“That’s what I am here to talk to you about,” she tells me. “Would you like to join me in the kitchen? We can get a snack or something to drink.”
“Umm . . . O-okay,” I mumble as the policeman sets me on the floor. When I follow the two of them out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, I look through the house to the front door, but nobody’s there anymore.
“Why don’t we have a seat?” the woman says, and I walk over to the table and sit down. “Do you want something to drink?”
I nod my head and she prompts, “Can you tell me what you want?”
“Juice box.”
Looking over at the policeman, he opens the door to the pantry, and I say, “They’re in the fridge.”
He walks over, pops the straw in, and sets it in front of me before he leaves the room.
“Confusing day, huh?” she says as she folds her hands together on top of the table. “What’s your name?”
“Barbara,” she answers but it doesn’t help me remember how I know her.
“When’s my daddy coming back?”
She takes in a deep breath and then tells me, “That’s what I’d like to talk to you about. Your father broke some pretty big rules and just like when you break a rule, what normally happens?”
“I get in trouble.”
She nods her head and continues, “Well, your father is in trouble, and he won’t be able to come home right now.”
“What did he do?”
“I’m not quite sure just yet. But for now, you’re going to come with me. I work for the Department of Children and Family Services, which means I’m going to find you a home with really nice people that you will stay with while your father is in trouble and can’t be here with you, okay?”
“B-But, I don’t want to leave.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t let you stay here alone. But you can bring some of your things with you. How does that sound?” She says this with a smile, but it doesn’t help the churning of my stomach.
Quietly, I slip off of the chair and start walking to my room. I go over to the tea set that’s on the table and pick up the pink daisies. My princess flowers. I sit down in the chair that he was sitting in and look over my shoulder to see Barbara walking into the room.
“Do you have a bag?”
I point to the closet and watch as she starts going through my dresser, packing up my clothes. She roams around, going back and forth between my bedroom and the bathroom as I clutch the flowers to my chest.
“You ready to go?” she asks when she steps back into the room, but I don’t want to look at her because I don’t want to go.
Staring out the window and up into the blue sky, I ask, “When can I come back?”
“I’m not sure,” she responds. “Probably not for a while.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her move across the room and kneel down beside me. As I turn to look at her, she says, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.” She looks down at the daisies. “Those are pretty flowers. Do you want to bring them with you?”
Leaving the house, we walk out to her car and I hop into the back seat. As I look out the window, I watch the policeman shut the front door to my house and lock some sort of black box onto the door handle.
“What’s that?” I ask Barbara, who’s sitting up front.
“What’s what, dear?”
“That thing he put on the door.”
She looks over to see what I’m talking about and responds, “It’s just a lock since we don’t have the keys,” and then starts driving away while I hold tightly to my flowers.
IT’S BEEN THREE years since I was taken away from my home and placed in foster care. Three years since I’ve seen my dad. I was told he was trafficking guns to South America. I still don’t understand everything, but then again, I’m just an eight-year-old kid. A ward of the state of Illinois. Three years and I miss my dad every day. No one will take me to go see him since he’s over six hours away, serving his nine-year sentence in Menard Prison.
I sit in my room and wait on my caseworker, Barbara, to come pick me up to take me to my new home. Three years and I’m leaving my fifth home to go to my sixth. The first place I went was in the same town of Northbrook, where I’d lived. But after getting caught sneaking out of my bedroom window a few times during the night, they said they couldn’t manage me, and so I left. The same thing has happened at each home I’ve lived in.
At first I was scared. I cried a lot. I missed my dad and would scream for him, but he never came. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. I’m not gonna get to see him until he gets out. I’ll be fourteen years old. Fourteen is my new lucky number. I count everything in groups of fourteen just to remind myself that the time will come when I can see him again and we can go back to our life together in our nice house in our nice neighborhood. I miss his smile and the way he smelled. I can’t explain it, but sometimes when I’d be at preschool, I can faintly remember lifting my shirt to inhale his scent when I was missing him. The smell of my dad.
Comfort.
Home.
When I hear the doorbell ring, I know it’s time. I’ve been through several home switches before. You’d think I’d be scared, but I’m used to it now. So I grab my bags and head out to the front door. Barbara is standing there talking to Molly, the foster mom that doesn’t want to deal with me anymore. They both turn as I approach and say hi.
“You ready, Elizabeth?” Barbara asks.
Nodding my head, I walk past Molly as she places her hand on my shoulder, saying, “Wait.”
She kneels down to give me a hug, but I don’t return it. I’m sad, but I don’t cry; I just wanna leave, so when she lets go, that’s what I do.
While I sit in the passenger seat, watching the buildings pass by as Barbara drives, she turns down the radio and says, “Talk to me, kid.”
I hate when she calls me kid, like I’m not special enough for her to use my name. She only uses it when there are other people around, but alone, I’m kid.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I’ve found five good homes for you, and you’ve managed to get kicked out of every one of them. You keep me busy, you know that?”
