Redemption

I just finished reading THE KITE RUNNER by Khaled Hosseini.  I know, I'm way behind the curve on this one, but I don't read a lot of contemporary.  I might have never picked it up if I hadn't found it it a pile of books my friend loaned me.

Let me say right off that, if you're considering reading it, it does contain some graphic scenes, due to sexual abuse, so be warned.

Being completely honest, I put the book down and asked myself, "Why did I read that depressing bit of fiction, anyway?!  What was the point?!"  Lucky for me, I was born with an analytical mind and it immediately started mulling over the book.  You know what I found?

Redemption.

Redemption is the reason I LOVE Les Mis.  I could write a whole series of essays about the theme of redemption in that book.  I get so aggravated when someone calls Javer the "bad guy" of the story, because they obviously don't understand his character.  But the underlying theme of redemption just lights up my life.

And that's what I found in THE KITE RUNNER.  Here is the story of a child who makes a mistake (a perfectly understandable mistake, considering his age, temperament, and circumstances), but who is given, in the end, a shot at redemption.  It's actually quite beautiful.

So, the prompt for this week is: Redemption

(Disclaimer - I realize that writing a good piece of fiction with the theme of redemption is probably worth of a whole lifetime of effort, and asking for a short piece written in fifteen minutes is a lot.  Don't worry.  Just let your imagination go and work out which direction you would take it in.)

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My response:

My sneaker tapped lightly against the white tiles of the floor, and the sound echoed through the hallway.  The Health and Welfare building was simple and spare in decorations, other than the bulletin board in front of the door that was plastered in fliers. 

I sat next to a woman who smelled sweet, like the addiction I had worked so hard for so long to kick.  I hated the cravings the smell awoke in me, and I wondered how long I would have to sit here.  She and I were the only people in the hallway, and we sat on opposite ends of the wooden bench.  I snuck furtive glances at her, wondering if I looked like she did.  Ratty, blond hair that hung to her shoulders and looked like it hadn't been combed in days.  Sunken, dark eyes and sallow, papery skin.  Her lips were pressed tightly in a line, and she coughed every few minutes so hard it made my own chest hurt.  Her fingers trembled, and I knew she was itching for a smoke.  We both wore jeans and sneakers with t-shirts, but I had a thin, fleece jacket on.  I'd brushed my hair into a pony tail that morning and put on a bit of make-up.  My hands didn't tremble on the strap of my purse in my lap, and my lungs were clear. 

Her presence made me uncomfortable.  No matter how much I told myself I'd changed, I was always one choice away from falling back down.  I pulled a piece of gum from my purse - remembering my manners and offering one to the other woman, which she declined with a sharp shake of her head - and put it into my mouth, savoring the clean, fresh bite of peppermint.

A social worker stuck her head out the door and called the woman's name.  She disappeared.  My leg stopped tapping.  I took a deep breath.

Another social worker opened the door.  A young man with short, black hair and a baby face dressed in khakis and a polo.  My heart sunk.  I was hoping for a woman.  They were always a bit more sympathetic.

He led me to a small cubical, and I shuddered to think who might listen in to our conversation.  He didn't give me time to worry about it, but launched right into his interview.

"Mrs. Mallory, I received your petition for custody yesterday, and I have to say I was surprised.  I've been working with these children for the past five years, and I've never seen hide nor hair of their grandma.  How do you explain that?"  He sat back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest.

The blood pounded behind my eyes, and I swallowed hard.  "I didn't know they existed, Sir, until a week ago."

His look was disbelieving, but he didn't stop me or move to throw me out, so I went on.  "You see, I was only fifteen when I had Cambell, and I wasn't a very good mother.  I ... I ... "  I could hear the voice of my therapist in my mind telling me to tell it simply, accept the facts, state them clearly, and let them stand.  It was my past, and there was no skirting the truth.  "I left her.  I left her with my uncle 'cause my parents didn't have money to take care of her, and I ... well ... I wasn't in a place where I could take care of her myself."

He gave me a slow, appraising nod.  "I've read your own record - of course not your JV, that's closed, but it's significant that you have one - and you had a number of arrests for possession after you turned eighteen, but our records of you end about ten years ago.  You must have left town when you were twenty-two or thereabouts.  Where have you been?"

"I lived in LA for a few years.  I thought someone would discover me, someday, like every other stupid girl in that city, but it never happened.  Then one morning I woke up in the alleyway next to a church.  I had no money, barely enough clothes to cover my body, no drugs, and no friends to help me."  I offered a small smile, hoping he would understand.  "That was my rock bottom.  And I've spent the past seven years climbing out of that dark hole.  I went into the church and found Father Matthais.  He helped get me into a women's shelter.  He got me a job in a warehouse.  He encouraged me to take classes at the community college, and I worked real hard to graduate.  I got a bachelor's in accounting, and then my masters.  It took me longer, because I had to work at the same time, but I did it, and I've got a good job that I've had for the last six months.  I provided my transcript, a copy of the acceptance letter, and Father Matthais's contact information with the petition yesterday ... did you get them?"

He pressed his lips together.  "I did.  I took the liberty of calling Father Matthais and also the college.  Honestly, if you were one of my cases, I would consider you a success.  But you weren't my case, Cambell was, and now her three kids are.  You've been honest with me, so I'll be honest with you.  I don't like it.  I have those kids placed with a solid foster family who is considering taking all three of them.  Do you really have any idea what it would be like to take on three small kids?  Six, three, and eight months?  Are you up for something like that?  Last time you had a baby in your arms, you left her and took off.  That was seventeen years ago.  It took  you seventeen years to wonder what happened to your baby and come back.  How can I be sure you won't do the same to these three kids?"

I opened my mouth to object, but no words came out.  Seventeen years.  He was right about that.  It had taken me seventeen years to come back, and I only came back now because my sister had tracked me down because she thought she owed it to me to tell me my daughter was dead.

I closed my mouth again to stop my jaw from trembling, stifled a sob, and lifted my eyes to his.  "I am their grandmother.  For their mother's sake, for the sake of everything I should have done for her, I have a duty to my grand kids.  And I will fill it." 

He wasn't the only one surprised at the determination in my voice.  I hadn't thought I had it in me.  Apparently I was wrong.

Slowly, he nodded.  "Well, we'll file this petition with the court, and you'll have a hearing with the judge, and we'll go from there."

I heard the words, but the meaning took a minute to sink in.  "You mean, I'm going to get them?"

He shook his head again, but his smile betrayed him, "If they have a grandmother who loves them, the judge will most likely grant custody.  Yes.  You're on your way to getting your grand kids.  Would you like to go meet them?"

I couldn't answer through my tears, but I didn't need to.