THE MIRACLE by Tina Wagner Mattern
I was 6 years old and it was late summer on the sheep farm where I lived with my father and stepmother, Delaine. Their relationship, after a year there, had drastically deteriorated. Day after day, they drank and fought, made up and fought some more—battling one another and their own demons.
I believe Delaine truly loved my father, in whatever capacity she was capable.
But my father was still in love with my mother—I knew it and of course, Delaine knew it. For him, having me around was a bittersweet connection to the woman he had loved and lost, but for Delaine, my presence was a constant, humiliating reminder that she would never be first in her husband’s heart.
* * *
I was standing at my open bedroom window, thinking how easy it would be to just step over the sill and run away. I could leave Delaine’s beatings and the constant fear behind. No more Delaine. But then… no more Daddy either. He didn’t protect me, but I still loved him. I couldn’t leave, he was all I had.
“What do you see, Munchkin?”
I jumped. Daddy had come up behind me and put his arm around my shoulders. I guess I was still half asleep and hadn’t heard him come in.
“You scared me,” I squeaked. I hadn’t slept much the night before because the floor was so hard where I hid under the bed during Delaine and Daddy’s fights. And last night had been a doozy that lasted until the early hours of the morning.
My next thought was an alarmed, Where’s Delaine? I didn’t want her coming in and finding us all cozy—it would just set her off and I’d pay the price later. I twisted around under Daddy’s arm to check the doorway, but so far the coast seemed to be clear.
“Delaine went into town.” Daddy said, recognizing my worried expression. “Come over here and sit down, sweetheart. He led me to the bed. “I have to tell you something.”
I sat down beside him with my hands clenched in my lap, my eyes glued to his face. Something bad was up.
He drew me next to him and asked, “Did you hear Delaine and me fighting last night?”
“Yes,” I said, “But you always fight.”
“This time was different, honey. This was a bad one.” He sat there all quiet for a minute, and then he opened his mouth and started to talk, and my world fell apart.
He told me he was sending me away.
Under the circumstances, my father felt he had no choice, really. His marriage had become a war, and with this latest skirmish Delaine had brought out the Big Gun—a venomous ultimatum….
He was a drunk and a coward but he probably loved me in his own narcissistic way, so he did what Delaine demanded. The conversation between my father and me, and the feelings of that moment seem like yesterday….
“I have to send you back to your mother,” he said, pulling me onto his lap.
My heart stopped. “NO! I’m sorry—I’ll be good!” Guilt blindsided me—I knew I was the reason why Delaine and my father fought most of the time.
My father shook his head; I was shocked to see tears in his eyes.
“Sweetheart, you didn’t do anything. I have to send you away to keep you safe.” He wrapped his arms around me and held me close. Looking down into my face, he said, “I slept on the sofa last night, but early this morning, Delaine woke me up—she had a knife at my throat. She told me I had to send you away or she was going to kill you—or me, or both of us. She meant it, Tina.”
Horrified, I looked at him and he stretched his head up so I could see his neck. There was a small, bloody cut there next to his Adam’s apple. “She’s crazy,” he said. I can’t keep you here anymore.”
I shuddered and reached out my finger to touch the wound.
My father closed my hand in his big one and held it. “I love you, baby, but you see, don’t you? You have to go live with your mother. It’s the only way.”
Yes, I saw.
I saw that the monster I had already suspected Delaine to be was real. But to leave my daddy? To fly alone across the country to someone I didn’t know? It was the worst nightmare so far, and I just wanted to crawl under my bed and go back to sleep and find a different, happy dream to wake up from.
“I don’t want to,” I whimpered. “What about you? What if she kills you?”
And then my father told me the lie I needed to hear to stop fighting the inevitable and get on the plane:
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll be okay and as soon as I can, I’ll leave here too and come find you.”
My father, of course had no intention of leaving Delaine. I have no idea why he would have wanted to remain with a woman who had just threatened his life, not to mention the life of his child, but he stayed, nevertheless.