I’m not sure if she really wants a response, so I stay quiet before she adds, “You can’t keep sneaking out at night. What the hell are you doing out on the streets in the middle of the night anyway?”
“Nothing,” I mutter just to say something to appease her. Truth is, I started sneaking out to see if I could find Carnegie. Sounds stupid now, but when I was five, I thought he’d be there, waiting for me to find him. So I would sneak out and walk around, hoping to stumble upon that magical forest. It never happened, and now I’m old enough to know fairytales aren’t real, but I still sneak out and look for the forest anyway.
“Well, listen, I couldn’t find a home to place you in around here, so you’re gonna be in a different town. You’re not gonna be seeing me anymore since I don’t live there. I’m still going to handle your case, but Lucia will be your contact. She should be doing a visit with you later this week. But a piece of advice—stop causing issues or the next stop will be a group home.”
“So I won’t see you again?”
She looks over at me, saying, “Probably not, kid.”
We’ve been in the car for almost two hours when we finally exit the highway.
“Welcome to Posen,” Barbara says, and it isn’t but a couple minutes later when she pulls into a rundown neighborhood.
Chain-link fences run alongside the cracked sidewalks. The homes are old and small, unlike the large brick house I lived in with my dad. Most of these homes have cars parked on their unkempt lawns, chipped paint, and everything about what I’m seeing brings on a well of tears. My stomach knots, and I turn to Barbara, saying, “I don’t think I want to live here, Barb.”
“Shoulda thought about that when I told you to stop sneaking out at night.”
“I promise. I won’t do it again. I’ll say so
rry to Molly,” I beg, and when she pulls into the drive of a dirty, old, two-story house that looks like it’s barely standing, I start crying. “Please. I don’t wanna live here. I wanna go home.”
She turns the car off and looks over at me. I feel like I’d do just about anything to convince her to turn the car around and take me back to Northbrook.
“I’m in a bind. You’re eight years old with an unstable home history. Now this family has been fostering for years. They are currently fostering a boy a few years older than you,” she tells me. “I talked to them just the other day. You’ll have your very own room and will go to the same school as their other foster kid.”
I keep my mouth shut and listen. I don’t want to be here. I wanna run, just open this car door and run as fast as I can. I wonder if she’d be able to catch me.
“You listening?” she asks and refocuses my attention back to her.
I nod my head.
“Come on. I’ve got a long drive back,” she says as she gets out of the car and opens the back door to grab my bags.
With a shaking hand, I open the door and follow her along the weathered driveway to the steps leading up to the front door. The rusted screen door squeaks loudly as she opens it and knocks a few times. I stand there, picking at my nails, praying to God that no one opens the door. That this is all a big mistake and we’re at the wrong house.
But it isn’t a mistake, and someone does answer the door. A woman, dressed in a homely, long, denim skirt and a light purple sweater, opens the door. I stare at her as Barbara starts to talk. The woman doesn’t look scary, but I still feel like bolting. She looks down at me and gives me a soft smile. Her ratty ponytail is attempting to tame her long, brown, frizzy hair.
Stepping aside, she invites us in, and the place smells like stale cigarette smoke. While she leads us through the small living room and back to the kitchen, the two of them continue to talk as I take everything in. Wood-paneled walls, brown carpet, mismatched furniture, and ducks everywhere. Everywhere. Ducks on pillows, wooden ducks, ceramic ducks, glass ducks. They line the book shelves, cover the tables, and when I look up, they are even on top of the kitchen cabinets.
“Elizabeth.”
It takes me a second to realize that Barbara is saying my name, and when I look over at her, she gives me one of her fake smiles and says, “Mrs. Garrison says that your bedroom is upstairs.”
“I hope you like purple,” the woman says to me as I look at her purple top and then back up to her face when she says, “You’re the first girl we’ve gotten, so I got a little carried away.”
Barbara gives me an annoyed look, nodding her head to encourage me to talk.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “Purple is nice.”
She smiles and lays her hand over mine. I want to snatch it away, but I don’t. I don’t do anything that my mind is screaming I should. I just sit.
“Well then, why don’t I help you up with your bags before I go?” Barbara says.
The three of us walk up the stairs as they creak beneath our feet and into the purple room. The walls match Mrs. Garrison’s sweater, and I watch as she shows me the closet and then the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that adjoins to the other bedroom.
“This seems like a great room, huh?” Barbara says when she plops my bags down on top of the purple twin bed.
“Mmm hmm.”
“Well, I have to get back on the road,” she tells me, and when she does, I feel the tears hit my cheeks.
Suddenly, I’ve never felt more alone. Empty.
“There’s no need to cry. You’re gonna be fine. I know that change can be hard, but you’ll be okay. Like I said, Lucia will be out to meet you in a few days, okay?”
“Okay.” It’s an auto-response because I’m far from okay.
With a light pat on my shoulder, Barbara leaves me behind, standing in the purple room with duck lady.
“Would you like me to help you unpack, dear?” she asks.
“I’ll do it.”
“Are you hungry? I could fix you a sandwich.”
I look up at her through the remaining tears in my eyes and nod my head.
