice — Patient As A Heartbeat — And I Wait For Morning — Because It Is The Only Thing Left To Wait For.