As I write about this scene, even after all these years, I’m still appalled that my father would have relayed to a six-year-old child, the details surrounding Delaine’s savage threat. Was he so self-absorbed that it didn’t occur to him how traumatized I would be to hear such a thing?
A few days later, he called my mother and did not ask but told her to expect me. A few days after that, he put me on a plane to Delaware, where she and my stepfather, Skip, my half-sister, Sharon and half-brother, Dana were now living.
I have no memory of that flight, thank God. I can only imagine the tears I must have shed throughout the journey—for leaving the only parent I knew, for the worry about the danger I believed my father to be in, and for the anxiety of returning to a mother I barely remembered.
* * *
My father’s call had been an unexpected and alarming one for my mother. Not much had changed for her since my father and I had left Boston—she was still struggling to care for two small children—Sharon was 4 by then, Dana 3—and maintaining a home for her Merchant Marine husband, Skip, who was away for months at a time. She was emotionally unstable, suffering from bouts of depression, and overwhelmed by life in general.
According to my mother…
I told Ed, “No! You can’t send her here. Absolutely not.”
Look, don’t get me wrong, I still loved my little girl. Of course I did. I thought about her all the time. I felt terrible when Ed told me about how his wife was treating poor Tina, and if I lived close enough, I would have gone over there and beat the crap out of her, but two kids were almost more than I could handle. Half the time I felt like I was falling apart as it was. I was so depressed some days I didn’t want to wake up.
But Ed wasn’t taking no for an answer. “I’m putting her on a plane on Monday,” he said. “Here’s the flight information.” He gave it to me and hung up.
I sat there at the table shaking. I felt like my life was just flying out of control—so many emotions whirling around in my head: I was furious that I had nothing to say about Tina’s coming back to me, but then, another part of me was happy that I was going to see her again. But those thoughts were followed by a sickening jolt—I remembered that aside from Skip and his family, nobody in Delaware even knew that I had another child. I had always been too ashamed to tell anyone that I had given up custody of my first born. How was I going to explain to the priest and the people at church, the sudden appearance of a little blonde girl, calling me Mommy? On top of all that was Skip—he was due home on Friday—I knew before I even told him, that he wasn’t going to be happy. Two little kids alone were noisy, and he wanted my attention and peace and quiet when he came home. Tina had been an outspoken bundle of energy as a 3 year old; God only knew how I was going to deal with an almost-seven-year-old who had been terrorized by Ed’s psycho wife for a year.
By Monday, I knew.
I went by myself to the airport. Skip’s reaction to the news about Tina’s coming was pretty much what I expected –he didn’t like it. But like, me, he didn’t have an answer as to what to do about it. She needed a safe home and ours was apparently going to be it. I left him taking a nap and headed out to pick up my daughter.
She was almost the last passenger off the plane. I was beginning to think she had missed her connection when a ragged-looking, freckle-faced little girl with curly blonde hair, stepped through the passenger gate. She looked terrified. Her cheeks were red, her eyes dark-circled and swollen, it was easy to see she’d been crying.
I stared at her, trying to integrate this skinny, pitiful looking little thing with the Tina I remembered. My Tina had been a chubby three-year old with laughing green eyes that were always filled with mischief. This kid looked like a haunted war refugee.
Frozen in place for a minute, I thought, oh God, how am I going to ever handle this? Taking a deep breath I called, “Tina!”
She looked around and then finally spotted me. She stood straighter as I walked over to her. Her expression shifted from relieved to scared and then to one I recognized from back when she was 3—scared or not, she was ready for a fight.
“Hi baby,” I said, dropping down on my haunches. “Do you remember me?”
She set her suitcase down, folded her little arms and looked me right in the eye.
“No.”
“Maybe a little bit?”
She looked away and then shrugged.
“You were very brave, flying all that way by yourself,” I said. “Were the stewardesses nice to you? Did they feed you?”
Shrug.
I wasn’t making any headway and I could feel a headache coming on. “Well, I guess we’d better get going. Skip’s at home waiting for us and we’ll pick up Dana and Sharon on the way. They’re at a neighbor’s house.”
No comment.
