A stepmother, a stepson’s girlfriend and their newborn PLUS State Troopers
Long, even for me. TL:DR.
My now ex husband had four grown children, using the term “grown” loosely and generously.
One of the sons lived in Texas. Since the rest of us lived in Pennsylvania, I was grateful that at least one of them was in Texas.
That day in January on my school bus run, I had to pull over and call my boss. I told him I was sicker than I thought when I left the bus yard, dizzy, painful joints, wildly sore throat and zero interest in driving the bus another minute. Two cars arrived in ten minutes. The driver of one car took over the bus. The other one took me to the doctor. Just as I suspected, strep throat AND an ear infection.
My chauffeur took me first to the pharmacy for medication and then home. I took the first dose, and curled up on the couch with blankets.
I slept for three hours and woke up. On my way to the bathroom, I heard voices and when I came out of the bathroom, I staggered to the kitchen, where I found my now ex-husband and his son from Texas in the kitchen drinking beer, which traditionally preceded the shouting and, often, the fist fights.
I stared at them. I croaked “strep” at them, then made a plus sign with my fingers and pointed to my ear. They looked puzzled and returned to the beer. I staggered back to the couch and passed out again. My daughter came home from high school, put her hand on my brow, frowned, checked the medicine bottles on the coffee table, and brought me ice water.
Soon the kitchen voices got louder, predictably, and then a new one was added. A woman’s, this time. Nobody sounded happy. Just loud. The kitchen door slammed. The woman’s voice was gone. I fell asleep. At some point my daughter woke me up. “Mom, somebody in the driveway wants to talk to you.” I struggled to my feet and my daughter helped me with my jacket.
There was a green station wagon parked sideways on the driveway, and I staggered over. The woman at the wheel watched me approach. She said, “Do I need to call the police?”
I said, “For what?”
She lurched in her seat, exasperated. “For the girl and the baby I picked up almost two miles from here.”
I had no clue. A young woman came out from the passenger side with what looked very much like a newborn. She walked by me and got into the pickup, locking the doors.
I turned back to the woman. “I came home from work with strep throat. I have no idea what’s going on.”
She relaxed slightly. “You’re not drunk?”
It was a legitimate question. “No. I’m just sick. I never saw that girl before, I know nothing about the baby, but I’m going to find out.”
“Good,” she said. “Deal with it.” She drove off.
I was very much considering calling the police myself.
Capsulized, the girl was my stepson’s girlfriend. He was the father of the baby. He and girlfriend had an argument and she refused to come into the house. I couldn’t blame her.
He said, “She’s retarded.”
“Who? Her or the baby?”
“Her,” he replied. “I’m not supposed to be dating her.”
The water was getting too deep, in my state.
First concern: The baby and the mother. I turned to my daughter. “Your bassinet is in the attic. Would you bring it down to the spare room, please?” She scrambled.
It took more than an hour to talk the mother down. “You don’t have to talk to anybody. Just please come inside where it’s warm. We’ll work this out.”
Finally, she came inside with me, carrying the infant. My daughter drove to the drug store for diapers, ointment for bad diaper rash, bottles, some onesies and formula. There was none of that in the truck. Just an empty diaper bag.
They were warm and fed and clean. I went back to the couch.
Penicillin works fast, thank God. By morning, I was still sick but far more functional. My husband drove truck and he was gone. My stepson was sprawled across my bed, and I woke him up. In the kitchen I handed him coffee and started asking questions.
The gist was that they were broke and decided to “come home” to visit. My stepson called his father more or less annually and had never even slept at our house. We didn’t even know about the baby. I asked about plans to get less broke and he had none. I asked if the baby had any health problems that needed to be discussed with a doctor. He didn’t know. The girlfriend was still not talking, and still in her stronghold, our spare room.
Then my stepson got angry that I was asking so many questions. He threw on his jacket, announced he was going back to Texas, and slammed out. The truck wouldn’t start. He came back in, angrily checking through cabinets until he found a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread, then stole a knife from a drawer. He opened the fridge and shoved a can of beer in each side pocket, put four more in the bag with his other provisions, then slammed back out shouting he’d WALK back to Texas and he was gone. I still had his girlfriend and baby, and the won’t-start truck.
I went back to the couch. What woke me up next was the girlfriend standing over me, shoving her phone in my face. “My daddy wants to talk to you.”
