Lizbeth Meredith - Pieces of Me: Rescuing My Kidnapped Daughters

PIECES OF ME

Copyright 2016 by Lizbeth Meredith

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Published 2016
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-834-7
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-835-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938687

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She Writes Press 1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

Cover design Julie Metz, Ltd./metzdesign.com
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Excerpts reprinted with permission from the Anchorage Daily News We Alaskans 1994 Alaska Dispatch Publishing.

NAMES AND IDENTIFYING CHARACTERISTICS HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE PRIVACY OF CERTAIN INDIVIDUALS.

For my daughters,
Marianthi and Meredith.
I love you forever.

Sometimes Im asked if I feel lucky. Usually, its after Ive given a presentation about domestic violence or the Adverse Childhood Experiences Study, and in the context of Arent you glad all the bad stuff happened when your kids were little?

As though prebirth and early childhood experiences are any less impactful.

The truth is, I do feel lucky, but not because my kids were little when their father tried to kill me. I feel lucky because I survived, and so did they. I feel lucky because when he stole them years later and took them to Greece, I was still a young adult, with all the energy and optimism I needed to risk bringing them home. I feel lucky because I knew from living through my own kidnapping how important it was to right this wrong, and was adept at developing a support network that would make doing so possible. I feel lucky that I recognized how much support the girls needed when they returned, and I often did my best to get it for them. And I feel lucky that my daughters have forgiven me for the decisions, large and small, that Ive made that were not in their best interests.

But there are times when I dont feel so lucky. When I take one of my daughters to the hospital for a trauma-related illness. When I am the only parent to hear their joys and sorrows. When I must reassure them, now in their late twenties, that Im all right and Im still here for them after they become panicked when Ive taken too long to return a text or call. When Im on a date and Im asked anything about my marriage or how involved my kids dad is in their lives.

I never wanted to be one of those crime victims whose identity revolves around victimization. Then last year, I filled out a grant application and listed my passions. Budget travel in foreign countries. Writing. Volunteering with literacy projects. All directly connected to surviving my victimization.

I have my daughters. I have my passions. And, all things considered, I guess that makes me better off than lucky.

I brush Marianthis hair as fast as I can without upsetting her. My oldest daughter, like so many firstborn children, seems in tune with my every mood since her birth. Just six years old now, she senses my wave of anxiety about her fathers impending weekly visitation.

Are you scared, Mommy? Marianthis voice sounds like a Munchkins from The Wizard of Oz, as small and sweet as she is.

No, sweetie. I smile. I just dont want to keep Daddy waiting. You look beautiful.

And she does. Shes wearing her blue dress with the floral collar that matches her ocean-blue eyes. A barrette holds her straight brown hair back neatly. I direct her to her coat and boots while I work on getting her little sister ready.

I push Merediths plump calf into her boot. She groans. Point your foot down, baby. Slowly, the boot slides on. I run my fingers through her wispy brown ringlets and inspect her round face for remnants of Rice Krispies.

Meredith is the antithesis of her sister. At two, she lost her grasp on a helium balloon. She silently watched it float toward the clouds, then announced, God stole my balloon. At three, she told a bald man that he had a baby head. And now, at four, Meredith has learned she can belch as loudly as a college boy at a frat party.

My daughters are absurdly cute. Im not the only one who thinks so; I get requests for them to be flower girls at weddings from people I hardly know.

Ready just in time, I tell them, as their father, Grigorios, Gregory for short, pulls up in his dented, bright-blue Jeep Cherokee. A male passenger I dont recognize is sitting next to him. I try to get a closer look. The passenger catches me, and I avert my eyes immediately. What guy would ride along with Gregory to pick up the girls? And why?

Momma, will you pick us up tomowoh? Meredith asks. I dread the day shes able to pronounce her Rs.

Ill pick you up on the tomorrow after tomorrow, remember? But of course Meredith cant remember the court-appointed visitation schedule. Shes only four, and her fathers visits are irregular. She doesnt know that the court only recently lifted the supervised-visitation requirement that had been imposed during a restraining order, or that I pick her and her sister up at their day care for the express purpose of avoiding unnecessary contact with him. And she shouldnt have to. Neither of them should have to know the grim details of their parents divorce. Theyre still little girls, after all.

I feel as if I have spent my entire twenty-nine years of life walking on eggshells. Its March 13, 1994, and Im four years out of my violent marriage. But despite the passage of time, my fear of Gregory is as strong as it was the day in March 1990 when I got back up off the floor, collected my baby girls, and fled in a taxi. The scratches and strangulation marks healed after several days, but his parting threats haunt me: I would rather kill you than let you leave. That way, youll die knowing the girls will have no mother and their father will be in jail. Leave and youll never see them againIll take them home to Greece. I have nothing to lose.

That was by no means the first time Gregory had threatened to harm or kill me. Not even close. In our marriage, hed isolated me from friends, taken my car, and, at the lowest point, limited my access to food while I was pregnant. Eventually, he wrung my neck. All the while, he delivered the same message over and over: You are worthless, stupid, and helpless. I am the only person you have to rely on. Without me, you are nothing.

But it was his threat to take the children and disappear to his native home in Greece if I left him that got to me. He knew I could never live without my children.

I remind myself that our circumstances are different now. Yes, things are still hard. I have no family around to help with the girls or with the house. We live in Alaska, a place where one battles ice and snow and long periods of continual darkness followed by short periods of constant light. Its a place best suited for those with money. Money to buy a four-wheel drive. Money to buy lots of insulation for the house, fancy winter boots and coats, and airline tickets to leave the state once or twice a year for a warmer climate. All of the things I dont have.