Cute For A Black Girl

Chapter 1 – William’s Frost in 2018

I was swamped with paperwork. My desk was covered with the tales of many people’s grievances and indiscretions. I was expecting a call from my seventeen-year-old daughter, Chloe. Every night at eight she was obligated to check in and assure me of her safety. It was 7:45 P.M and I wasn’t even halfway done with my documents. Who knew that taking this job as a judge in this small Virginia town would be so overwhelming?

“Ring ring ring,” my phone blared.

Good she’s early, I thought as I picked up my phone only to see an unknown number.

I didn’t have time for telemarketers, so I ignored the call and proceeded with my work.

Ten minutes later, “ring ring ring,” form the same number as before. If it was a telemarketer, I planned to cuss them out.

“Hello!” I answered.

“Yes, may I speak to a Mr. William Wilcox?” a polite sounding woman responded.

“I’m not interested,” I claimed then I pulled the phone away from my ear in attempt to hang up.

“No! No! Wait, Mr. Wilcox!” The urgency in her voice was alarming.

“Mr. Wilcox, this is RN Hamilton from Spotsy Regional Hospital. We have your daughter here.”

“Chloe? Is she okay?”

“Ummm, sir, she’s in critical condition. You may want to hurry and get down here as soon as possible. They are working on her now.”

“What? What’s wrong with her? What happened?”

“I don’t have any further information at this time. Just try to get here, quickly,” she said as she got off the phone.

My heart dropped. My only daughter was in the hospital in critical condition while I was sitting at work ignoring calls. I rose, grabbed my keys, my coat, and ran out the door. I hopped into my Mercedes and high tailed it down the long stretch of country road. I prayed the whole way, “Lord, I know I haven’t been to church in a while, but please don’t take my baby girl. I have lost so much. Please don’t take her away too. If you save my baby, I promise I will return to church. I will return to you. Just please don’t take my baby.”

I pulled into Spotsy ER, parked the car illegally near the ambulance bay, and ran inside.

“May I help you?” said a young lady that stood behind the check in desk.

“Yes…my daughter…I got a call that she was here,” I could barely breathe as I talked.

“Name?”

“Chloe Wilcox.”

“Only family are allowed to see her at this time,” the lady responded.

“Yes, I’m her dad.”

She looked at me sideways and squinted. It was a look I had grown accustomed to when people saw Chloe and I together.

“But she’s Black,” the lady stated.

“Yes, and I’m White. But she’s mine. Do you need to see the certificate, or can I go see my baby now?”

“Sir, I apologize. Please come follow me. I’ll take you right to her.”

She led me down a long hallway that bypassed the ER.

“Ma’am, I was told she’s in the ER,” I stated when the nurse walked past those double doors.

“She was in the ER. She’s been moved to the ICU.”

“The ICU?” Panic filled my heart. Why was Chloe in the ICU? What happened? Was she okay? A million thoughts ran through my head as I followed that lady down the hall, up the elevator and to a department marked in big black letters, “Intensive Care Unit.”

The lady pressed an intercom located next to the doors of the unit.

“Yes,” another lady answered from the intercom box.

“I have the father of Chloe Wilcox here to see her.”

“Buzzzzz” the door sounded, and I walked through the doors where I was met by another nurse.

“Mr. Wilcox,” she spoke.

“Yes.”

“I’m Nurse Hamilton. We spoke over the phone.”

“Yes.”

“Right this way sir. Chloe is in room 3.”

My knees were weak. I don’t know how I managed the strength to put one foot in front of the other as I made my way behind Nurse Hamilton and to room three. I looked through the glass doors where my baby laid, and I paused in my tracks. There were all kinds of machines around her beeping, dripping, and blowing. Chloe laid there still and unresponsive.

“Come in,” Nurse Hamilton said. “Don’t be scared. Chloe needs you.”

I stepped through the glass door and watched as a tube blew air into her mouth made her chest move up and down. Another tube ran from her nose draining black liquid. Her beautiful chocolate skin was an ashen gray.

“What happened?”

“The doctors think it was an overdose.”

Tears started to run down my face as the nurse spoke.

“Her heart stopped. They did CPR on her for ten minutes before they could get her heart to start beating on its own again. They gave her a medication called Narcan. It helps people who have had drug overdoses. It worked. But they are still running labs to determine the cause of her cardiac arrest.”

