How the Woman at the Well Became the Well Woman

Chapter 1

I woke up hot and sweaty in the middle of a sweltering August night. I could not get back to sleep, so I decided to go downstairs to get a drink of water. Halfway down, I heard voices and whispers: first, my mother’s; then, a strange man’s. Startled, I stopped, sat down in the dark on the worn attic steps, and listened. I couldn’t make out everything they said because my mother was crying. I had never heard her cry. I leaned forward, hoping to hear more.

“They’re coming to take the kids away tomorrow,” she said.

I shivered in spite of the heat.

Questions tumbled through my seven-year-old mind. Who was coming? Was I one of the kids? Why were they taking us? Where were they taking us?

The hushed voices continued, but fear forced me back to bed.

All thoughts of my original purpose for getting out of bed had vanished and been replaced with terror. I tossed and turned for hours before I fell asleep again. I woke up early, my room still dark. I wanted to tell my four sisters and five brothers, who shared the attic with me, what I had heard the previous night. But if I repeated it, it would be true, not some awful nightmare. So, I kept silent.

On that fateful day in 1955, my world changed forever.

Gathering my nerve, I went downstairs. My mother stood in the kitchen, scrubbing clothes on the washboard, her back toward me.

Not wanting to go outside, I peered out the open kitchen window and watched my brothers Fred and Richard play kick the can. The day seemed normal.

Shortly before lunchtime, a line of Black cars turned onto our street. Two men in dark suits got out of one car and approached my brothers.

I stuck my head out the window to hear what the men said.

“Sam, you catch the redhead, and I’ll get the little guy.” They grabbed my brothers by their arms and led them to the car. Richard yanked his arm back and forth as he tried to twist away. Fred looked up at the window where I stood. Tears streamed down round his five-year-old face. A lump grew in my throat. I gripped the window sill. Richard tried to pull away from the arm that held him. “Mommy, Mommy!” he yelled.

I trembled.

Footsteps on our stairs, then a loud knock on the door—-my heart beat faster.

“Bessie, it’s Mrs. Wheeler. You knew we were coming, now open this door.”

My mother cursed and opened the door. Mrs. Wheeler burst in. She shoved papers at my mother and turned to me.

I backed away, my vision blurred by a torrent of tears.

I glared up at her as her tall frame loomed over me. She was dressed in a dark suit, her face severe. With a commanding voice, she said, “You have to come with me, Donna.”

I looked to my mother for help, but she had vanished. I screamed for her “Mommy, Mommy, help me!”

“You’re going to be fine, Donna,” Mrs. Wheeler said, trying to calm me. “We’re just going for a ride in my car.”

I planted my feet, stiffened by body, and refused to move. She moved behind me, put her hands on my shoulders, and pushed me toward the door.

I shouted, “Don’t touch me! You’re not my mother!”

She grabbed my arm and dragged me to her car as I yelled, “Mommy, Mommy!”

She forced me into the back seat of a two-door vehicle. Another lady, Mrs. Burke, put my three-year-old sister Linda beside me. She too was crying and yelling, “Mommy, Mommy, I want my Mommy.” The two women left us in the back seat while they helped gather my other brothers and sisters.

Seizing the opportunity to escape, I jumped over the seat, opened the driver’s side door, and ran down the street as fast as I could. I was not going anywhere with them! Tears flooded my eyes. Mrs. Wheeler ran after me, caught me, and wrapped her arms around me. Breathless, I pushed her away. She stepped behind me, placed her hands on my shoulders, and walked me back to the car.

I was trapped!

As the car pulled away from my house, I turned to look for my mother. Our yard was empty—no trace of her, my sisters, or brothers. I didn’t know where we were going. I turned back around and lowered my head; tears spilled onto my bare legs. I gasped for air between sobs. My cries and Linda’s filled the car.

Soon, the driver parked the car in front of a large brick building. Mrs. Wheeler took our hands and led us up a long flight of stairs, through a double-door entrance. We entered a big room with a desk in the center. Several small chairs lined the grey walls.

“Take a seat Donna, while we wait for your caregivers to come get you.” Linda’s tiny feet pitter-patted across the room; she crawled into Mrs. Wheeler’s lap.

We waited in silence.

A huge clock hung high on a wall. I stared at the massive hands; a slow, jerky motion interrupted the silence with tick, tick, tick.

Two women dressed in white uniforms entered the room. “Hi girls,” one of them said, smiling, like everything was fine. “I’m Miss Judy and this is Mrs. Brown. We’re going to take you to your rooms.” Mrs. Brown, old and chubby, had short, curly grey hair and tiny brown eyes. Miss Judy was younger, tall and slender, with blue eyes and long blonde hair.

“I want my mommy,” I insisted.

