Forever, or a Long, Long Time Page 10

  Ms. K keeps trying to say “Flora . . .” and reword the question, but I don’t need the question reworded, I don’t need her to say anything. I need to get my words out.

  “I . . . a fight . . . the food . . . the closet . . . my brother . . . Elena . . . I . . . a . . . couch . . . a . . . candy . . . my brother . . .”

  She’s shaking her head. I’m giving her everything but she’s getting nothing. I feel like I’m going to break in half trying to make myself make sense.

  “Flora?” a man’s voice says. I turn. Dad and Julian are standing in the doorway.

  “Hi,” Ms. K says. “Come on in. Flora is just trying to tell me about what’s going on.”

  “Oh,” Dad says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Jules and I were waiting in the car-pool line until it seemed like just about every kid was gone and I still didn’t see our Flora come out so I thought I’d come up and check on her.”

  “She’s here,” Ms. K says. “She had a rough day.”

  “Yeah,” Dad says. “Well, we’re all having a rough week, but we’ll be alright.”

  But I barely hear any of this because I’m staring at Julian, who is leaning against Dad, staring back at me.

  Finally I rush at him and he rushes at me. I throw my arms around him. He throws his around me.

  “I’m sorry!” I say.

  “I’m sorry!” he says.

  My tears are real tears, not word-tears, but they are also relief and I feel all the words inside me poof away. I thought I needed to tell Ms. K everything. Turns out all I needed was my brother.

  “Team,” we say at the same time.

  On Friday, Dad doesn’t take us straight home. Instead, he pulls into the parking lot outside of Dr. Fredrick’s office. When we get to the waiting room, Person is there. She stands and stretches her arms for a hug like we’re at home and this is all super normal. Julian and I don’t say anything about how un-normal it is.

  After a few minutes, Dr. Fredrick comes out of his office. “Hello, Flora and Julian!” he says. “I’d like to speak to your mom and dad for a minute before I call you in. Is that OK?”

  We nod.

  When they go behind the closed door, Julian whispers, “What do you think they’re talking about?”

  “Us,” I say.

  “But last time Dr. Fredrick said no secrets.”

  I shrug. So much for that.

  “Do you think what Elena said is true?” Julian asks. “That there’s less of everything because of us? That there’ll be even less with a new baby?”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “Are you worried?” Julian asks.

  I look at him. His face is open, no crazy smiles, so this is my chance. “Yeah,” I say. “There’s this new baby that’s going to come from the inside of . . . Mom. And we didn’t. I think she’ll realize all of the ways we’re so . . . like . . .”

  “Confused?” Julian says.

  I nod.

  “And . . . hard to deal with?” he says.

  I nod.

  “The new baby will be so easy,” I say. “Mom will know everything about it. From before it was even born.”

  Julian stares into the empty waiting room for a full minute before he says, “We have to try to be easy too.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”

  A few minutes later, Dr. Fredrick opens his door and says, “Come on in, guys!” He has a big smile on his face, a real one. Julian’s lips spread into his fake smile and we follow Dr. Fredrick inside.

  All of us sit in Dr. Fredrick’s office: Person, me, Dad, Julian. Every time I’m here it’s like there are more and more people.

  Julian and I don’t say anything while Person catches Dr. Fredrick up on everything that’s been happening. She tells him about showing us all of the papers that are supposed to be our whole life but really said almost nothing. She tells him how we’ve now read all of the postcards from Gloria and Megan B. and how she offered for us to write them back, but we never did. She starts to tell him about how I punched Elena, but Dr. Fredrick interrupts.

  “Is there a reason you guys don’t want to write back to your old foster mom and foster sister?”

  But it’s not that we don’t want to write back to them. It’s that we want to see them.

  “Nah,” Julian says. “We’re good.” He pastes on that fake smile again but I’m not mad about it this time.