I walked over to Chloe, grabbed her hand, and stroked it. It was warm but limp.

“Here’s a chair. You can sit with her if you like,” The nurse pulled a chair next to Chloe’s bed, and I sat without letting go of Chloe’s hand. The nurse left, and the tears continued to flow. I looked at my beautiful girl. Her hair was a wild mane of tight curls just like it was on the day I met her eleven years ago. Then, I was a thirty-seven-year-old successful lawyer in Washington, DC. I worked for one of the most prestigious divorce law firms in the city. I had money, a house, a nice car, and respect. I had it made. But my heart was empty.

I had a strong desire to start my own family. The home I came from was broken. My dad left when I was two leaving my mother to struggle raising five children on a teacher’s salary. It was hard, but my mother, being half Bengali and half Caucasian, was a strong woman who instilled great values in me and my siblings. She taught us hard work and discipline. We were all successful in our careers, but, not so much in our personal lives. You couldn’t tell by looking at me that I was one fourth Indian because I favored my dad so much. You’d think my mom would have resentment towards me, but her heart was kind, and my looks didn’t faze her.

In all my years of dating various women from various backgrounds, I hadn’t found anyone that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. They were either too pushy, too unmotivated, too loud, too quiet, too wild, too boring, or just not interested in me. At thirty-seven, I had damn near given up on my dreams of starting a family. But on Easter Sunday, my pastor inspired me.

“Religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world. James 1:27 ESV.”

Orphans. It hit me like a ton of bricks. There were so many children without parents in America. They needed me, and I needed them. I went on an adoption website the next day and filled out an application. I was called by a case manager the day after and she walked me through the steps of becoming a parent.

After four months of parenting classes, home visits, and preparation, I became a licensed foster parent and was ready to open up my home to a future son or daughter. I walked around my first child matching event not expecting much. I figured it would take two or three events to find the right kid for me. There were hopeful children and potential parents running around everywhere. It was loud and overwhelming. I didn’t engage with anyone initially. I just strolled through the chaos and observed.

In the midst, I noticed a presence following me. I stopped and turned my head to see my pursuer. She was a beautiful young round-faced girl. She had smooth chocolate skin and wild curly hair. Her light brown eyes were bright and engaging. She stopped when I stopped and smiled when I looked at her. Her smile revealed deep dimples in each cheek.

I took a few more steps forward and she followed. I turned again and she stopped and smiled again. I took quicker steps and she followed at the same pace. I stopped and turned around.

“Hi!” I enthusiastically spoke.

She didn’t say anything. She just smiled.

I went over to her and got down on one knee extending my hand, “Hi, I’m William. What’s your name?”

She didn’t say anything nor did she grabbed my hand. She just smiled then skipped away taking my heart right away with her.

I continued to stroll around often feeling the presence of a gazing brown eyed, wild haired girl nearby. I’d see her face poking out behind a column or from the other side of the table. Whenever, I’d turn to look at her, she’d silently smile.

“Who’s that girl?” I asked one of the case workers.

“Oh, that’s Chloe. She’s a sweet girl, but she’s a handful. She doesn’t talk.”

“Is there something wrong with her? I mean is there a reason she can’t talk? Like a disability or something?”

“Does it matter?” she asked in a judgy way.

“No, I was just curious.”

It didn’t matter to me one way or the other. I knew that a lot of children in foster care had disabilities or traumatic pasts. But they were all children of God and in need of love and support. I was ready to take on the challenge of adopting a child and all of the baggage that I’d expected would come with them.

“Selective mutism.”

“Selective what?” I asked. I had never heard of the condition before.

“Selective mutism. There’s nothing wrong with her voice or her hearing. She just chooses not to talk. She’s been here for one year and hasn’t said a word.”

“Hmmm, I wonder why not?”

“Chloe is young, but she has a very traumatic past. Her mom’s a drug addict. Chloe was born addicted to cocaine and heroin. And her dad abused her. He physically and sexually abused Chloe until her rescue by child services last year.”

“Sexual abuse! But she’s only, what like four or five years old?”

“Chloe is six and yes, sexual abuse. I know it’s shocking. We think he started abusing her at age three but we’re not sure. A neighbor called child protective services one night after hearing screams from Chloe’s room. CPS found Chloe battered and broken. She was taken to the hospital where it was determined that there was sexual and physical trauma. Both parents were arrested and remain in jail currently.”