At least somebody did. Daddy was a man given to shouting orders at people who didn’t work for him. “You’re going to take care of my baby girl and the kid until I can get up there to fetch ‘em.” I asked when he thought that might be.
“Maybe a month, maybe two months.”
“That’s a no, then.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know your daughter, but I do know my stepson. I’m concerned about the baby but the mother won’t talk to me, won’t leave the spare room where they slept. I am not accepting responsibility for them. In a couple of days I will buy them a one-way bus ticket and send them back with a well-stocked diaper bag and money for food.”
He hung up.
Most of the rest of that day consisted of her stomping around the upstairs and periodically shoving her phone in my face and instructing me to talk to her Daddy. I wouldn’t.
The change came around 4 pm. This time it was “Popo wants to talk to you.” Popo? It sounded like a stuffed animal.
I took the phone. Even state police voices sound crisp and well-ironed.
“Hello?”
“Ma’am, the woman in your house has called several times. She says everybody else is abusing her and you are holding her against her will, which would make you complicit.”
Pause. I said, “Officer, she is here against my will. She and the baby arrived yesterday with my stepson. Last I heard, he left to walk back to Texas. I really don’t care if you arrest me for kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment, but for the love of God, get one of us OUT of here.”
There was a silence. Then a chuckle. Then he said, “Ma’am, there’s not much we can do about that. I suggest you put her on a bus and send her home.”
We hung up and I went back to the couch, exhausted.
When my daughter returned from school, she realized the situation was out of hand. She came to my couch and said, “Mom, you have to tell her to leave.”
I got up and walked across to the stairs. The girlfriend was on the landing, staring at me with hostility.
I mustered all the authority left in me and croaked, barely audible. “You have to leave.”
With great disappointment, my daughter asked, “Aw, Mom. Is that all you’ve got?” I nodded sadly. It was.
My daughter translated with the confidence of Queen Elizabeth and considerable volume. “Pack up your stuff. Pack up the baby’s stuff. I’m taking you to the bus station.”
The girlfriend, for reasons we never understood, insisted on carrying the jack from the truck. “It’s mine.”
She was otherwise pretty compliant.
I watched my daughter drive out of view, and went back to the couch.
My now ex husband had four grown children, using the term “grown” loosely and generously.
One of the sons lived in Texas. Since the rest of us lived in Pennsylvania, I was grateful that at least one of them was in Texas.
That day in January on my school bus run, I had to pull over and call my boss. I told him I was sicker than I thought when I left the bus yard, dizzy, painful joints, wildly sore throat and zero interest in driving the bus another minute. Two cars arrived in ten minutes. The driver of one car took over the bus. The other one took me to the doctor. Just as I suspected, strep throat AND an ear infection.
My chauffeur took me first to the pharmacy for medication and then home. I took the first dose, and curled up on the couch with blankets.
I slept for three hours and woke up. On my way to the bathroom, I heard voices and when I came out of the bathroom, I staggered to the kitchen, where I found my now ex-husband and his son from Texas in the kitchen drinking beer, which traditionally preceded the shouting and, often, the fist fights.
I stared at them. I croaked “strep” at them, then made a plus sign with my fingers and pointed to my ear. They looked puzzled and returned to the beer. I staggered back to the couch and passed out again. My daughter came home from high school, put her hand on my brow, frowned, checked the medicine bottles on the coffee table, and brought me ice water.
Soon the kitchen voices got louder, predictably, and then a new one was added. A woman’s, this time. Nobody sounded happy. Just loud. The kitchen door slammed. The woman’s voice was gone. I fell asleep. At some point my daughter woke me up. “Mom, somebody in the driveway wants to talk to you.” I struggled to my feet and my daughter helped me with my jacket.
There was a green station wagon parked sideways on the driveway, and I staggered over. The woman at the wheel watched me approach. She said, “Do I need to call the police?”
I said, “For what?”
She lurched in her seat, exasperated. “For the girl and the baby I picked up almost two miles from here.”
I had no clue. A young woman came out from the passenger side with what looked very much like a newborn. She walked by me and got into the pickup, locking the doors.
I turned back to the woman. “I came home from work with strep throat. I have no idea what’s going on.”
She relaxed slightly. “You’re not drunk?”
