“You bought a what?”

“A Daewoo.”

“I’ve never heard of that kind of car. Where’d you get it?”

“From an old guy.”

“Was this one alive?”

“Yeah. He used to own a hypnotist business.”

“Huh…”

“Yeah.”

“Soo….why would you buy a car no one has ever heard of?”

“Probably…umm…..maybe I didn’t really have a choice….like I said…”

This conversation has happened about fifteen bajillion times since last week when Honda went kaput and Daewoo entered my life via an internet ad, a test drive at a juvenile delinquency camp, and a paperwork signing in Orange County around midnight.

I was in that newer car this weekend when Little D’s mom’s girlfriend called me two seconds after driving off to take Tweak for a walk.

“Oh I didn’t realize D is grounded from you guys. You have to bring her back.”

What? I turned to D after hanging up. “What’s this about babe?”

She sat there sullen and just shrugged. “I dunno….they’re drinking again…”

“What can I do? Tell me what I can do to help you.”

I say that because I have no clue. If I call CPS they may investigate; they may not. They might take her away. They might leave her but no doubt the call would be traced to me and I’d never get to see her again— her mother and K, her stepmother, would guarantee that. A social worker would visit frequently. Her life would probably not improve. And who knows what she would say if she were queried by authorities? I am one audience. Everyone else is another.

“She has behavioral issues. Problems. We can’t control them.” K says to me when I return D to the apartment.

“I’ve never had a problem with her. Never.” I say back to her.

“Well that’s because you’re you. When she comes back to us after being with you she hits us, says she hates us, tells us she wants us to die. So we take things away from her to control her behavior. We’ve taken everything from her--- we’ve taken clothes, toys, friends, books, her bed, her food, everything. And she doesn’t care. That stuff doesn’t matter to her. The only thing that matters to her is you....you guys. The only thing we have leverage with her is you guys. Going over there is the only thing we can take away that matters. So that’s what we have to do.”

On the outside I looked understanding. On the inside I was boiling. I know K is manipulative and controlling. I know she and D’s mother are frequently intoxicated and/or high. They blame the bruises on D on some unknown person at school--- calling school authorities to find out who is hitting their daughter.

Do you know who is hitting their daughter?

They are.

D says they’re too drunk to remember. So her stories get skewed because she can’t tell them it’s them….they wouldn’t believe her and more than likely would keep her from me and my sisters even more. So they say she has behavioral issues and that sh's a liar.

And I also know “the system” well enough to know that D may not be better off in the hands of the state.

So for a week I can not see D. And it’s not her fault.

“I didn’t recognize you since I couldn’t hear you coming for three miles and this car wasn’t lurching to drive over me,” said one of the guards at work when I drove onto the lot this morning. His funny comments didn’t make me feel any better. Dejectedly I set to work, trying to shove away the feeling that I am failing D just as much as everyone else is and has.

I stopped in the bathroom because Neon Bangs Woman stood there with an entire head of neon orange hair— glistening beneath the halogen lamps.

“Oh aren’t you festive!” I said smiling at her long, drawn face.

Wiping her hands on a paper towel she sighed and responded in a low, monotone, lisping voice:

“I did it to my dog too.”

Oh. gawd.

And with that I suddenly felt better. Because regardless of the object of our affection, we all fail each other sometimes. It doesn’t excuse it, of course, but at least I’m not alone.