Grace Spencer's Journal

It's been busy.

At the shop, Kyle seems to have settled in. He's sharp, quick, good with customers. Hiring him seems to have been a sound decision. Gabe likes him a lot, and he's always been a good judge of character.

Michael, Sofia's son, is now a bit over a month old. I found an envelope stuck through the shop door's mail slot--no address, no postage mark, just a plain envelope. I don't know where she and Michael are, and I don't want to know. There was a letter, and a picture. He's beautiful. He has her caramel skin color and thick black hair. I wish that I could hold him, wish that I could hug her, but I can't. She's in hiding, routed through what is the modern equivalent of the underground railroad, this one not for slaves, but for abused women. Though now, I'm not sure there's such a difference. All I know is that she's safe, that Michael is thriving, and that will have to be enough. The police have been here a couple of times to talk to me, to Gabe, because it's illegal that she fled an abusive husband. I can tell they're coming only for form--they have no real desire to find her, particularly after I'd spoken to them the first time, told them what a winner her husband is.

I spoke to the lawyer again about the class action suit against the DHS. We finally got a court date--in seven months. He said that to actually expect anything positive to come from it is a fool's dream--they have resources that we can only dream of. It isn't particularly the winning that I'm after, but more the getting it out there, getting the public's attention on it. The DHS wants to bury it--well, I don't think so. I can and will start making a lot of noise.

The pregnancy progresses. I'm visibly pregnant now, all round-bellied, the equivalent of five months. It's still a little too early to feel the baby kick, but they tell me maybe another week. Like little flutters, they tell me. I'm looking forward to it. I play the piano every day. I've read it does make a difference, that the baby can hear you, can hear music and even so, a little classical music is good for everyone. I still swim and do yoga, and Jeff and I try to take a walk every evening after supper.

Jeff's so attentive. He's always been the touching and hugging sort, which is a definite plus in my books, but he's even more so now. He likes to come up from behind and hug me, put his hands on my belly and smile against the side of my neck. We sleep curled together, one of his hands on the curve of my stomach. It's wonderful, and of course I soak all this up like a sponge, remember it when I'm feeling tired or temperamental (which is far too often) or too ungainly. We've always been good together; now it's even better.

We're going to my parents' house tomorrow for a big July 4th barbeque dinner. Everyone will be there, and I'm looking forward to having the family together. Molly's pregnant now; she's due late September. Ben seems very happy, and treats her like something treasured and beyond price. And of course, she is.

After seeing the report on the Coulsons and their daughter, my brother Dillon and Sarah have come to an understanding. Neither of them want to end like that, and so they've put aside their ocean's-worth of differences. Not reconciled, by any means, but they're simply choosing the lesser of a vast multitude of evils. They've already been fined and arrested once; the next step is the Adjustment Center. So they're complying. I think it's more along the lines of he gives her a cup and she takes care of it, which is god, efficient enough but soulless. It makes me so grateful for the relationship Jeff and I have. They're very strained when together. I like Sarah just fine--she's smart and when not with Dillon, has a wry, dry sense of humor. I'm just sorry they're both stuck together like they are.

Jeff's in the kitchen, cooking eggplant parmesan. I think I need to go give him a hug.

It's late, and I can hear Jeff rattling around in the kitchen, loading dishes into the dishwasher. We had my sister Molly and her husband Ben over for dinner, and they just left a few minutes ago. I'm propped up in bed with my laptop, freshly showered and pajama'd in one of Jeff's muscle shirts and a pair of his boxers that have Oscar the Grouch on them. I'm not sure that pajama'd is a word, but oh, well. It fits.

Ben is a great guy. Personable, funny, and so smart. And in spite of their difference in age, it's clear he adores Molly; you can see it whenever he looks at her. He says she's given him a new interest in life, made him feel younger and more alive. I believe him. He can barely take his eyes off her, and he looks...softer when he watches her. I've looked up and caught Jeff watching me like that; I've seen looks like that between my own parents most of my life.

Molly doesn't love him, but she does have a visible affection for him. I had wondered if she'd keep the relationship she had with Matthew before she married Ben, but she says not. Matthew is a could-have-been, and she's decided to commit to what she now has. We're both aware that she could have done much worse. Sofia and her experiences, Dillon and his, are never far from our minds.