“Do you remember Sharon? She was tiny the last time you saw her. And Skip—do you remember him?”
I expected another one of those shrugs but finally she said, “I don’t know. I guess.” Then, when I thought she wasn’t going to say any more, “Who’s Dana?”
I guess I forgot that she wouldn’t have remembered him; I had pretty much stopped visiting her when he was born. “He’s your brother, honey.”
“Oh.”
I stood and said, “All right then. Let’s head home.” I reached for Tina’s suitcase but she pulled it away and picked it up herself.
I could feel my headache getting worse.
When we got out to the car, I opened the passenger door for her but she got in the back seat instead. She sat there, staring down at her folded hands, looking like a tiny, miserable princess.
Oh boy, it’s going to be a long ride home, I thought.
Tina didn’t say a word throughout the drive, but when we were turning down the street to our house, I heard her sniffle. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw big tears running down her cheeks. My heart went out to her. “Don’t worry, honey,” I said. “You’re going to like it here.”
She brushed the tears away with fierce little swipes. “No, I won’t,” she said. “My daddy is coming to get me.”
I shook my head, but kept my mouth shut. She’d been through enough for one day.
Look, don’t get me wrong, I still loved my little girl. Of course I did. I thought about her all the time. I felt terrible when Ed told me about how his wife was treating poor Tina, and if I lived close enough, I would have gone over there and beat the crap out of her, but two kids were almost more than I could handle. Half the time I felt like I was falling apart as it was. I was so depressed some days I didn’t want to wake up.
But Ed wasn’t taking no for an answer. “I’m putting her on a plane on Monday,” he said. “Here’s the flight information.” He gave it to me and hung up.
I sat there at the table shaking. I felt like my life was just flying out of control—so many emotions whirling around in my head: I was furious that I had nothing to say about Tina’s coming back to me, but then, another part of me was happy that I was going to see her again. But those thoughts were followed by a sickening jolt—I remembered that aside from Skip and his family, nobody in Delaware even knew that I had another child. I had always been too ashamed to tell anyone that I had given up custody of my first born. How was I going to explain to the priest and the people at church, the sudden appearance of a little blonde girl, calling me Mommy? On top of all that was Skip—he was due home on Friday—I knew before I even told him, that he wasn’t going to be happy. Two little kids alone were noisy, and he wanted my attention and peace and quiet when he came home. Tina had been an outspoken bundle of energy as a 3 year old; God only knew how I was going to deal with an almost-seven-year-old who had been terrorized by Ed’s psycho wife for a year.
By Monday, I knew.
I went by myself to the airport. Skip’s reaction to the news about Tina’s coming was pretty much what I expected –he didn’t like it. But like, me, he didn’t have an answer as to what to do about it. She needed a safe home and ours was apparently going to be it. I left him taking a nap and headed out to pick up my daughter.
She was almost the last passenger off the plane. I was beginning to think she had missed her connection when a ragged-looking, freckle-faced little girl with curly blonde hair, stepped through the passenger gate. She looked terrified. Her cheeks were red, her eyes dark-circled and swollen, it was easy to see she’d been crying.
I stared at her, trying to integrate this skinny, pitiful looking little thing with the Tina I remembered. My Tina had been a chubby three-year old with laughing green eyes that were always filled with mischief. This kid looked like a haunted war refugee.
Frozen in place for a minute, I thought, oh God, how am I going to ever handle this? Taking a deep breath I called, “Tina!”
She looked around and then finally spotted me. She stood straighter as I walked over to her. Her expression shifted from relieved to scared and then to one I recognized from back when she was 3—scared or not, she was ready for a fight.
“Hi baby,” I said, dropping down on my haunches. “Do you remember me?”
She set her suitcase down, folded her little arms and looked me right in the eye.
“No.”
“Maybe a little bit?”
She looked away and then shrugged.
“You were very brave, flying all that way by yourself,” I said. “Were the stewardesses nice to you? Did they feed you?”
Shrug.
I wasn’t making any headway and I could feel a headache coming on. “Well, I guess we’d better get going. Skip’s at home waiting for us and we’ll pick up Dana and Sharon on the way. They’re at a neighbor’s house.”