I was appalled that so much could happen to someone so young. I was impressed at Chloe’s resilience. She wasn’t broken, she was smiling and pursuing. I wanted to be Chloe’s hero. I wanted to show her that this world was not all bad. I wanted to show her the love and support that my mother had blessed me with.

“I want her,” I said to the case manager.

She smiled at me and went into an office to start the paperwork.

It was a Saturday the first day Chloe stepped foot in my house. I could tell she was nervous. She clung onto the case workers leg like it was the only rooted tree during a tsunami. Chloe wasn’t smiling, and the only part of her I could see peeking out from behind the social worker’s leg was that curly hair and one brown eye.

All I could think was, what did I get myself into?

The caseworker must have sensed my reserve, “It’ll take some getting used to, but I know this is going to work out just fine.”

I nodded my head in agreement though I wasn’t too sure. I extended my hand out to Chloe, and she gripped the social workers leg tighter.

“It’s okay Chloe. He’s not going to bite,” she mentioned while attempting to escape from Chloe’s death grip on her leg.

Chloe reluctantly loosened her hold and walked over to a corner in my living room. The social worker left, and it was just me and Chloe standing in silence staring awkwardly at each other. Both scared shitless.

I can do this.

“So, I heard your favorite food is pizza. I have some cooking in the oven if you’re hungry.”

Chloe just started crying. I didn’t know what to do. I worried that if I touched her, she’d scream bloody murder thinking I was trying to hurt her. If I ignored her, would that be neglect?

“Chloe, please don’t cry. Pizza is yummy.” I tried to comfort her, but she just screamed louder.

I called the social worker. “Ummm somethings wrong. She’s crying.”

The social worker laughed, “Welcome to fatherhood. Congratulations.”

“But what do I do?”

“Patience. Chloe has been through a lot. But just be kind and patient. She will come around soon.”

Okay. Patience. Understanding. Kindness. I can do this.

I grabbed the pizza from the oven and sliced it. I put one on the plate for me and another for Chloe. I sat both plates on the table. I sat and took a bite of my own.

“Mmmm this pizza sure is yummy. I love pizza too you know.”

Chloe cried louder.

“You sure you don’t want to try it. It may make you feel better.”

Chloe stopped crying and looked at me sideways. She huffed a little and wiped her tears away. She slowly made her way over to the table. She grabbed her plate and went back over to her corner of the room. Then she sat on the floor and took a bite.

I heard her breath out a sigh of relief, then she destroyed the rest of the pizza like a hungry lion cub feasting on a carcass. When she was done, she looked up at me, tomato sauce all over her face and smiled. She held up her plate.

“You want some more? You’re a hungry little thing, aren’t you?”

She didn’t say a word and just held up her plate.

“Okay, you can have some more. But this time, you have to eat it at the table,” I said reflecting on the foster parent classes I had taken and thier emphasis on boundaries and discipline.

Chloe looked at me sideways again. I could tell she was pondering my offer.

She got up, sat at the table, and smiled.

I put another slice of pizza on her plate and we ate together, our first night as a family.

Chapter 2 – Chloe’s Autumn in 2007

I didn’t remember much about my life prior to meeting William. Every once in a while, I’d get flash backs from my past, men coming in and out of our house, a fly tickling my nose on a hot summer’s day as I laid on the couch in our apartment which had no air conditioning, chomping down on Frostee Os as I watched cartoons on an old TV. Just bits and pieces of memories would occasionally invade my thoughts.

I remembered my mother vaguely. She slept a lot during the day; but she was nice to me. She’d let me watch cartoons all day while she slept. She had a lot of male friends. They’d give her money, and she’d give them time in the back room for a few minutes. Then she’d spend the rest of the day sleeping. My dad was a regular. Before he’d leave, he’d smile at me, stroke me on my cheek and say, “You know I’m your daddy, right?” I never responded.

Sometimes my mom would read to me. We had one book, a collection of poems from Edgar Allen Poe, her favorite author. There was a picture of the author on the back. She’d read to me, and I had no idea what she was talking about. But I liked that she would tell the story animated and she’d tickle me during the scary parts.

I remember when the social workers took me away. They called it a rescue, but I didn’t think of it like that. My mom was all that I had ever known, and she was taken from me never to be seen again.