They both looked at me and smiled again.

Why was nobody listening to me?

Miss Judy took my hand and led me away from Linda to a large, dimly lit room. Thirty beds lined the stark, unadorned grey walls, and a little girl sat on each one; most of them were crying or moaning.

“Lie down and rest a while. You’ll feel better soon,” Miss Judy assured me.

I curled up on the bed. She handed me a doll. I set it aside. I didn’t want a doll. I wanted my mother. The tap-tap-tap of Miss Judy’s shoes faded as she left the room. Feeling lost and lonely, I lay on the bed hugging my knees to my chest. The room was too big and loud. I saw shadows on the grey walls. I squeezed my eyes together tight, so I could not see the doll’s lifeless eyes staring at me.

Days and weeks passed. I went to a dentist, who pulled some of my teeth, and to a doctor who gave me shots in my arm. The staff at the orphanage put smelly medicine in my hair to kill the head lice.

I cried myself to sleep every night, confused and hurting. My stomach ached. I wondered if I had done something wrong to be locked up in this place with strangers.

Even though we were in the same orphanage, I didn’t see Fred or Richard or Linda again until we were driven to foster homes.

Weeks later, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Burke returned to the orphanage.

“We’re going for another ride. We’re taking you to a new home where you will live with nice people who have been waiting for children”.

Terrified, my knees bbuckled and I fell to the floor.

Once again, Linda, Richard, Fred, and I were placed in a car against our will. We were finally together again, but none of us spoke as we climbed into the back seat. We sat like wooden mannequins, voiceless and lifeless. This time, I didn’t turn around to see what I was leaving behind; I was afraid of what was ahead of us.

On the way to our new foster parent’s house the social worker talked about the people we were going to meet. “They have a very nice house and a large yard for you to play in. They don’t have children of their own, so they’re looking forward to meeting you.”

As we drove, I watched the apartment buildings turn to houses, the cement yards to green grass, trees, and flowers. Where are we going? This did not look like a place I belonged.

Mrs. Wheeler stopped the car in front of a light green house with dark green shutters at the end of a long street. We got out of the car and walked to the front door. A lady and a man stood in the doorway, poised like statues. They greeted us and introduced themselves as Sue and Dan.

Sue was medium height and overweight. She had short, light brown hair, pale green eyes, and a wide forehead and thin lips. Dan was tall, slender, and clean shaven, with thick, wavy dark hair and dark eyes. He looked and smelled different than any of my mother’s or sister’s boyfriends; he had smooth skin and wore a pair of casual tan pants and a dark blue shirt.

“Come in, and we’ll show you around,” Dan said.

The house was in perfect order, everything neat and clean, the hardwood floors waxed and shiny. We followed as they led us into a large living room with high ceilings. The room was furnished with a brown and green tweed sofa between two end tables, with a matching lamp on each table. An oval coffee table sat in front of the sofa, a bowl filled with fresh flowers placed in the center of the tabletop. Two brown recliners sat in the corners, facing a television, something we had never seen.

The windows were covered with floral curtains, the walls painted a soft yellow. The dining room contained a mahogany table with six matching chairs and a hutch displaying dishes, silver, china, and sparkling glasses. The fully equipped kitchen was in front of the house, and a window over the sink looked out on the spacious front yard. A smaller lace-covered table occupied one corner of the kitchen.

“Do you want to see where you’ll be sleeping tonight?” Sue asked.

“I guess so,” I said.

She led the way to our new bedroom. The beds were high off the ground, not like my bed on the floor at home. Each bed had a matching, pink, fluffy bedspread. Two wooden dressers with mirrors lined the walls, nightstands with lamps and shades sat beside the beds, and a baby doll and teddy bear were on each pillow. “Where are Dickie and Fred going to sleep?” I asked. “It’s time to say goodbye to your brothers now; they’re going to a different house to live,” Mrs. Wheeler said. Shocked and baffled, my brothers, sister, and I formed a circle, entwined our arms around each other, and cried.

Mrs. Wheeler took Fred and Dickie’s hands and led them out the front door. I went to the living room window and watched them drive away.

Angry tears spilled down my cheeks. I wanted to run and hide where no one would ever find me.

“When is Mommy coming to get me?” I asked Sue.

“Your mommy isn’t coming,” she said. “You and your sister are going to live here now, and we’re going to take care of you.”

I struggled to keep from throwing up as I lay on my bed in the dark that first night. I wanted the night to swallow me, to take me away. Confused and angry, I decided to never like my foster home, no matter what. Shattered and forlorn, I spent many days on the front steps, waiting for my mother to come for me.

When I realized she wasn’t coming, I became angry with my foster parents.

It must be their fault.

What other reason could there be?