No comment.
“Do you remember Sharon? She was tiny the last time you saw her. And Skip—do you remember him?”
I expected another one of those shrugs but finally she said, “I don’t know. I guess.” Then, when I thought she wasn’t going to say any more, “Who’s Dana?”
I guess I forgot that she wouldn’t have remembered him; I had pretty much stopped visiting her when he was born. “He’s your brother, honey.”
“Oh.”
I stood and said, “All right then. Let’s head home.” I reached for Tina’s suitcase but she pulled it away and picked it up herself.
I could feel my headache getting worse.
When we got out to the car, I opened the passenger door for her but she got in the back seat instead. She sat there, staring down at her folded hands, looking like a tiny, miserable princess.
Oh boy, it’s going to be a long ride home, I thought.
Tina didn’t say a word throughout the drive, but when we were turning down the street to our house, I heard her sniffle. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw big tears running down her cheeks. My heart went out to her. “Don’t worry, honey,” I said. “You’re going to like it here.”
She brushed the tears away with fierce little swipes. “No, I won’t,” she said. “My daddy is coming to get me.”
I shook my head, but kept my mouth shut. She’d been through enough for one day.
* * *
It didn’t take long for my mother’s worst fear to be realized: within a few short weeks it became painfully clear that she had no idea how to deal with her emotionally damaged child. Any attempts she made to mother me were met with bitter rejection; I didn’t want to be there, and I didn’t trust her…in my mind somehow she had become the reason why I couldn’t be with my father. Endeavors to discipline me were met with sullenness and accelerated disobedience:
“You can’t boss me around. I’m going to tell my daddy when he gets here,” became my battle cry.
“Yes, I can. Your father is not coming,” became hers.
I remember…
He didn’t come.
Days went by and turned into months. I gave up watching the door.
For a while I was afraid that maybe Delaine had done something terrible to him, but then one day I heard my mother on the telephone, and she said his name so I knew he was still alive and I was so relieved. I couldn’t wait to talk to him and waved to get her attention, but she ignored me.
“You listen to me, Ed Snyder,” she said, “this is not working!”
I grabbed for the phone. “Let me talk to my daddy!” But she pushed me away. “He doesn’t want to talk to you. Now be quiet.”
He didn’t want to talk to me? That couldn’t be.
“Daddy!” I yelled.
My mother groaned, “Oh for God’s sake, Ed, talk to her.” She listened for a minute and then said, “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
I reached for the telephone again but she just shook her head, “He said no, baby,” and turned her back on me. Drumming her fingernails on the table, she listened a little longer and then snapped, “Now you hear this—you’re her father, you have got to take her back. She’s not happy here. She’s fighting with Sharon and Dana; she’s wetting the bed every night; she doesn’t want anything to do with me. I am not doing this! I can’t do this. Come and get her, dammit.”
Another few seconds passed and then suddenly, she was crying. She stood up so fast the chair fell over, and yelled, “Don’t tell me no, you son of a bitch!”
Something inside me broke into little pieces. My daddy didn’t want me. And now my mother didn’t want me either. I had nowhere to go.
I went into the bedroom and crawled under the bed.
September came and I started 1st grade, but it wasn’t long before the teacher called my mother, concerned about my obvious unhappiness. I was depressed and angry, grieving the loss of my father, living in a home where I was sure I wasn’t welcome…and acting out accordingly. My mother explained the situation to the teacher as best she could, but having her parenting competency questioned added yet another straw to the mountain of stress she had been under for months. Her volatile emotions began to swing ever wider—sudden fits of rage were followed by guilt-driven depression.
Days went by and turned into months. I gave up watching the door.
For a while I was afraid that maybe Delaine had done something terrible to him, but then one day I heard my mother on the telephone, and she said his name so I knew he was still alive and I was so relieved. I couldn’t wait to talk to him and waved to get her attention, but she ignored me.
“You listen to me, Ed Snyder,” she said, “this is not working!”
