I wrote this book for all the children
who needed a Sweet Baby, but didn’t have one.
I will say a prayer each night for the children
who cry and no one hears.
I will say a prayer each night for the children
who wake up hungry and go to bed the same way.
I will say a prayer each night for the children
who are missing, and for those who are lost.
I will say a prayer each night for the children
who suffer alone because
they have no one who cares.
I will say a prayer each night for the children
that no one loves.
I will say a prayer for the children.
I will say a prayer each night,
because when no one else is listening,
God still hears.
Prologue
Rural Arkansas, 1973
A rooster tail of dust billowed behind the bright yellow school bus as it rumbled down the Arkansas back roads, returning the children of Calico Rock to their homes. It was dry for September. The narrow, two-lane road on which the bus was traveling was bordered on both sides with an abundance of dust-covered greens. Old trees, tall and angular, struggled for space among new growth in the constant act of taking root. On the ground beneath, bushes and scrub brush flourished, hanging on to their place in the mountains with fierce persistence. The sky was pale, a blue so light it almost seemed white, and the sun beaming down on the roof of the bus sweltered the children inside like so many beans in a can.
Sweat ran out of their hair and down their faces as they chattered away. They didn’t care that it was hot, because it was Friday, and they were going home. But though the noise level inside the bus was high, there was the occasional child, like six-year-old Victoria Lancaster, who sat alone in her seat, quietly contemplating the day’s events and longing for the first sight of home. Last night had been a first for young Tory in more ways than one. She and seven other little girls had spent the night at Mary Ellen Wiggins’ slumber party. For Tory, it was the first time in her life that she’d slept somewhere other than beneath her mother’s roof—and without her dolly, Sweet Baby. And she hadn’t cried. Not even once.
As the bus began to brake, she looked up. The Broyles brothers were getting off. That meant she would be next. Her mouth pursed as she thought back to last night. She couldn’t wait to tell her mommy about Mary Ellen’s party. Roasting wieners and marshmallows and then telling ghost stories after the house was dark had been scary—but so much fun. Mommy would be so proud of her for not asking to go home. The bus hit a bump, and Tory clutched at the brown paper sack in her lap. It held yesterday’s dirty school clothes, as well as her nightgown. There was a ketchup stain on her dress and marshmallow on the front of her gown, but she wasn’t too worried. Mommy never yelled at her for things like that.
In fact, Mommy hardly ever yelled at all, and when she did, she was usually yelling at Ollie. She sighed, remembering a time in their life when Ollie hadn’t lived with them and wishing it could be that way again. Ollie was always teasing her about being a momma’s baby. When she got home, she would show him. She’d spent the whole night away from home. Babies couldn’t do that! Right in the middle of planning what she would say to Ollie, a voice suddenly shrieked in her ear. “Tory’s got a boyfriend. Tory’s got a boyfriend.” Tory turned in her seat and stuck out her tongue, glaring angrily at the boy behind her. It was that stupid old Arthur Beckham. After less than six weeks of first grade, she’d already figured out that the older boys got, the dumber they became. When he laughed in her face, she spun back in her seat, red-faced and a little bit shocked by her own temerity. When she got to be a fourth-grader, she wouldn’t pick on little kids like Arthur did, of that she was certain. Once more the bus began to slow. Tory glanced out the window as the brakes locked, then squeaked. When she saw the familiar rooftop of her home, she grabbed hold of the seat in front of her for balance, then stood. Arthur Beckham made a face at her as she passed down the aisle, but she was too anxious to get home to give him another thought.
As she stepped off the bus, an errant wind lifted the hem of her dress, but she didn’t care. The moment her feet hit the dirt, she began to run. An orange-and-black butterfly fluttered just ahead of her, riding the wind current with delicate ease, and it almost seemed as if they were racing. The fantasy caught in her mind, and she shifted into an all-out stride. The afternoon sun caught and then held in the tangles of her long, blond hair. Had anyone been around to notice, they might have imagined they’d seen a halo above her head. But it was the end of the day, and had one been inclined to consider her an angel, she would have been a grubby one at best. There was a skinned spot on her knee, a smudge from lunch on the front of her dress, and her shoes and anklets wore a light coating of dust as her little legs churned, making short work of the distance to the house. The brown paper bag she held clutched in one fist was torn at the top and about to give way, but it didn’t matter now. She was almost there. Just as Tory’s feet hit the front steps, the butterfly darted off to the left. She laughed aloud, calling out to her mother as she grabbed the screen door and yanked.
“Mommy! Mommy! I’m home! You should have seen me! I was racing a butterfly and—” She froze as the echo of her own voice moved from room to empty room, drifting like a bad memory that wouldn’t go away. A draft of hot air came from somewhere before her, shifting the hem of her dress and pushing the fabric against her bare legs. Tory took a step farther, then another, and another, unaware when the brown paper bag she’d been holding fell from her fingers and onto the floor. Everything was gone, from the faded blue curtains on the windows to the furniture that had been sitting on the floors. Her heart skipped a beat. Even though her eyes were seeing the truth, her heart would not accept it.
“Mommy?” She cocked her head, listening for the familiar sound of her mother’s voice, but all she heard was the faint grinding of gears as the school bus climbed the hill on the road beyond. She called out again, her voice trembling. “Mommy? Mommy? I’m home.” The silence beyond the sound of her voice was insidious, amplifying the call of a bird in the tree outside the kitchen window. Somewhere within the house she heard a cricket chirp, and her heart leaped. Mommy hated crickets in the house. Any minute she would come racing into the room to get rid of it. She turned toward the doorway, her big blue eyes tear-filled and horror-stricken. But nothing moved, and no one came. She called again.
