I’m Judith Morrison. This is my story, and I’m seventy-two years old.
It was 8:30 on a Tuesday night when the phone rang. I was washing my supper dish when I saw my reflection in the dark outdoors via the kitchen window. I live alone in a two-bedroom house on Riverside Drive in a town that most people have never heard of. The phone was on the counter, and an unknown number lit up the screen. Before I even answered, something in my chest got tight.
“Hey?””
“Grandma?” The voice sounded small and shaky. My hand held on to the counter.
“Liam?”
He was muttering, “Grandma, I’m so hungry,” as if someone might hear. “Mom won’t wake up, and he put me in my room. Please come fetch me. Please.
There
I stood there with the phone to my ear, listening to the deafening quiet. My hands were shaking. I took the phone away, looked at the number, and hit call. It rang four times and then went to a generic voicemail. I tried again. The same thing. After that, I called Rachel, my daughter-in-law. Right to her fake, chirpy voicemail. “Hi, this is Rachel!” Leave a note!
I hung up and called back. And again. Five times. Each one ended with that same bright, recorded voice, while my grandson was imprisoned in a room, hungry and afraid.
I took my coat, keys, and purse. As I backed out of the driveway and proceeded east onto the main road, my phone kept calling Rachel’s number. There were dark, empty roadways for forty-five minutes. I’d driven this far before, but never like this. My hands were shaking, my phone was in the cup holder, and I kept trying Rachel’s number.
My
Thereafter, Rachel and I held on to one another. We were a broken family of three. Two years ago, she met Derek. At first, he seemed good and pleasant. He built things for a living and made good money. When Rachel talked about him, she smiled more. I wanted her to be happy.
The visits began to happen less often. Every week turned into every other week and eventually once a month. Then she called to say they were going to move. An hour distant, Derek had a better chance. Six months ago was the last time I saw Liam. Rachel finally said she would take him to supper on Sunday. He was excessively skinny. He didn’t eat much, and his shirt hung off his shoulders. I took an old cell phone out of my junk drawer while Rachel went to the bathroom.
I said, “Listen to me, sweetheart,” as I knelt next to him in the hallway. “I’m going to put this in your bag.” “Call this number if you ever need me or are scared.” I showed him the Grandma contact. “Nobody needs to know.” Would you mind doing that for me?
He nodded, and his eyes got big. My stomach hurt because of something in them.
“Do you need help right now?” I whispered.
He looked to the restroom and shook his head. I hugged Liam goodbye and could feel his ribs through his shirt. Thereafter, I called Rachel every week. Usually, she didn’t answer. When she did, she stated everything was right. I was fretting too much. She would say, “Soon I could come visit.” After a time, I stopped calling. I didn’t know what else to do. Until tonight.
I pulled into Pine Street and slowed down to look at the house numbers. Theirs was a little rental at the end with peeling paint and a yard full of weeds. The house only had one lit window, glowing a faint yellow. I parked on the street and walked up the broken driveway. I rang the doorbell. No one showed up. I knocked. “Rachel! It’s Judith! Let me in! “Nothing.”
I went to the side of the house. The curtains were open in the kitchen window, which was at head level. I could see that the sink was full of dirty dishes and the garbage bag was full. I went back to the front yard and picked up a smooth, heavy rock from the flowerbed. Then I moved to the window in the kitchen and swung.
The glass broke with a noise that seemed to break the quiet of the night. I used the boulder to clear the bottom edge, and then I grabbed the window frame and pushed myself up. I felt a piece of glass cut my palm, and warm blood ran down my wrist, but I didn’t stop. I pushed myself through and fell hard on the linoleum floor.
The first thing I noticed was the smell: old trash, stale alcohol, and something acidic that I couldn’t put my finger on. The living room was worse. There were empty beer bottles all over the coffee table, and the ashtray was full. Rachel was resting on her side on the couch, with one arm dangling off the edge. She had her mouth open. I could smell the booze from where I was.
“Rachel.” My voice came out harsher than I meant it to. “Rachel, get up.”
She stayed still. I shook her by the shoulder. Her head hung down, but her eyes kept shut. I felt a pulse in her neck when I put my fingertips there. There, but slowly.
Then I heard it. A little noise from above. Weeping.
I ran up the steps quickly, two at a time, and blood from my hand smeared the railing. There wasn’t much light in the hallway. There are three doors: two are open and one is closed. The crying came from the one that was closed. There was a sliding bolt on the outside, like the kind you’d put on a shed. I could hardly hold it since my hands were shaking so much. It was slick because of the blood. I wiped my hand on my coat and tried again. The bolt slid back with a sharp, metallic scrape.
I opened the door. There wasn’t much in the room. There was a small blanket and a mattress on the floor. Someone had painted the window shut. There was Liam on the mattress.