I grabbed for the phone. “Let me talk to my daddy!” But she pushed me away. “He doesn’t want to talk to you. Now be quiet.”
He didn’t want to talk to me? That couldn’t be.
“Daddy!” I yelled.
My mother groaned, “Oh for God’s sake, Ed, talk to her.” She listened for a minute and then said, “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
I reached for the telephone again but she just shook her head, “He said no, baby,” and turned her back on me. Drumming her fingernails on the table, she listened a little longer and then snapped, “Now you hear this—you’re her father, you have got to take her back. She’s not happy here. She’s fighting with Sharon and Dana; she’s wetting the bed every night; she doesn’t want anything to do with me. I am not doing this! I can’t do this. Come and get her, dammit.”
Another few seconds passed and then suddenly, she was crying. She stood up so fast the chair fell over, and yelled, “Don’t tell me no, you son of a bitch!”
Something inside me broke into little pieces. My daddy didn’t want me. And now my mother didn’t want me either. I had nowhere to go.
I went into the bedroom and crawled under the bed.
September came and I started 1st grade, but it wasn’t long before the teacher called my mother, concerned about my obvious unhappiness. I was depressed and angry, grieving the loss of my father, living in a home where I was sure I wasn’t welcome…and acting out accordingly. My mother explained the situation to the teacher as best she could, but having her parenting competency questioned added yet another straw to the mountain of stress she had been under for months. Her volatile emotions began to swing ever wider—sudden fits of rage were followed by guilt-driven depression.
According to my mother…
“Throughout my life, when things got hard, I always was able to find peace at church. There was a comfort that came with all the Catholic rituals—the sacraments, the dependable, godly presence of the priest and the camaraderie of the other parishioners. But during those days when Tina was with me in Delaware, when I needed that comfort so much…my shame kept me away. I knew I should go and just confess to having given up my daughter those years ago, and explain how she came to be back in my life now; the priest would give me absolution: a few Our Fathers and Hail Marys. And the congregation would eventually stop talking about me. But in my heart, absolution or no, I knew I would still be guilty…the truth was, God forgive me, I didn’t want to keep her.
I loved Tina, but she was making my life impossible. If I could have gotten close to her, if she had shown any kind of affection for me, it would have been easier to deal with the bedwetting and bickering with Sharon and Dana and her behavior at school…but we were at a standoff. She saw me as the enemy, and I felt like I was within a hair’s-breadth of having a nervous breakdown.
I called Ed one more time and issued him an ultimatum: “You come get your daughter…or I am putting her in an orphanage.” When I said it, I was bluffing. But when he yelled, “I told you—I can’t keep her here. You’re her mother, for Christ’s sake—work it out!” I hung up on him and began to seriously consider my threat.
I loved Tina, but she was making my life impossible. If I could have gotten close to her, if she had shown any kind of affection for me, it would have been easier to deal with the bedwetting and bickering with Sharon and Dana and her behavior at school…but we were at a standoff. She saw me as the enemy, and I felt like I was within a hair’s-breadth of having a nervous breakdown.
I called Ed one more time and issued him an ultimatum: “You come get your daughter…or I am putting her in an orphanage.” When I said it, I was bluffing. But when he yelled, “I told you—I can’t keep her here. You’re her mother, for Christ’s sake—work it out!” I hung up on him and began to seriously consider my threat.
* * *
I don’t think my father was as indifferent to my unhappiness and my mother’s threat as he had pretended…I hope that he just didn’t know what to do about the situation. Likely he doubted that my mother would actually put me in a Children’s Home, but he should have recognized that she was completely overwrought, maybe even unbalanced. Why it never occurred to him to leave his psychotic wife and come get me is anybody’s guess. But he didn’t.
He did, however, voice his concern to the only friend he had in Oregon…his brother-in-law, Ernie, who, with his wife, Delaine’s sister, also lived on the sheep farm.
Ernie, who during my year on the farm, had always felt a tenderness for me, apparently took my plight to heart. My father’s relayed report—“Jeanne says she’s going to put Tina in an orphanage, for god’s sake. I don’t think she’ll do it, though…”—weighed on his mind.
