Chapter Two: The Doe in the Orphanage
Sometimes in the dead of night, when she was much younger, she would wake to the sounds of the downstairs radio filling the house with a mix of jazz and big band music. The first few times, she crept across the hall to her brother's room to shake him awake. Her mom always said that he took after their father, and that they both slept like they'd been up for a solid week. In those first times, he would indulge her by going along with her girlish romanticism. But eventually, he started just shrugging her off, rolling over, and going back to bed. Romeo, he was not. So still in her pajamas with blanket in hand, she would quietly pad down the hall and park herself on one of the topmost steps of the stairs. She watched as her father spun around her mother in the living room rug for what felt like hours. Her mother's laughter as Dad dramatically dipped her until her hair brushed against the coffee table never failed to lull her back to sleep.
She couldn't sleep. Over the past couple of weeks had spent nights in bathrooms, cargo trains, park benches, and subway terminals. Now that she was in an actual bed it seemed to confuse her body. Not to mention that the sheets felt worse than sandpaper as well as the symphony of creeks from bed springs erupted anytime a girl moved. She squirmed on the small cot to no anvil and turned her efforts to counting the peeling, cracked ceiling tiles instead. Once she had gotten up to number forty seven, the beginning bars of Glenn Miller's In the Mood fell unconsciously from her lips in a lively hum.
Ba, ba, ba-dadum, dadum dadum da, da, dadum
"Shut your fucking hoagie, grandma! No prince or parent is coming to rescue you so stop keeping us up while you hold your pity party."
Her voice died instantly in her throat and her inner self wanted to dive under the sandpaper sheets in embarrassment as the irate tone echoed from the left two or three beds down. It was her fourth night at the orphanage. Though one would think otherwise, it hadn't gotten any easier as the days and nights counted on. Orphanage implies orphan – a word her brain refused to wrap around. Orphans were people who didn't have family. She had parents, an older brother. They were simply… not present.
The Children's Institute was like an airport for misplaced children run by Child Protective Services. It housed kids temporarily – some going home, some have been just taken from their home, and others in limbo until Protective Services figured out what do to with them. From what she'd gathered so far, the angry voice to her left fell into the second category. The twelve year old who was self proclaimed as Swish apparently had a mother on drugs and a father in jail causing her to call the Institute home whenever her mother was using. Swish had been quick to tell her that at her age, she was as good as dead.
See, she on the other hand fell into the third category. Approximately seventy two hours ago a wristband had been slapped on her arm baring the lovely name of Jane Doe #1001. They have consistently badgered her for a name since the moment the police officer grabbed her at Penn Station. However, with no need for an ID and her father always being fastidious about never fingering printing his kids, (he may have been a full time scientist, but he was a part time government conspiracy theorist) she was untouchable.
At dinner yesterday when the Headmistresses of the Institute first threatened to withhold her meal until she confessed her name, she was tempted to blurt out Roxanne Connor. It was on the tip of her tongue, if for any other reason to see how long it took them to see it was false, but she couldn't do it. One, she knew that no program whose main purpose was to protect kids would deprive them of food. Two, she had prided herself on a simple rule of noncompliance instead of lying. She didn't want to deal with a boy who cried wolf situation down the line. It had nothing to do with the fact that she couldn't bring herself to use his advice, really.
Seeley Booth. The name bounced around her skull like a ball bearing from the annoying loud pinball game her brother used to never let her play. She had way too many things going on in her life for her thoughts to be drifting to a guy she would never see again. There were only two goals her thoughts should be focused on: finding her parents and getting to New York.
Oh but how she hated the way her demeanor had already changed in the short amount of time she spent with him. She had been manhandled enough in the past few months to develop a serious aversion to other people touching her. In the beginning, the child psychologists had classified her as a healthy, average teenager. But as the weeks progressed, she got tired of being coddled and pushed around. Then all of a sudden she went from normal to being labeled as cold and unnaturally withdrawn. Psychology was such a crock.
So her body had started an innate reaction to flinch or in the case of the police officer, violently react whenever someone touched her. Yet, her body only went up in mild alert when he tucked his number in her pocket without warning or permission. Thinking of the piece of napkin, her fingers involuntarily went to the rough cloth. She let a silent groan of frustration and scrubbed a hand down her face before succumbing. There was just enough light coming through the bars on the window behind her to make out the seven numbers written in his boyish scrawl. Her finger tips traced them over and over until it was unintentionally imprinted into her memory. Following the long swoop of the six and the double curve of the second three, she told herself sternly that she'd never use it.
She didn't realize she fell asleep with her hand in her pocket, the number still nestled in her palm.
"Eat up quick, Grandma. The Backwoods Bitch is about to want you in the den." Swish said plopping down in the only empty seat at the crowded kitchen table. "I overheard her talking to the Misuses about you." She reached across the table to separate two little boys who were fighting over a toy fire truck with a broken ladder. "Share the damn thing or I'll take it away."
It was like last night never happened. Swish was obviously still hostile, but it was becoming clear that the harsh attitude was simply her way. And true to her prediction, moments later the Headmistress appeared in the doorway concealed in a long denim dress. "Miss Ten-Oh-One," the weary woman said in a haughty sneer, "please follow me."
Her steps were slow as she was escorted into the front room where a plump black, woman was waiting. After directing her to take a seat in one of the set of chair near the fireplace, the Headmistress left them alone.
"Alright Cherie, I'm Caroline Julian and I will be your case worker." Caroline announced, shifting herself in the uncomfortable chair. The girl in front of her was kind of mousy, not at all what she had been imagining after what she had read in her file. She didn't look like she could find her way out of a mall parking lot much less survive days or weeks on her own.