  I have to lie too. I have to pretend I don’t care about Megan B. or Gloria or the white house or the shoulders I once rode on anymore. If I want 100 percent of Person’s love, I have to give her 100 percent of mine. So we have to stop asking for things.

  “You seemed so curious about it last time I saw you,” Dr. Fredrick says. “You seemed downright angry that you had not had access to your past. And now you don’t want to connect?”

  Julian shrugs. “We saw the postcards. We feel better.”

  “Flora?” Dr. Fredrick asks.

  He’s staring right at me. He’s very smart. He’ll totally see that I’m lying.

  I manage to squeak out a “yup” but it’s high and crooked.

  “There’s something else going on here,” Dr. Fredrick says. He looks at Person. “What do you think could be happening?”

  “Is it really impossible that the postcards were enough?” Person says.

  Dad sighs.

  I want to sigh too. Moments like this—when Person can’t read my mind, when she can’t find my heart—are the most lonely.

  “What?” Person asks Dad.

  “I, um . . .” He trails off.

  “Tell me,” Person says.

  I shift in my seat. Person and Dad almost never fight but when they do it starts like this. Like Dad saying nothing and Person begging for words. Like Dad not agreeing with something, and Person wanting to know why but also being mad at him before he even talks.

  “What do you think, Jon?” Dr. Fredrick asks.

  Dad looks at Dr. Fredrick when he answers instead of Person, even though it’s clear she’s the one he’s really talking to.

  “I don’t know. There’s a lot going on. My daughters are fighting with each other. We have a new baby coming. And they just found out that some of the people from their life before us still miss them and think about them . . . I don’t know that postcards can be enough.”

  Julian leans across Dad to raise his eyebrows at me. He’s saying DAD gets it? Dad gets it when Mom doesn’t? I raise mine back, but then we both shake our heads. No matter how much we want to see Gloria again, no matter how much we want to remember, no matter how much we want to know where we came from, we can’t ask for anything. We have to be easy. We have to be normal.

  “And then there’s the whole ‘born’ thing. I mean, we don’t have any baby pictures. These are my kids. I want to see their baby faces. I want to retrace their steps. I want to know.”

  “You weren’t there, Jon,” Person says. “You don’t know how it was.”

  “But they were there,” Dad says. “They know . . . I really don’t think we’re going to shock them with their own lives.”

  “He’s right,” Dr. Fredrick says.

  “So, what?” Person says. “I should force them to write a postcard to this woman when they say they don’t want to?”

  I’m sitting on my hands so that they don’t start twitching with everything I want to write, everything I would if I could.

  “Why don’t you ask them what they do want?” Dr. Fredrick says.

  “I want to see it!” I say before I can make my gates stop the words from coming.

  “Flora!” Julian says.

  “Oops, I mean . . . I want . . . I want to see the postcards again.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Julian says.

  “What did you really mean?” Dr. Fredrick asks. “You want to see your old house?”

  I bite my lips to keep my voice from saying yes.

  “We don’t need that. We’re happy here. Right, Mom?” Julian says.

  Person looks at
him, then at me.

  “You guys want to go back there?”

  Julian doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.

  “What’s going on?” Person asks. “Why aren’t you telling me what’s on your minds?”

  I swallow more words. Dr. Fredrick says, “Remember that these are kids who have experienced trauma, Flora especially. It can be hard for her to express herself because of her traumatic history. We need to be patient with Flora.”

  “I know,” Person says. She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, guys. You can tell me. I promise it’s safe. You can tell me what you’re thinking.”

  It feels safe again but we still don’t say anything.

  “You know,” Dr. Fredrick says. “Sometimes you might want something, or even need something, that your mom has a hard time giving you. It’s OK to ask for it anyway. I’m not talking about a cookie or a toy . . . I’m talking about a real deep desire.”

  Person nods. “You guys can ask for anything. You know that.”

  Except we don’t.

  “There’s not a baby picture,” I say. “But if there is, I want to see it. And . . . I want to see younger pictures of me. If there are any.”