A few weeks later Ernie’s egg route took him into Portland; he usually delivered during the week but this particular day was a Saturday. After making the delivery, Ernie stopped at the little barber shop where he always got his hair cut.
There is no doubt in my mind that Divine Intervention came into play that day.
As the story goes, the barber was just finishing up with another client when Ernie walked into the shop. He sat down and began to leaf through a magazine, only half listening to the dialogue in progress. The man in the chair was clearly in high spirits, telling the barber about the baby he and his wife had recently adopted. His excitement was contagious. Ernie closed the magazine and listened. Here was a man who obviously had a heart for children.
Before he even had time to think about it, Ernie broke into the conversation: “Excuse me, sir, I’m sorry for eavesdropping but it sounds like you and your wife really love kids…I wonder if you might be interested in adopting another child? I know a little girl who needs a home real bad.”
The man stood and put on his jacket, paid the barber and then turned to Ernie, “I’m sorry to hear that, bless her heart. But no, we’ve got our hands full with our little one.” As he was leaving, he stopped at the door and patted Ernie on the arm. “Good luck. I hope things work out for her.”
Ernie shrugged. “Thanks, I hope so too.”
“Come on over and have a seat,” the barber said, busying himself with sanitizing his tools and sweeping up the floor. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
Ernie sat down and said to the barber, “You’re new here, aren’t you? Of course, I don’t usually come in on a Saturday.”
Putting the broom & dustpan back in the closet, the man walked over and held out his hand, “Yessir,” he said, “The name’s Carl. I started cutting hair here on the weekends a few months ago. It’s just part-time for me—I work as a machinist during the week.”
Ernie introduced himself and Carl covered him with a cape.
“Any special instructions?”
Ernie shook his head, “Nope, just cut it short and leave the sideburns around 2 inches is all.”
Midway into the haircut, as Ernie relaxed, listening to the country music playing in the background, Carl suddenly spoke up.
“So…tell me about this little girl who needs a home,” he said. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
Ernie sighed. “Well, it’s a kind of lousy situation. Tina’s my brother-in-law, Ed’s, kid by a previous marriage. She’s a sweet little thing, almost 7 now. She came out here with him when he and my wife’s sister got married about a year ago…”
Over the next 45 minutes, Ernie gave Carl the Reader’s Digest version of my short, sad story, leaving out, I’m sure, the seamier details.
He finished up with, “So Ed had to send Tina back to her mother in Delaware. But now she says she can’t handle Tina—I think maybe the woman’s got some mental issues, you know? But at any rate, she’s threatening to put the poor little thing in an orphanage. I don’t know if she’d actually do it or not, but one thing’s for sure, she wants Tina out of there. Ed doesn’t know what the hell to do.”
Carl frowned, “Sounds like a tough situation, no matter what.” He continued cutting Ernie’s hair for a few minutes and then spoke the words that I now know Ernie was sent there to hear: “Listen, my brother and sister-in-law, Eddie and Mary Wagner are two of the finest people I know. They’re honest and hard-working—Eddie and his brothers own their own company, Mixermobile, over on Columbia Blvd. That’s where I work during the week. He and Mary are generous to a fault, staunch Catholics and they love kids. They have a grown son, but have always wanted to have another child.”
At Ernie’s questioning expression, he explained, “The reason I’m telling you this is because they recently lost a little girl they were planning to adopt. They had her for 5 years. When she was taken from them they were devastated. They’re in their early 40’s so adopting a baby at this stage….”
Ernie sat up and turned to look at Carl, “Are you sayin—?”
Carl smiled. “I think maybe I should give you their phone number to give to your brother-in-law. No promises of course that this will lead to anything, but you never know, right?”
When Ernie left the barber shop that day, my new parent’s phone number was stored safely in his wallet. He couldn’t wait to get back to the farm.
As for Carl, he picked up the phone as soon as Ernie was out the door and called my soon-to-be adoptive parents. “I hope you don’t mind that I gave out your number, he began. “But—“
The divine plan was in motion.