It was a legitimate question. “No. I’m just sick. I never saw that girl before, I know nothing about the baby, but I’m going to find out.”
“Good,” she said. “Deal with it.” She drove off.
I was very much considering calling the police myself.
Capsulized, the girl was my stepson’s girlfriend. He was the father of the baby. He and girlfriend had an argument and she refused to come into the house. I couldn’t blame her.
He said, “She’s retarded.”
“Who? Her or the baby?”
“Her,” he replied. “I’m not supposed to be dating her.”
The water was getting too deep, in my state.
First concern: The baby and the mother. I turned to my daughter. “Your bassinet is in the attic. Would you bring it down to the spare room, please?” She scrambled.
It took more than an hour to talk the mother down. “You don’t have to talk to anybody. Just please come inside where it’s warm. We’ll work this out.”
Finally, she came inside with me, carrying the infant. My daughter drove to the drug store for diapers, ointment for bad diaper rash, bottles, some onesies and formula. There was none of that in the truck. Just an empty diaper bag.
They were warm and fed and clean. I went back to the couch.
Penicillin works fast, thank God. By morning, I was still sick but far more functional. My husband drove truck and he was gone. My stepson was sprawled across my bed, and I woke him up. In the kitchen I handed him coffee and started asking questions.
The gist was that they were broke and decided to “come home” to visit. My stepson called his father more or less annually and had never even slept at our house. We didn’t even know about the baby. I asked about plans to get less broke and he had none. I asked if the baby had any health problems that needed to be discussed with a doctor. He didn’t know. The girlfriend was still not talking, and still in her stronghold, our spare room.
Then my stepson got angry that I was asking so many questions. He threw on his jacket, announced he was going back to Texas, and slammed out. The truck wouldn’t start. He came back in, angrily checking through cabinets until he found a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread, then stole a knife from a drawer. He opened the fridge and shoved a can of beer in each side pocket, put four more in the bag with his other provisions, then slammed back out shouting he’d WALK back to Texas and he was gone. I still had his girlfriend and baby, and the won’t-start truck.
I went back to the couch. What woke me up next was the girlfriend standing over me, shoving her phone in my face. “My daddy wants to talk to you.”
At least somebody did. Daddy was a man given to shouting orders at people who didn’t work for him. “You’re going to take care of my baby girl and the kid until I can get up there to fetch ‘em.” I asked when he thought that might be.
“Maybe a month, maybe two months.”
“That’s a no, then.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know your daughter, but I do know my stepson. I’m concerned about the baby but the mother won’t talk to me, won’t leave the spare room where they slept. I am not accepting responsibility for them. In a couple of days I will buy them a one-way bus ticket and send them back with a well-stocked diaper bag and money for food.”
He hung up.
Most of the rest of that day consisted of her stomping around the upstairs and periodically shoving her phone in my face and instructing me to talk to her Daddy. I wouldn’t.
The change came around 4 pm. This time it was “Popo wants to talk to you.” Popo? It sounded like a stuffed animal.
I took the phone. Even state police voices sound crisp and well-ironed.
“Hello?”
“Ma’am, the woman in your house has called several times. She says everybody else is abusing her and you are holding her against her will, which would make you complicit.”
Pause. I said, “Officer, she is here against my will. She and the baby arrived yesterday with my stepson. Last I heard, he left to walk back to Texas. I really don’t care if you arrest me for kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment, but for the love of God, get one of us OUT of here.”
There was a silence. Then a chuckle. Then he said, “Ma’am, there’s not much we can do about that. I suggest you put her on a bus and send her home.”
We hung up and I went back to the couch, exhausted.
When my daughter returned from school, she realized the situation was out of hand. She came to my couch and said, “Mom, you have to tell her to leave.”
I got up and walked across to the stairs. The girlfriend was on the landing, staring at me with hostility.
I mustered all the authority left in me and croaked, barely audible. “You have to leave.”
With great disappointment, my daughter asked, “Aw, Mom. Is that all you’ve got?” I nodded sadly. It was.
My daughter translated with the confidence of Queen Elizabeth and considerable volume. “Pack up your stuff. Pack up the baby’s stuff. I’m taking you to the bus station.”
The girlfriend, for reasons we never understood, insisted on carrying the jack from the truck. “It’s mine.”
She was otherwise pretty compliant.
I watched my daughter drive out of view, and went back to the couch.