They're trying for children now. Ben's drawing up plans for baby furniture, and she says he hums happily as he works. She smiled when she told me that.

Speaking of baby furniture, I've been looking at catalogs. Mostly, I end up hooting in laughter, because some of these? Good god. I can't drink anything when I look through some of the catalogs, or I'll choke to death trying to swallow and laugh at the same time.

Where's the rest of the circus?

This puts the *frou* in frou-frou.

Myself, I like something a *lot* simpler. Like this for example. I've never been a very girly girl.

Monday afternoon, I'm meeting with several of the people who were, like me, rousted back in March by the DHS. We're going to try for a class action suit. I've been talking to a lot of people, trying to get them to join us, but there's a lot of it's done and over, leave it be, don't draw attention to yourself attitude. The thing is, it might be done, but I doubt it's over. It's been my experience that once someone sees that they can push you around, they're inclined to try it again and again. I don't want that happening. We've lost so much, and we just keep losing more, so slowly that we're not noticing. In five years, we won't have anything left. I don't want children growing up in a dystopia.

I had the interview with Kyle Masterson on Monday. His references are sterling, and he's pleasant, though a little reserved. I'm not sure how much of that was interview nervousness or just a natural reticence. I'm going to hire him, so I guess we'll find out.

Jeff's in the shower now, mangling a song almost beyond recognition. I think it's Heard It Through The Grapevine, but I can't be sure. It's oddly endearing in its wince-worthiness.

I'd probably better sign off and put away the laptop. Jeff has a tendency to fling himself on the bed at high velocity, and last month I lost a laptop because of that.

Random Grace is Random. *g*

Are you or anyone you know looking for a part time job, primarily in the evenings? With Sofia gone (god, I miss her), I'm in need of someone to pick up her hours. I can't work both shifts, and I'm going to have to shorten the bookstore's hours. I'm surprised at how tired I am, but I'm told it's normal.

I made plans for the time Sofia needed to take off work, but the young woman I wanted to hire, Angela, has simply...disappeared. I wonder if it might've had something to do with the last lottery--I remember that her name was on it, and now, she's just gone. I've called, looking for her, and I get nothing. No one's willing to talk. Curious.

Anyway, I thought I'd offer the time to anyone I might know here before contacting the next applicant on my list. Let me know if you're interested or know someone who might be, please.

Jeff caught me moving the piano, and went ballistic. The damn thing is on casters--it's not like I was trying to move a huge antique upright piano (it looks like this if you don't know) just by sheer muscle. He won't even think of letting me help to move the desk to storage. We're having to do some rearranging--the music room, which doubled as my home office is the second bedroom, and it will now be the nursery and the music room, hence the moving of things around. And the yelling. *g*

Well, this has been an interesting day.

I just came from the hospital. Sofia, friend and co-owner of the shop, just had her baby this morning. A baby boy, Michael Andrew Marchand--she made sure that he had her last name, not that of her husband, Jim Arnold.

Jim was there, which surprised me. He's not the attentive sort, unless it's the bad sort of attention. I've lost track of the times I've begged her to press charges against him, and she never has, saying it won't do any good, that it will only make it worse. I'd say that it needs to be on the records, that maybe she can get divorced because of that (a vain hope, I know).

My brother Pearce went with me to the hospital to visit her. He used to have the biggest crush on her when he was younger, when Sofia and I were in college and he wanted to say hi, to see her baby. When we got to see Sofia, she had a fresh black eye--Jim must've given it to her last night, and unfortunately, it's not the first I've seen, though he's usually more careful to not hit her in the face. Pearce? Went totally ballistic. Pearce is a big guy, well over six feet, and he beat the shit out of Sofia's husband before security pulled them apart. The police came and hauled Pearce off to jail, because Jim pressed charges, of course, and then came back and hauled him away because Sofia pressed charges against *him* finally.

So Pearce has been bailed out--after the cops saw Sofia, clearly abused and holding a newborn--they were a lot nicer to him. Sofia's finally decided to take action against her husband; as I told her many times, if he'd hurt her, he'll hurt their child without too much of a second thought. She spent a lot of time talking with a hospital social worker and the police. I think she and Michael are going to quietly disappear for a while--after the incident at the shelter, it's not safe for her to go there, and though I wanted her to stay with Jeff and me, she was afraid her husband would hurt me. It's possible, I guess.

