Been Through Hell and Back

After a month, I finally know what demons keep my daughter up crying at night. They were there all along, in the little, orange sketchbook I gave her…

It’s been a month since I adopted Maura.

Yet every day she still wakes up crying in a cold sweat.

The little girl can’t sleep. She’ll wake up, cry, then walk to my room to tug on the sheets. I’d wake up every night, to see her tear-brimmed eyes, clutching to her stuffed toy. 

“Will you sleep with me?” she’ll ask every night.

I’d pick her up and set her between my husband and me. Holding her close, I’d coax her, gently stroking her hair, saying it’ll be fine.

You’re with Daddy and Papa, it’ll be fine.

Except I didn’t know. I didn’t know if it’d be fine. I never knew what she was crying about. Whenever I asked her, she’d shut down.

My husband, Reynaldo, and I adopted Maura at this shady foster home. The rooms were dusty, cobwebs everywhere. Window light was the only thing allowing us to see from the dark, wood walls. The beds were dirty, a swipe of my fingers would leave a clear mark as I picked up dust. 

They called it a foster home. I’d call it haunted.

We entered a dark hall in a corridor, making our way through the various rooms. Then we entered the last one at the end of the hall. 

There was Maura. She lived in a dirty room, alone, afraid.

What’s there not to pity?

But I didn’t know if she would return my love for her. I’m not even sure if she wanted to be adopted in the first place. When we brought her home, she dropped my favorite flowers on accident, then ran upstairs and started crying.

Great place to start off, huh?

I felt awful, I tried to talk to her. It would never work. It’s like she feared me.

Did I make the right choice? I’d question.

Every time I did this though, Reynaldo would come. He’d place a burly hand on my shoulder and tell me:

“She’s been through Hell and back.”

Fed up with his philosophical talk this time, I pleaded, “How could you possibly know that?! And what the heck’s that even supposed to mean?” I looked him in the eye, the desperation in my voice oozing as I said, “Please, I’m trying.”

“I know, I know. I’m just telling you, we need patience, Hector.”

I paused, sick of this constant reminder of patience. “...Reynaldo. What do you think she’s scared of, y’know? What is it that wakes her up every night?”

To this, he sighed. “I… I don’t know… Hector, you aren’t going to get any words out of her. Trauma doesn’t work like that, especially in this environment. She’s only known us for a month.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know…” I groan.

Suddenly a plan begins to form.

“Has she been using that sketchbook? That orange, little sketchbook I bought her?”

Reynaldo tapped his chin. “Yeah, I think so. She’s quite fond of drawing, I think.”

“Wait, this is good. This is good…” I shot up and shook Reynaldo. “This is great!” Then I bolted upstairs, leaving my very confused husband.

 Maura was at my brother’s house. So I rushed to her room and rummaged through her little desk, desperately clawing at sheets of blank paper. Until my hands grabbed the sketchbook.

It was worn, tattered. I wondered why because the sketchbook was relatively new. My hands covered with sweat, I flipped the tiny pages to see what my daughter conjured up.

And oh my god, how have I never noticed?

After a month, I finally know what demons keep my daughter up crying at night. They were there all along, in the little, orange sketchbook I gave her…

She was talented for a six-year-old. Her messy graphite sketches were enough to describe her past life. And the sketches were horrific. Horrific for a six-year-old.

The first page had a man and a woman, assumingly her dad and mom. They were big, looming shadows chasing five little kids. One of them had two braids, like Maura. 

I flipped to the next page, pencil smudges on my fingers. The picture in the top left were bottles of cheap wine. The picture right below it was her parents drinking. Their faces were cumbersome, desperate. For them, it seemed like the alcohol was like a treasure.

As I flipped and flipped more, I saw more and more substance abuse. More and more of her parents taking it. Sometimes, I saw pictures of her parents hugging the kids, weeping. Sometimes I saw the parents lashing their anger out at their kids, their faces were scribbled on, capturing a crazed state of mind. 

The most recent page? Her mom and dad staring down a cliff. Falling down was little papers that looked like money and a house. The kids were nowhere to be seen.

Behind that page, there was some messy handwriting in Spanish. Being Hispanic myself, I could read it. It said, “Suddenly our home was gone and we were on the street. Sometimes my parents hit me, sometimes they hugged me. But they never asked if I was okay.”

Fingers trembling I flipped more, to see if there was any more.

There was. It said, “But Daddy asked me if I was okay and he told me it was going to be okay… Maybe if I stay with Daddy, it’ll be okay.”

Trembling fingers and a gaping mouth, I dropped her little sketchbook. The hidden dreadful thing was buried under papers like her heart was buried, hurting alone. Realizing I’d been staring, I quickly buried the sketchbook in layers of paper and rushed out.

Night fell again. I invited Maura into Reynaldo’s and my room.

“Here mija,” I told her in Spanish. “You can sleep with us tonight.” I held her tiny hand and led her to our room. Reynaldo was already in there, snoring with the rhythm of a metronome. I propped her up and set her in the middle. Smiling at her, I pulled the window curtains slightly open so a beautiful, night blue aura shone across Maura’s face.

“The stars are pretty tonight, aren’t they?” I asked her.

Maura clutched her stuffed toy. “Yeah,” she replied in Spanish. I smiled. Made my way across the room and sat next to her. Tucking her in, I smiled and stroked her hair. She stared at me. A creep of a smile began on the side of her small lips.

“Y’know, the stars are always there every night. I just think we don’t try to see them sometimes. Sometimes we don’t pay attention. Sometimes we’re just unlucky. But they’re always there.” I faced her, continuing to stroke her hair. “Maura, you okay?” I asked.

She paused and turned her head to the stars. They were bright and beautiful against the blue gradient.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Good,” I said. I gathered some words. I needed to let her know, after that awful past she’d gone through. “Reynaldo and I are your parents, Maura. I promise you from the bottom of my heart, we’re gonna try to make things okay for you.” She merely stared at me. Then beamed, a wide toothy beam.

“I’m sorry for breaking your plant… I- I- I love you and Papa.” 

My heart, oh my heart at that moment. I wanted to hug her so tight she’d pop.

But it might be too early for that now. I’d start off slow, to make things okay for her.

“Love you too. Good night.”

She’s been through hell and back, I hear over and over again.

Yeah, but I’m glad she’s slowly making it back.