A beat of silence passed before a soft voice greeted her with, "Hi."
Caroline gave the girl a deadpanned look that clearly stated you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me. For an unknown reason, she resisted the urge to laugh. "No, no, no. We're going to try this again. I'm Caroline Julian and I'll be you're case worker." With a flick of her hand, she gestured across from her. "Now this is where you say 'Nice to meet you Miss Julian, my name is…'"
Ah, there she is, Caroline thought as the girl's eyes sharpened to a point while her body language visibly tensed for an attack. Let's play fast ball. "Cherie, there is a few things you need to learn about me real quick. I mean what I say and say what I mean. I'm here to help you. The best way for me to do that is for you take a break from your teenage angst. I don't know what has happened to you, but I'm asking to know. Here's a onetime offer before I take drastic measures. I'll give you ten steamboats to give me your name."
"I don't know what the means." The tone was still polite, but it had lost its submissive quality.
"Ten Mississippi's maybe?" Guess not, Caroline mussed at the girls puzzlement. "It means that I'll say steamboat after each number so I don't count too fast. Ready? One steamboat, two steamboats…"
The elongated seconds slipped by as an impasse crossed between them. When the tenth steamboat had passed, Caroline quickly whipped out a Polaroid and snapped a picture of the girl. "Now let's get down to business, shall we? On the off chance I can't get you back to where you came from, as your case worker I'll be in charge of your safety and placement. Your reservation here lasts for five more days and then we'll have to get you sorted somewhere new. Seeing how the Park Bench Suite at Penn Station is not an option, we'll either try for adoption, half-way home, or foster care." Trying to gauge the girl's reactions to the three options, she paused to ask, "Any questions so far?"
"Yes, why did you take my photograph?" She seemed upset with herself that she hadn't figured it out already.
Caroline smiled, broadly. "I have a journalist friend that is very good as his job, as am I. It's amazing how many people have been featured in newspapers without them being aware of it. Plus there is always the DMV."
She watched as the girl opened her mouth, but then she seemed to think better of it. She took a small breath before trying again. "I wish you luck with your endeavor, Miss Julian."
"Not old enough to drive, are we?" Caroline latches on to the girl's simple slip. "You have to be… what, fourteen, fifteen… even sixteen or seventeen, maybe, if we were to push it. Maybe you're old enough to drive, but ran from strict parents?"
The second the word parents left her mouth, a change flashed across the girl's face. It was subtle, but not swift enough for her to shuffle her features back into their standoff attitude fluidly. She wanted to force the issue, 'What about your parents?' she wanted to ask. But she knew that she couldn't. There was an air about this girl that said the harder one pushed, the more determined she would become.
That was okay though, Caroline Julian might not be known for her patience… but she knew when it was the right time to give away your hand and when was the right time to hold. Researching via newspapers won't be the fastest task on earth but it'll have to do in a pinch. Her sister was telling her the other day about her hairdresser's cousin that works for someone foreign European nuclear research place that was developing something called the world wide web that would be able to connect information from all over the place in seconds. Yeah, my eye!
Glancing at the girls chart, she continued. "I'm sure that one of the younger girls here have gleeful informed you that due to your age, placement will be a bit difficult. Good news is that you seem to be a well adjusted young woman, despite the scuffle you had with the police officer that was mentioned in your file, so a half-way home shouldn't be necessary. Foster care is looking like the most probable option."
"The police officer attempted to take my bag after I repeatedly asked him to please not touch me."
"Yes, that particular officer has a thing about selective hearing and a stick up his ass." Smiling to reiterate that yes, she did just curse, Caroline rose. "I think it's about time I get to my research. You seem like much too smart of a girl to be called by a number. You'll see me again by the end of the week."
The girl didn't know what to think of her case worker. She was most definitely unlike any other members of Child Protective services she had met. She seemed stern, but not full of herself. But… she still wanted an identity, though she wasn't quite sure why. She believed that William Shakespeare's Juliet had it right - 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy… What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
She had plenty of names to give them: girl, Roxie, Grandma, Jane-y Doe, Miss Ten-Oh-One, Cherie. It merely wasn't the name they wanted. "Miss Julian," she asked while she still had the chance. "May I have a copy of my case file please?"
The older woman looked at her with the same look her mother gave her brother once when he asked if he could get an earring. "Why?"
"I've recently discovered that psychology is very un-telling of its subject. I would like to know what is being written about me, and what decisions have been made without my knowledge."
"You are a strange one aren't you, Pischouette?"
Moving on before she could reply, she tossed out, "I'll bring a copy with me next time. Depending on what we can uncover, I'll see what we can do about letting you keep it."
TBC… y'all!
AN: Before I can say anything else – THANKS TO ALL WHO IS READING! You rock. But alrighty folks, maybe you can tell that I'm running with this whole Sometimes in the dead of night theme. Also, being from Louisiana myself, I had throw in a few corrections here. I never counted steamboats, always Mississipi's (M-I-crooked letter, crooked letter-I… anyone?) also, Cherie means dear if anyone didn't already know but I don't often hear it. Pischoutte (meaning little girl, pronounced pea schwet – what my Mimi/grandma always called me – is more often heard, especially from older folk as a term of endearment.
Alsooo, one of the little kids I watch who is twelve wrote a book/story and wanted me to look at it. I was uber impressed at his narration and descriptions (the grammar was improper but hell, so is mine). So I pose a question to y'all – especially those lurkers who want an alert for the story but didn't review, I see you!! – at what age did y'all starting writing fanfic or your own stuff?