Sofia's been through hell for the past six months. I've tried to help, because she's been like another sister to me. I've talked to the police, asked them what I could do, what they could do, and they always said nothing, unless Sofia was willing to press charges. I asked the lawyer I'd talked to about pressing charges against the DHS the same question, and if Sofia could divorce because of abuse, and she told me that Sofia could try, but it would be hard as hell, even with evidence of it. Insane. Gabe's tried many times to defend her, but he's small, not much bigger than me, really, and got kicked around for it. Sofia begged him to stop trying to help, because it was making it worse for her.

While Jim's in jail--no one's offering to bail him out--Sofia's parents are going over and clearing out as much of her stuff as they can. I don't know where she'll be going, but it's got to be better than here. I hope to god that they don't declare Sofia a criminal for leaving him, for disappearing, for not having more children with him. It sounds crazy, but it's something that wouldn't surprise me much.

Welcome to the world, Michael. I hope that it gets a lot better for you after a start like this. Sofia, wherever you go, take care. I'll be thinking of you.

I wanted to wait until it was confirmed by a doctor, and it has, so I'm free to say that Jeff and I are expecting a baby. In about two and a half months, we'll have a brand new little Novak. *g*

And believe me, that sounds so strange for a number of reasons. Three months from conception to delivery? Unbelievable. I'm both thrilled and terrified, in fairly equal amounts.

I wanted children from the time I was small--I have a huge family, and that was what I knew and loved. After we discovered that there would be no more children, well. I accepted that, and went on. And then along came the serum, the promise of children again, and unfortunately, all the draconian laws surrounding it.

I'm glad to have children, honestly. I want children with Jeff. But I don't want it to be a mandate--I don't want the government telling me that I will have two or three children a year until the end of my childbearing years--seventeen, according to them--or until I wear out, whichever comes first. And that is what they tell us, no matter how they sugar-coat it and couch it in terms of for the good of humanity. I'm willing to have four children, possibly five, depending on what we can afford and what Jeff wishes. I don't think that I should--or anyone else, for that matter--be forced to have more than that, and certainly not that many in a two-year time span. Five's enough, and more, unless they're truly wanted, is unreasonable. I'm not a baby mill; I'm more than merely a container for my reproductive organs. I want to be a good parent, and that means not being continually pregnant and exhausted. There's whole reams of human rights, of women's rights that are being stomped on here, and no one seems to care that much. Or if they do, they've become too frightened to say anything.

Hm. I didn't mean to turn good news--and honestly, I'm *thrilled* about this--into a political rant. Anyway. I'm very happy about this, and that's the truth. I don't care if we have a boy or a girl, as long as he or she is healthy. That's what matters.

The whole *no sushi* rule while pregnant will kill me, though. *g*

Dear Mr. Hoffman,

My name is Grace Spencer Novak; Jeff is my husband. I know he spoke with you about an incident that happened last month, and he said that you might have some suggestions for how to proceed.

If you're agreeable, I would like to meet with you at your convenience to talk. I'm off work after three, so any time after that is fine.

Thank you,

Grace Novak
(cell phone number)

To: Elsie Strahm-Sawyer and Ethan Sawyer
From: Grace Spencer-Novak
Re: Unlawful detention by the DHS

Hello.

My name is Grace Novak, and on Monday, March 16th, I was picked up by the DHS and held for several hours for questioning regarding activities of the House of Spades. I was detained against my will, told blatant lies, and while I was not physically harmed, I was subjected to psychological harassment.

I haven't seen anyone else speak up about this, and I think it is a matter that needs to be brought out into the open. I would like to speak with you on the chance that you might consider this story-worthy, and in the hopes that if I do, others will come forth as well. I've spoken with a lawyer, and we will be suing the DHS, but it would be better to speak out before taking legal action in the event others want to make this a class action lawsuit.

I believe that the community as a whole needs to be made aware of the excesses of the DHS, and if you're interested in the story, I would be more than happy to speak with you about it.

Thank you,

Grace Novak
(email)
(phone)
(cell)

It's been four days since the incident with the Department of Homeland Security. Every time I hear the bell above the door tinkle when someone comes in, I expect someone in a black uniform and far too many weapons on his person to come in with a warrant and turn my shop upside down looking for...god knows what.

