At last, the phone rang. The guard answered. “It’s for you,” she said. It was the judge.
“You’re released,” he said. “The baby is drug free. You’ll be unshackled right away. Someone from the county will bring you the clothes you were wearing when you were brought in.”
I hung up the phone.
The guard said, “I’ll get your clothes back to you as quickly as I can.”
“Really? You think they’re going to fit?”
She laughed. “Well, maybe not. But we’re not social workers here. We detain the arrested. Surely you can call someone.” She paused. “You need anything?”
“A soda with caffeine would be wonderful,” I said.
She brought me that, said “Congratulations,” and left.
The guard arrived with my clothes and the 96–cent check I had on my books. The clothes didn’t fit. Meanwhile, the woman handling the birth certificate had entered the room. She said, “Surely you want to call her something other than Baby Girl McDonald.”
I picked up the little girl and said, “Jasmine, because she smells so sweet.” I laid her on my chest, listening to her breath, feeling her heartbeat. “Jasmine Nicole.” I signed the birth certificate.
The nurse said I’d be released from the hospital the following day. That would give me another day of rest and a little extra time to figure out what I was going to do.
I held the baby and cried, telling her how I had grown attached to her little kicks in my tummy and would miss her. I explained to her that I was too much of a mess to care for her. My experiences with service providers had been rather jaded. It seemed from my past experiences that there was simply no help for people like me. I did not know how to live, I did not see hope for help, and I could not risk messing up her life; mine was so useless, so dark, so tainted. Desperate to ensure that my brokenness would not damage her little life, I would leave her in the hospital. I told the sweet, warm little girl that they would find someone much better to be her parent, and that I would never forget her. My tears flowed freely.
To be continued…
Contact Information:
Christine C. McDonald
636-487-8986
Christine.CryPurple@gmail.com
“Love your neighbor, all of ’em.” -Christine Clarity McDonald