  “Me too,” Julian says. “I want to know . . . whatever. I want to know what we can. I want . . . I want to stay with you. I want to live with you, but . . . I want to know . . . about before.”

  Person’s eyebrows knit together. “Then why did you say you didn’t need any of that?”

  I shrug.

  Julian’s lips curl back into the crazy smile and he says, “Because we don’t. We don’t need it. We’re happy. Right, Florey?”

  He went from truth to lying so fast I’m dizzy.

  “No,” I say.

  “What?” Person asks. “You’re unhappy? What’s making you unhappy?”

  “Not unhappy,” I say. “Just no asking.”

  I missed a few words in there, I think. My words are getting heavy again. This is a scary thing to talk about.

  “No more asking,” I say. “Just stay quiet.”

  “What?” Dad says. “You’re allowed to ask about your past. You can ask us every day if you like.”

  “Asking for,” I say. “No asking for.”

  “What?” Dad says.

  Person says, “Explain.” I feel like she’s reaching out again. I feel like her heart is getting a little closer to mine, which would mean it’s getting a little further from the baby’s, and I like that.

  “There’s a new baby,” I say.

  “Flora!” Julian says.

  “I need . . . we need . . . normal. Easy. We’re normal and easy. You can . . . you can just take care of the new baby. We’ll be . . .”

  “We’ll be fine! We’re happy! We’re all totally fine and happy! Right, Mom?” Julian and I are saying the same thing, but somehow mine is a truth and his is a lie.

  Person’s face comes apart. Of course it’s still together, but I can see something inside her rip into two.

  “Guys,” she says. “You don’t have to be happy for me. You’re allowed to ask me for things. You need to ask me for things. You’re my kids. I want . . . I want to give you everything. I mean, nothing will change that. Not one baby. Not one hundred babies.”

  Her eyes are wet. I don’t like that we made her cry. I scoot closer to her and put my head on her shoulder and then she turns and hugs me and it’s the tightest, warmest hug ever.

  “I wish I knew how to do this better,” she says.

  Dr. Fredrick says, “That’s a pretty nice hug. I think you’re doing a lot of things right.”

  “I wish I could crawl into your heart with a Dustbuster and tidy it up,” Person says. “I wish I could get in there in a way that you knew I always, always will be.”

  She’s still hugging me.

  “You know,” Dr. Fredrick says. “I think that’s exactly what Flora and Julian are asking for. To go back through the steps of their life and put things in order. To tidy up their hearts.”

  Person starts crying for real now.

  “I know it’s hard,” Dr. Fredrick says. “But it’s important. And remember that just because something is scary and difficult in the moment doesn’t mean it’s bad. We usually feel better after the worst moments. Sometimes we need to go through the dark tunnel in order to see the light.”

  Thirteen

  FAMILIES HAVE STORIES

  AFTER DINNER THE NEXT NIGHT, JULIAN and I hand dishes to Person and she rinses them and puts them in the dishwasher.

  “Ask her,” Julian says. “Ask for the story.”

  I hand her my plate, then turn quickly so I can’t see her face. “Tell us again?” I say.

  “Tell you what?” Person asks. She leans over and puts a plate in the dishwasher. We still haven’t talked about how I punched Elena or how I spent days and days not talking at all or how Dr. Fredrick wants us to go back in time and Person is afraid to do it, but also Person still has her contacts in her eyes and she smiled with her whole face at dinner and Dad had to work tonight but when he left they said Person will be here tomorrow, which means she has the day off so maybe she’s in a little bit of a better mood.

  “Tell us again,” I say, wandering back over to the table. There’s almost nothing left on it but I don’t want to have to look in her face when I ask or when she answers. “The story.”

  “How you got us,” Julian says. He always finds the words I’m missing.

  “Oh!” Person says. “OK. It’s been awhile since you’ve asked for this one but you know how I love to tell it!”