I am not affiliated with the House of Spades, have no connection with their agenda, know no one who is involved in their activities. Yet I was forced to close my shop, and my employee Gabe and I were put into a windowless van, taken to an undisclosed place, and kept there for six hours--nine, in Gabe's case--without being told why we'd been brought in or being allowed to contact anyone. I was shuffled from one featureless room to another for several hours--they took my purse, my jewelry (including my watch), everything in my pockets.

Finally I met with one of their officials and interrogated. The officer told me that the House of Spades used proxies to mask their true location, and that one was located in my place of business. Understandably, I denied this, and demanded proof of it, which I did not get, no matter how many times I asked. I was told that the DHS had a warrant to search my business for this proxy, but later in the interrogation learned that no, they did not. When I questioned this, I was told that it would be better to worry about my interests (which clearly lay with cooperating with the DHS) and not with my legal rights. So apparently, my legal rights as a citizen are merely words on a paper that they've crumpled up and tossed in the trash.

After questioning me about my employees, they dismissed me. I was allowed to call a cab, and then put out in the street to wait on it. The facility was in one of the worst areas of town, and no consideration was given to my personal safety. Though no one likes to admit that they're vulnerable, I am--I'm a very small woman, and have no training to defend myself. Had anyone attacked me, I would've been on my own.

And as for their "concern" that my shop harbored a proxy for the House of Spades? It is apparently no concern at all. I expected a warrant to be waiting when I got back to the shop, and it wasn't--nor any of the days following. Clearly there is nothing here, and they were very aware of it.

My question is, why was it necessary to do this? I would have gone willingly to speak with them had they merely told me what they wished. Subterfuge and a not-so-subtle threat was not necessary. It was not necessary for me to be held in isolation for six hours, for them to tell me blatant lies, for the threat of a warrant to be served on my shop (and yes, the way it was phrased made it very clear that it was a threat). This cannot be legal, surely.

I was never offered physical violence. But for hours I was moved from room to room. Most rooms were plain, with only a built-in bench to sit on and a dim recessed overhead light. Though all were cool, one room was cold enough that I could see my breath, and they'd taken my coat. I can only assume that was intentional. I feel that this was psychological assault, if nothing else.

Gabe was held longer, but whether that was because they'd brought in several people and it just took longer to process or whether it was for some other reason, I don't know. He tells me that although it wasn't phrased plainly, the implication was that they expected him to say that I was somehow involved in the House of Spades and that it would be in his best interests to give me up for it. Gabe and I have known one another ten years--since he was twelve years old. He's like a little brother to me. He told them, in no uncertain terms, just what they could do with themselves, and the many varied ways they could do it.

I am angry. I'm fairly certain that nothing can be done to address this, that they'd pull the "we're merely hunting for terrorists" card and it would be forgiven, as terrorist is the word that seems to excuse everything. I'm not sure what, if anything, can be done. The local police are outranked. Another governmental agency would likely excuse, if not condone, the DHS' actions. I'm not crying "victim, victim" in search of reparations. That doesn't interest me. What I am interested in is how they're allowed to pull in anyone and treat them so. Lie to them. Is this legal? As I said, I would've gone willingly, had I been informed of their intent. I didn't need to be stuffed into the back of a black van and hauled away as if I were a criminal and then kept in isolation for hours. It simply doesn't seem right, but then maybe I'm just naive.

( Molly and Ben )

This evening's draw has Molly's name in it. To say that she's upset would be an understatement. She's been dating one of her fellow nurses at the hospital--I've met him, a nice, friendly, geeky sort, very cute. They really like one another, and it had potential. Had being the operative word. They weren't engaged, but from what Molly tells me, they might've been heading in that direction. And now, they won't know if it would've bloomed into something good for them both.

Her lottery match is Ben Scoffield. He's forty-nine, and is a carpenter--she exchanged an email with him, and learned that much. They're supposed to have dinner together tomorrow after work. She doesn't want to go, but there's that whole she has no choice thing. I offered to go with her, but she declined. I'm willing to bet that Norah shows up anyway and hides somewhere close by to watch and to make sure she's safe. Hopefully she won't have the pepper spray on her, because she gets a little excitable at times. Not the best first impression, especially if he's just a nice guy obeying the law.