He stared up at me with eyes that were too huge for his face. His cheeks were empty. His hair was overly long and filthy. He held a navy blue baseball cap in his hand. It was old and had a logo on it that he recognized. Danny’s high school cap.
He muttered, “Grandma.” “You came.”
I knelt down next to him. He collapsed into my arms, and I could feel how light he was, how every bone in his back was quivering, and how his whole body was shivering. I murmured into his hair, “I’ve got you.” “I’ve got you now.”
He was really slim. There were dark rings around his eyes that looked like bruises. That bolt lock on the exterior of the door is gleaming and new against the ancient wood.
“Please tell me what’s been going on,” I asked softly.
He pulled back, and his eyes were crimson. “Derek locks me in here every night.” He puts me in when he gets home and closes the door.
“Every night?””
“Yeah. And he won’t let me go until morning. He sometimes brings crackers or a sandwich first. “Sometimes he forgets,” he said in a lower voice. “When he forgets, my stomach hurts a lot.”
“What about your mom?””
“She sleeps all the time.” “She doesn’t wake up when I yell for her,” he said, looking down at the baseball cap. “Derek told me I can’t go to school anymore because I talk too much and the teachers ask questions.”
I felt something cold and heavy settle in my chest. “You were brave to call me tonight.”
“I was terrified. I heard Derek’s truck and had to hide the phone rapidly. He stroked the baseball cap. I clutched the handset and thought about my dad. I thought you might come if I told you.
“I’m here now, and I’m taking you with me.”
“What if Derek says no?””
I rose up and held him on my hip. My back hurt, but I didn’t care. “He doesn’t get a say.”
We were in the hallway when I heard the front door open with a crash. “What the hell?” the furious, slurred voice of a male said. “Who the hell broke my window?””
Derek. I kept walking toward the stairs, and Liam’s arms got tighter around my neck. Derek came down to the bottom and swayed. He was a large guy, almost six feet tall, and his tummy hung over his belt. He looked up and spotted us.
“Judith? He gripped the rail. “Why are you in my house?””
I went down the stairs carefully, and the blood from my injured palm left smears on the white paint. “I’m bringing him with me.”
He started to come up to us and said, “The hell you are.” “You came into my house without permission. “I’m calling the police.”
“Good,” I murmured as I walked by him. “I already am.” I went into the living room, took my phone out of my coat pocket, and called 911, placing it on speaker.
“911, what’s the problem?””
“Judith Morrison is my name. I live at 247 Pine Street. I need an ambulance and the police. Someone kept my grandchild in a room and didn’t give him any food. ” His mother is not awake.”
Derek’s face changed color from white to crimson. “You can’t—”
“There’s also a drunk guy here who is threatening me.”
“Ma’am, are you in danger right now?”
“Not if he stays back.”
“Units are on their way.” “Stay on the line.”
Derek fell back into the recliner. He said, “This is my house.” Liam pressed his face against my neck. The sirens came quickly.
Two cops came in through the smashed window in the kitchen. The woman said, “I’m Officer Harper,” and her sharp eyes looked about. “Who called?””
I told her everything: the phone call, shattering the window, and discovering Liam locked in the room. The other cop, Parker, went upstairs while I was talking. I heard static on his radio. “Harper, you have to see this.”
Officer Harper walked up and came back two minutes later, her jaw tense. “Mr. Turn around, Vaughn. “Put your hands behind your back.”
“What? I didn’t—
“You are being arrested for putting a child in danger.”
When paramedics got there, they checked on Rachel and then Liam. One of them added, “He needs to go to the hospital right away.”
Officer Harper spoke to me: “I’m following you.” “I’m starting the paperwork for emergency protective custody.” Liam is staying with you tonight. He will most likely stay longer than just tonight. “Mrs. Morrison, you did the right thing.”
Liam sat on my lap in the ambulance. “Are we going to your house later?””
“Yes.”
“Can I really stay there?”
I gazed down at this youngster, who was nothing but bones and terror, and his hope was so weak that it pained me to watch. “You’re safe now.” I have you, and I’m not letting go.
As the ambulance drew away with its sirens blaring, he put his head on my chest and closed his eyes. I held my grandson and watched the house on Pine Street leave.
A young doctor with tired eyes looked at Liam at the hospital. In the corridor, she told me, “He weighs thirty-eight pounds.” “A healthy seven-year-old should weigh between fifty and fifty-five pounds.” He is not getting enough food or water, and I observed injuries on his limbs and back that were healing at different stages. The changes didn’t happen all at once. “I have to send a report to child services.”
“Okay,” I said.
Karen Hughes from Child Protective Services came an hour later. She was wearing a gray suit. She asked questions in a voice that suggested she had heard too many horrible things. “Why didn’t you tell someone sooner?””
That one hit like a punch. “I did my best,” I said. “I called. They moved and cut me off. “I didn’t know how bad it was.”