“Great. We normally always eat at the kitchen table, but I’ll bring it up to you if you’d like.”
“Okay,” I say as I start unzipping my bags.
“Elizabeth,” she calls from the hall, right outside the bedroom, “I hope you’ll like it here. Carl, my husband, worked hard painting this room for you. He’s out running a couple errands, but should be home shortly.”
When I don’t respond, she excuses herself and heads downstairs, leaving me alone to unpack. Next to the bed is a small window that looks out over the front of the house. All the houses are the same aside from the various colors of paint. Everything looks decayed here.
I take my time putting my clothes away and eventually eat the peanut butter sandwich that Bobbi brought me. She told me to call her that rather than Mrs. Garrison.
Aside from a small dresser, desk, and bulletin board, the room is pretty bare. When I walk into the bathroom, the sink counter is already occupied with the other kid’s stuff. I wonder if he’s like me, how old he is, and if he’s nice. I feel like I need a friend more than ever right now. I’m so far from home and so alone.
A loud rumbling from outside calls my attention, and I walk over to look out the window. An old, grey, beat-up pickup truck pulls into the driveway. I watch as an older, fat guy gets out of the driver’s seat and starts walking towards the house. Then the boy gets out, but I can’t see what he looks like under his baseball cap.
I stay in my room and listen as they walk in, talk to each other, and then I hear the creaking of the stairs. Bobbi is the first one I see, followed by her husband.
“Elizabeth, how’s the unpacking going?” she asks.
“Good,” I say as I look at the man. He’s got a big belly, stains on his shirt, and long, messy hair.
“That’s good. This is Carl, my husband,” she introduces.
“Elizabeth, is it?” he asks.
Nod.
“You settling in all right?”
Nod.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
Feeling like I need to say something, I mumble, “I’m just tired.”
“Well, I’ll leave you be then,” he says. “Glad to have you here.”
Bobbi smiles as Carl walks out and after she asks me how I’m doing and if I need anything, I lie and assure her that I’m fine. She closes the door behind her and as soon as she does, I see the light from the other bedroom flick on through the bathroom. I watch, and when I see the boy with the baseball cap, he turns to look at me.
“Hi,” he says as he stands on his end of the bathroom.
“Hi.”
Taking off his cap, he tosses it on his bed and runs his hand through his sweaty, dark brown, nearly black hair. He then walks through the bathroom and into my room, looking around.
“This color is sickening,” he says, giving me my first real smile in a long time.
“I lied,” I tell him. “I told her I like purple, but I don’t.”
“You been in the system long?”
“Three years.”
“Nine for me. I just got here a couple weeks ago.”
“Are they nice?” I ask.
He takes a seat on the bed next to me, and he smells like cigarette smoke and soap. “Bobbi hasn’t been here much. She just got back in town from some crafting show she did.”
“Crafting show?”
“Yeah, she makes wooden duck figurines and crap to sell at fairs, flea markets, and shit, so she’s gone a lot. Carl works at the auto mechanic shop down the road.” He pauses and then adds, “He drinks a lot.”
I don’t say anything, and we sit in silence for a moment before he asks, “How old are you?”
“Eight. You?”
“Eleven. Almost twelve. Name?”
“Elizabeth.”
“You scared, Elizabeth?”
Looking over at him,
I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and nod, whispering, “Yeah.”
“It’ll be okay. Promise.”
I watch as a hint of a smile crosses his face and something about it tells me that I can believe him.
“I’m Pike, by the way.”
“WHERE THE FUCK have you been, Elizabeth?”
“I’m sorry,” I say as Pike loosens his hold on me. “I haven’t been able to get away, but I’m here now.”
Pike takes a step back, raking one hand through his thick, choppy, dark hair and releases a rough breath through his nose.
“Pike, come on. Don’t make me regret coming here. I only have tonight before Bennett comes back home.”
“I’m just sick of living in this shithole while you’re living your precious life in that fuckin’ penthouse. It’s been over three years¸” he bites and then falls back onto the couch.
Looking down at him, I try to soothe his irritation, “I know. I’m sorry, but you knew it would be like this. You knew this wouldn’t work if we moved fast.”
“Are you even working at it at all, Elizabeth? Because from where I’m standing, it seems you’ve gotten quite comfortable in your new life.”
“Don’t be a dick, Pike,” I say, raising my voice at him. “You know me better than that. You know I hate that asshole with everything I am.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees with his head dropped. Walking over to him, I sit down on the couch and start rubbing his hardened shoulder, muscles tense out of frustration.
“I’m sorry,” he quietly says, and sits back, pulling me with him and holding me.
I need the contact, need his touch. I always have, so I linger in it for a moment with my arm slung around his waist. I hate being away from him, but I know he hates it more. I don’t blame him. This is the shittiest place he’s lived, but he’s paying the owner of this trailer under the table to keep himself off the grid. He’s still hustling to get by, and here I am, lying in his arms wearing a goddamn Hermés coat that probably costs more than this crap-hole he lives in.
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here, but it won’t be forever.”