“Mommy… where are you?” All she could hear was the thunder of her heartbeat, drowning out the sound of her own voice. She ran toward her bedroom, the only sanctuary she knew. If she crawled onto her bed and cuddled Sweet Baby, Mommy would surely come home. But it was as vacant as the rest of the house. And as she stood in the doorway, she started to shake. Sweat broke out across her forehead, beading on her upper lip.
The sound of a car going by on the road beyond sent her running to the doorway, but when it went past without a sign of slowing down, she backed up in sudden fear. Alone! She was alone! It was only after she’d backed herself into a corner of the room that she stopped, her eyes wide and staring, her expression blank. Tears were drying on her cheeks as she slowly sank into a squatting position, her gaze fixed on the door. The afternoon turned into dusk, dusk into night, but Tory Lancaster never moved. She was waiting—waiting for Mommy to come home.
~~~
There has been so much happening, mostly caused by MAGA republicans that, sometimes, you can't find your place--trying to consider just what could happen next and when will it stop. For me and for millions across the nation, we were shocked when the Supreme Court ruled against the medical issue of allowing abortion. Nobody wants to abort a child, but there is medical issues and, even, financial issues... Do you have a child as a single mother who already has three children and can't afford another? My Mom did, but what I remember most about my mother is that she was always working...
My mother was carrying me when my father was killed in a mine accident. While I am here to tell my story, I also know that, in talking with many women who have found it necessary for parents, if there are two, to both work because of an inability to meet basic needs for the family. My Mom died when she was 72 and had worked her entire life, almost 24-7, to take care of us...
Now, once again I faced someone close who was pro-life, (no matter what) while I was pro-choice. She again stated her opinion, while I, once again, was caught in the emotional flashbacks that comes with incest... I started to cry and said that, it wasn't about abortion for me--that I had always felt this way (since I was old enough to consider the issue). For me, it was about the failure of the church recognizing and working to deal with the sexual abuse of children from early age on through life! Adding, sometimes, a child should not be allowed to be where they are to live after birth... Pro-life decisions, once made, seem to be the only thing that counts...there is no further concern for the children, even for basic needs... And there is no further proactive concern to ensure that children are given a good home... free of exposure to many issues too adult for them to be listening to or, worse, experiencing...
Then once again, MAGA republicans bring it up purely to make it into a political issue...while, little girls and many others in this type of situation are forced to not only survive being sexually abused, but then are placed into the public eye as abortion issues are used, again, politically, rather than to allow such intimate medical issues to be handled within the family-doctor environment...ONLY!
Sala begins her book, Sweet Baby by establishing that something has happened in the life of 6-year-old Victoria Lancaster as she returns home from a sleep-over with girlfriends from school. There is no sign of her mother and all of the furniture and more--Sweet Baby--is gone... And that Tory was left alone, not knowing what had happened... We also learn that Tory was in an out of foster homes through to becoming an adult, which starts right at Chapter 1...
Victoria has become a photojournalist and travels to many areas, dependent upon the subject to be covered in her article. She has also become involved with Brett Hooker, a former cop who decided to get off the streets and now is an investigator for the DA Office. He is very much in love with Victoria... And, for now, is willing to take her exactly as she was... an very independent woman who has a job which requires that she leaves and comes based upon her job.
Or was she?
Tory still had flashes of the past that bothered her, such as storms. Readers will be privy to her dreams and will learn much about what actually happened to Tory... In many ways this is a mystery, quite suspenseful as we learn through her dreams more and more as we read. And yet, it is the solid loving partner she has found that has allowed her to begin to wonder...and, even, desire to discover what really happened in her past.
For most of the first part of the book, I was in tears--a cathartic time, perhaps, for me as well as for some other readers who have a Deep Awareness, perhaps, that they should not have experienced what they did at an early age, and yet have memories of that period of their life. Certainly the start of the "me-too" movement has revealed just how broadly this child corruption has spread across the world.
Concern for today's children and the realization that this is becoming worse rather than better, for many of our children... is, unfortunately, quite often headline topics to be used politically for, it appears, power and control over, especially, women...
Sala uses the strong tie of love to allow Tory to begin to face that part of her early life that had been forgotten. Tory had grown strong and independent to the world around her, while she suffered internally, believing that she was not worthy to be loved. Her adult solution was to accept life as it came to her, but leave it as she wished--striving to keep control of her emotions so that she could deal with anything and anyone that may cause her fear or pain...
So after empathic or sympathic tears are shed at first, readers are then allowed to watch and realize that love, indeed, can help to heal all wounds... It may be through other people, or, like me, it can be through a sure knowledge that God, indeed, loves all of us and wishes no harm to come to us, even though it may happen.
“Ruthie… forgive… didn’t mean… Tory froze. Ruthie? She tried to breathe and heard herself choking instead. Ruthie? Brett was talking to her now, telling her that she was going to be all right. Ruthie? An image flashed in her mind, an image of a woman with pretty brown hair and laughing eyes, a woman who smelled like roses and soap and who made up her own special songs to sing her little girl to sleep. "Hush little Tory, don’t say a word. Mommy’s gonna buy you a honeybird." A tear ran down the side of Tory’s nose. Honeybird. Hummingbird. Sometimes, when you’re only four, one word is as good as another. The room was beginning to spin. She grabbed Brett, desperately holding on...
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