We'll see how it goes. I just wish she'd had a chance to see how she and Matthew would've developed.

From: Grace Spencer <singingintherain@eternalskies.com>
To: Sarah Spencer <sspencer@u.washington.edu>, Molly Spencer <frogsox@eternalskies.com>, Norah Spencer <dibsoneverything@eternalskies.com>
Date: Tuesday February 24, 2009, 13:36 pm
Subject: Woohoo!
Attachment: Link

I just got back from lunch and found those sitting on the front counter of the shop, along with a box of what surely has to be the most unusual chocolates ever--yes, they're shaped like sushi, which delights me to no end. Here's their webpage: Koo-Ki Sushi. Aren't they great? The gifts are from Jeff, who apparently feels guilty about missing Valentine's Day--I hadn't expected anything, and so hadn't gotten him anything--and who wrote me a note saying he almost went overboard and got me a pony as well. Norah, DO NOT SAY ANYTHING. I will kill you, I swear.

The smile on my face is probably very goofy, but I don't care. Roses--I mentioned one time in passing that I liked them--and sushi, which is something we both love, and had on our one and only date. It's thoughtful and quirky in equal amounts, but that seems to be Jeff in a nutshell.

I think I might've actually gotten lucky in the lottery.

Mom, give Dad a hug and kiss for me. Molly, are we still having lunch Thursday? Indian? Norah, if you come by Friday for the poetry slam, I'll introduce you to that really cute carpenter who writes godawful sonnets.

And now I have to protect my chocolate sushi from Gabe. I think I'll have to bring out my Smiting Stick (tm). I'm not afraid to use it, either.

Grace

Who: Grace Spencer and family
What: The night before the wedding
When: February 15th, evening
Where: Grace's apartment
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete

( Families are like fudge - mostly sweet with a few nuts. )

And that was a waste of green silk and torturous high heels. Farewell, Martin, I hardly knew ye--and I mean that.

I do, however, feel that I know the people you spoke with multiple times during the evening, as do the people at the restaurant and at the theatre. And unwarranted arrogance to the restaurant waitstaff and theatre employees? Bad form, really. I think that you can tell a lot about someone by the way they treat those who work with the public, and being an ass is unneccessary and a fairly good indication of character.

My brother Pearce is the one who set me up with Martin, and really, I think it's payback for the time I shaved his head in stripes when he was five. Childhood trauma hangs on so long. *g*

But anyway. The evening's done, I have my pjs, a mug of tea, a sinfully comfortable sofa and a handful of magazines. I need a big floppy dog to lie on my feet and keep them warm. Dream big, I say. *g*

And the results of the lottery are posted. Interesting. I--and everyone else, I'm sure--will be watching to see how this plays out. For those involved in that little glitch, my sympathies. It can't be comfortable being the center of so much attention and speculation.

On a completely different note, the poetry slam last night at the bookstore went off without a hitch. Decent sized crowd, no spilled coffees, and a good time was had by all.

After checking references, talking with Sofia and looking at expenses, we've decided to hire someone to revamp our computer system. It works, but it's slow and it creaks, and if streamlining will improve things and work out better in the long view, well then, I'm all for it. I'll be giving him a call Monday morning to let him know. He's very personable and intelligent, and his references are stellar. We also owe him a dinner at Soraya's Café, as promised. Monday evening, maybe, depending on his schedule.

Tuesday evening, I have a date with Martin. We're going to see The Road to Mecca at The Rep. It looks interesting, though I swear I'm going to wrestle all electronic communication devices from him before we even sit down. I think he can live without them for an evening. No one likes to constantly play second fiddle to business dealings. Maybe I can talk him into sushi before we go, but I don't expect much luck on that front. He doesn't have a good sense of culinary adventure.

But tonight, it's take-home mexican food, and a date with Vincent Price. In all honesty, I'll probably have more fun with tacos and The Pit and The Pendulum than I'll have with Martin. I think Gabe might be right about him, but I've always thought you should give a person a chance. First dates aren't always a predictor of future behavior, after all.

Here's Grace

Books To the Ceiling

Arnold Lobel

Books to the ceiling
Books to the sky
My piles of books are a mile high.
How I love them
How I need them
I'll have a long beard by the time I read them.