Karen wrote down something. “The report from the doctor is clear. I’m giving you temporary emergency custody. When Liam gets out, he goes home with you. There will be a hearing in two weeks and a complete hearing in six months to decide on a permanent placement. “You’ll need a lawyer.”
At dawn, they let Liam go. I took him into my house and put him to bed in the guest room. He didn’t wake up. I prepared coffee and sat at the kitchen table as the sun rose. My hand hurt a lot. I thought about Danny, Walter, and all the other people I’d lost. I also thought about how close I had come to losing Liam.
That afternoon, I called a lawyer. Patricia Dunn was in her 50s and had eyes that saw everything. She answered, “You will need proof.” “Records from the police, medical professionals, and financial institutions showing that he misused his survivor benefits.”
Liam’s father sent him $1,250 a month from his Social Security. Patricia called a week later. “You need to see these.” The bank records indicated that the money went to pubs, liquor stores, a tattoo parlor, and casinos where people took out cash. Not much at grocery stores.
“They used the Social Security benefits of a dead man to pay for Derek’s truck,” Patricia stated, tapping one line.
Two weeks later, I went to the courthouse. Rachel was at a table with Derek and a young man in a poor suit. The file was looked over by Judge Harriet Powell, a woman with gray hair and reading spectacles.
She said, “This is a hearing for temporary custody of Liam Morrison.”
Patricia got up. “Your honor, we are asking for custody because of severe neglect and putting the child in danger.”
The public defender got up. “Your honor, my clients agree that they had a hard time, but this is too much for a grandmother who—”
“I’ve read the medical report,” Judge Powell remarked, cutting him short. “The youngster was thirty-eight pounds. That time isn’t hard. “That’s neglect.” She scanned through the pages, and her jaw got tighter. “I am giving Judith Morrison temporary custody for six months until a full custody hearing can take place. Rachel Morrison will only be permitted to visit under supervision, and only if she passes an alcohol test. Derek Vaughn can’t talk to the child at all.
Derek pushed his chair back and left in a hurry. Rachel was in tears. Judge Powell hit the gavel. I stood on the courthouse steps in the sun and let myself breathe. I thought, “For now, the present is enough.”
A child changes in six months. Liam put on weight, first ten pounds, then eight more. The nightmares, which happened three or four times a week at first, soon went away. In September, school started. He had a friend named Marcus by October. Little wins.
Rachel was supposed to come over every Saturday. She didn’t show up the first week. The second time, she came inebriated. The third time, she came sober. Liam sat across from her at a little table, only answering her questions with one word and watching the clock. He stopped inquiring if she was coming after a month.
Patricia called a week before the hearing for full custody. “They got a real lawyer.” They’re going to come after you hard because of your age.
There were many people at the courthouse. Rachel was sitting with Derek and a man who was wearing a neat suit. The doctor who looked at Liam that first night provided evidence. She brought several pictures. Judge Powell glanced at them with her mouth closed. “Doctor, in your professional opinion, how long has this neglect been occurring?”
“Months. At least six, maybe longer. The malnutrition was severe.
Rachel got up and cried. “It was the worst time of my life.” I was sad. “I messed up.”
Patricia stood up to be questioned. “You said you were sick. Is that why the paramedics found that your blood alcohol level was .23?”
Rachel’s face turned red. “I had been drinking before…”
“What about the lock on your son’s bedroom door?”
“Derek put that there.” I had no idea.
“You didn’t know that your son was locked in his room every night?”
Judge Powell’s face was serious. When she got back from a break, the courtroom was quiet. She said, “I’ve been on this bench for thirty years.” “Age doesn’t matter when the other option is a child in pain.” Liam Morrison has done well under his grandmother’s care. Judith Morrison gets full permanent custody. She hit the gavel.
I didn’t move at all. Liam was waiting outside with his therapist. When he spotted me, he glanced up and asked, “What happened?””
I got down on my knees in front of him. “You’ll be with me.” For good.
“Really?”
“Really.”
He put his arms over my neck and held on. I shut my eyes and held him back. For good.
Three years after that phone call in the dark, I made pot roast for dinner and set the table for three. Rachel came with flowers at six. She had finished a 90-day treatment program, divorced Derek, and was living in a sober house. She went to every supervised visit for a year. She and Liam were slowly and carefully developing something new.
Liam, who is now ten, let her in. We sat down to dine with a picture of Danny on the mantle behind us. Rachel told us about her employment at the supermarket store. Liam showed her a school project he did on family trees. He had put both of us in, with branches developing in various directions but still connected.
Rachel and I cleaned up the table after dinner. She said softly, “Thank you for not giving up on him.” On us.
I put the dishes in the sink. “This is what families do.” “We find our way back.”
She nodded and wiped her eyes. The sun was going down outside. A neighbor walked their dog by the house. Normal, calm. We weren’t entirely cured. We might never be. But we were united and giving it our all. And that was all it took.
