[Critique Group 1] Leonard's comments on Martia's Sub.

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

I see no need to change anything. 



The story is droll and  yet it speaks of a real problem.  



I like the ending “



there was a time when…”



I feel like laughing,



But, I also feel reel sympathy .




 


Calling 911



Marcia J. Wick



January 2022



Word Count:  577



 



I cuddled with my cat on the old couch, leftbehind by an ex, and sipped wine while watching the evening news. My youngestgirl, age nine, was taking a shower; my 12-year-old was listening to music inher bedroom. The doorbell rang. Good thing I hadn’t changed into my PJs yet.



 



It was highly unusual to have unexpectedvisitors at our house after dark, even though it was the weekend. I was asingle mother raising two pre-teens without much life outside of work, cookingand cleaning, and caring for my daughters. I managed within a tight budget,without child support, with a vision impairment that prevented me from driving.Needless to say, I was reluctant, being slightly tipsy, to open the door to astranger that night.



 



“Who is it?” I called through the closed door.



 



“Colorado Springs police, mamm. We need to speakwith Madeline.”



 



“My daughter?” I cautiously cracked the door.“What has she done?”



 



My wild child was known to find trouble. Shestruggled to control her impulses and often behaved recklessly. But that night,she was safe in the shower…



 



The cop explained, “She called 911 earlier todayand said she was home alone. I need to see her and talk to her to make sureshe’s okay.”



 



I was humiliated, a neglectful parent who hadleft a helpless child home alone. Truth was, I had gone out my back doorearlier that day and walked to the grocery store five minutes away to buy agallon of milk for the girls.



 



I admitted the officer into the entry and said,“I can explain. I left my older daughter home with her younger sister for 15minutes while I went to the store, although she was riding her bicycle outfront in our cul-de-sac at the time.” Sufficiently embarrassed, I asked, “Doyou really need me to pull my child out of the shower?”



 



“Yes,” the uniformed man insisted.



 



I fetched my daughter’s robe and slipped intothe bathroom.



 



“Turn off the water, Madeline.” I whispered, notwanting to shout and give the police more evidence of abuse. “What happenedwhile I was gone to the grocery? Did you call 911?”



 



“It was an accident,” she mumbled.



 



Of course it was. From birth, my daughter was awalking accident. Her list of mishaps, miscalculations, misadventures, andmistakes was long.



 



The officer inspected my daughter’s arms, legs,and back for bruises. He then verified my story with my older child.




 


 



Satisfied, he said, “I can see your children aresafe and well. I apologize, but it’s my job. Do you mind if I take a lookaround the house so I can close the report?”



 



I huddled with my daughters near the front doorwhile the intruder completed his civic duty. Thankfully, my humble home passedhis inspection and he departed. I suppose there was some comfort knowing thepolice were around to protect my children, but it had taken them more than sixhours to respond to the call.



 



I’d be curious to see a copy of the policereport from that day, more than 20 years ago now, if they keep such records forthat long. If so, they’ll see a dozen more 911 calls from our home placed by meor one of my daughters over the years. Like many single parent households, westruggled with mental health challenges, low income, sexual abuse, anddisability. There was the time…



 



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