  Julian smiles at me. I smile back.

  Person still loves the story, one checkmark in the box for We Are Lovable.

  “When your aunt Alice had baby Cate, your cousin, I got to thinking how I would probably be a good mommy too,” Person says.

  She always starts at this part of the story, even though it doesn’t seem to have much to do with us. And she always calls these people “your” meaning ours even though we only see them a few times a year and don’t know too much about them.

  There are all sorts of connections in the world. People are connected to people and then other people. And some of these people are connected to me even though I haven’t met them. Or don’t remember them. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it all.

  The only connection I understand without trying is Julian.

  “But Cate’s not a baby anymore,” Julian says.

  He always says that. We have a script for this story. We’ve told it so many times it’s worn thin and comfortable, like a T-shirt tumbled and tumbled in the dryer until it’s soft and settles right on your shoulders like a second skin.

  “No, Cate’s almost your age now. I had to wait years and years and years for my dreams to come true with the two of you.” Person is talking loud, over the running water and the clinking of dishes. Julian and I are both circling the table picking at nothing, pretending to be busy so we can draw the story out.

  My favorite part comes at the end. My favorite part is why Julian wanted to hear the story today, I’m sure of it.

  “What did you do while you waited?” I ask.

  “Well, I had a lot of preparing to do to become a mommy by myself,” Person says. “First I went to meetings with lots of professionals who love kids like you so much they dedicate their lives to you.”

  I always imagine these professionals as men in black suits with no faces. They have never fully existed. I’ve never seen their faces so how can they love me? But they’ve always been a part of our story.

  “They said, ‘Emily, you’d probably make a good mom, but we need to be absolutely sure because children are super precious and important. So we’re going to make you fill out a ton of paperwork that proves you’ve always been a good person. And we’re going to make you take classes to be sure you’re ready for our particular kids. And we’re going to make sure you have a good support system so that any kids you adopt are coming into a full community.’ All that sort of thing.”
<
br />   “How did you do all of that?” Julian says.

  “How long did it take?” I say. I want to skip to the end. I want to hear the last thing she says, the thing that always makes me feel good.

  “It took months and months,” Person says. “First, a bunch of people came to my home. They went through all of my drawers. They looked in my refrigerator and said ‘Oh good, you have some healthy food for kids!’” Person chuckles.

  “The food you fed us on the first day?” Julian asks. He twists to look at her.

  Suddenly the three of us are sitting on the sofa, Julian and me on either side of Person, leaning into her. How did that happen?

  It’s warm and happy. It’s good.

  Person only has two sides. How will we all lean on her when she has three kids?

  “No!” Person says. “That’s why I laughed when he said that. Why would it matter if I had healthy food for you? I wouldn’t meet you for years still. Those social workers are a funny bunch.”

  “Then what happened?” I ask. I want to stay in this moment forever. I never want to leave my person or her couch. But I also can’t wait to hear the end of her story.

  “What else did he say?” Julian asks.

  “He said, ‘Ms. Baker, your paperwork says you’re interested in a sibling group of school age children, but I’m sorry, your apartment is too small. I can license you for one preschool child or baby, but not two or more older kids.’”

  “And did you say OK?” Julian asks.

  He likes the whole story. I’m warm and happy. I tell myself to stop rushing it along.

  “Nope.” Person plants a kiss on both of our heads. “Somewhere in the universe I sensed you two or something because I said, ‘Then I guess I’ll have to move!’ and he said ‘Really? You’re going to move out of your home?’”

  She squeezes us a little closer.

  “He couldn’t believe I would move for you guys. Isn’t that silly? We love our home but we love our families more. Or at least we should.”

  I don’t know who the we is because Person was all alone when all this happened.

  “And then you moved here,” I say. “To our home.”

  “And then I moved here. Then another social worker came through and gave the whole rundown again. She said my home was good to go and sent me out to classes.”