I don’t remember much about my dad abusing me, but I remember pain. I remember my legs and my stomach hurting. I remember bleeding. I remember throwing up. The social worker noticed that I was walking funny so she took me to a hospital where they made me take off my clothes so they could examine me. I remember the doctor who took care of me. She was really nice. She talked calmly and slowly. She even gave me a teddy bear to help keep me calm during the exam.

When that was done, I got cleaned up and taken to a place where there were a lot of other kids. They were screaming, laughing, playing, and crying. It was noisier than anything I had ever encountered in my life. I missed my mom and the quiet of our apartment while she slept. I just held onto my bear and sat in a corner. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was too afraid. Besides, who would understand how I felt? Who would understand what I was going through? All I wanted was my mother. All I wanted was for things to go back to normal.

As the months went on in that place, I knew that things would never be normal again and I started to get used to my new environment.

There was one kid there named Tony. He was goofy. He was always making silly noises and silly facial expressions. I smiled at him.

“Oh, there you go,” one of our caretakers said to me. “Finally, a smile. You know you’re cute when you smile. Well, cute for a Black girl.”

I smiled harder. I’m cute when I smile? Then I’ll smile all the time.

The agency had adoption parties monthly. Prospective parents would come and try to bond with all of us kids. I hated the parties because the other kids were louder and more obnoxious than usual. I was standing in a corner smiling during one of the parties when I saw this tall white man enter the building. He looked just like Edgar Allen Poe. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a mustache. He walked stiffly looking as out of place as I felt. I followed him. It was the most familiar part of home that I had in that place of chaos.

I hoped he didn’t notice as I stared. I didn’t want him to see me. I just was curious to know what he was doing. But when he turned and looked at me, I had nowhere to hide. So, I did the only thing that I knew was cute, I smiled. He went about walking and I followed and smiled. Then he left and I was left wondering why Edgar Allen Poe was visiting such a chaotic place.

I soon found out when my social worker dropped me off at this mysterious man’s house. She informed me that his name was William, not Edgar, and that he’d be my new foster dad and possibly my adopted dad if things went well.

His house was huge. I had never seen a house so big. It was a three-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bathroom house. The front yard was exquisitely decorated with grass, trees, and well-organized bushes. The closest neighbor had to be at least thirty feet from the house, not close enough to hear me scream. It was nothing like the one-bedroom apartment my mom and I shared in the heart of the hood. What did one man need with all this space? And what did this man want with me? The only men I had known were the men who spent time with my mother and the one who hurt me.

I found a corner, and I stayed planted until William enticed me with pizza. The pizza was good, best I’d ever tasted. And when I went to sit next to him, he didn’t hurt me. He just talked and I listened pretending he was Edgar reading me more poems that I didn’t understand.

It was quiet at William’s house. Too quiet. No sounds of shouting, broken glass, or gunshots outside my window. No sounds of kids laughing or crying near my bed. I was afraid that night looking up at the shadows on the wall and nervously trying to figure out what object the shadow belonged to. I needed the reassurance that each shadow had an object and wasn’t a demon trying to get me. Somehow, in the midst of all the shadow matching, I fell asleep.

I woke to the sounds of birds chirping and bacon sizzling on a stove. I held my teddy tight as I bravely ventured out of my room to see Edgar, I mean William, in sweatpants and a t-shirt slaving over the stove.

“Good morning, Chlo…Oh my God, your hair!” he said as he turned to look at me.

I touched my hair confused as to what he was talking about. My hair was still there and the texture was the same when I woke up in the morning without a good combing or brushing the night before. It was dry, thick and all over the place like usual.

“How do I do this?” William asked.

I shrugged and smiled.

“Yeah, Chloe, you’re right. Let’s eat first and worry about your hair later.”

Bacon, eggs, potatoes, and pancakes were all new to me. I had never had a breakfast that large before. Where was my stale sugary cereal? I looked at the large meal before me and looked at William suspiciously. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t know if I should eat it. I heard from Tony that White people couldn’t cook and here was all this food in front of me. It smelled good but what if it was disgusting.

“Try it Chloe. It’s good.”

I started to cry.

“Uh oh. You don’t like eggs and bacon,” William tried to stay calm as he spoke.

“Well what do you like?”