Forever, or a Long, Long Time Page 14

  It seems so important to Person. I wonder why this matters more than anything else. More than me passing fourth grade. More than Julian being normal about food. More than us being good to the new baby. But it’s the one thing I can’t even try to do for her. I can try to express myself. I can try to pass fourth grade. I can try not to worry.

  I can’t try to be born. Why does being born matter?

  That night I’m snuggled into the big bed in the hotel. Julian is propped up on his elbow beside me. We’ve just said good night to Dad on FaceTime and now Person is reading to us from a funny book she brought called Joey Pigza Swallowed the Key. I can still smell the chlorine in my hair and my muscles feel delightfully tired from the long swim we took when we first got to the hotel this afternoon.

  Person talked on and on about what great swimmers we were. The same way she did last summer. This time she said, “I wonder who taught you to swim.”

  The words are still going through my brain. Did anyone teach us? Or maybe we came from the water and we’ve always just known?

  Every few sentences Julian and I bubble with giggles at the silly antics Joey gets himself into. And when we do, Person stops reading to smile at us like we are surprises, like we’re presents under the Christmas tree that she was sure she’d never get.

  When she gets to the end of the chapter, she closes the book and Julian says, “Mom, please—”

  “We’ve got a big day tomorrow,” Person says. “We’ll read more on the beach in the afternoon.”

  Julian lies down on the pillow next to me. “What about the morning?” he asks. He’s staring at the ceiling. He’s nervous. I’m nervous. She’s nervous.

  I thought I’d be afraid of the beach but when we took a walk on it today, it was OK. I thought I’d be afraid to be back here so close to where so much bad stuff happened to us, where we grew before we became Person’s. The Maryland shore.

  I don’t want Person to answer his question. I don’t want to think about the hard stuff we’re here to do. Because I feel happy. I feel like I’m on a family vacation like television people go on. I feel like we are a family.

  I feel almost normal.

  I feel almost real.

  “We’ll go to Gloria’s home. We’ll only stay as long as we need to gather information,” Person says. “Then we’ll hit the beach.”

  Underneath the covers I start to shake.

  “This is what Dr. Fredrick suggested. It’s time for you guys to learn your story. Even if it’s hard or uncomfortable, he thinks you guys will get some answers. You’ll get some memories with each place we go.” She sounds unconvinced.

  I shake. I shake. I hope Person can’t see.

  It’s hard enough to want something Person doesn’t. But to want something and also be afraid of it, it’s so confusing.

  We’re going to the homes. We’re reliving all the change and all the chaos. How can Person ask me to be an un-worrying kid and also take me back to all of these places?

  She puts her hand on my head and I’m glad I’m not shaking there.

  “And the rest of the days—most of the time—we’ll be on vacation. We’ll go to the beach and the boardwalk. We’ll play games and mini-golf. We’ll go to restaurants and swim in the pool. OK, Flora? Then we will all go home together. I will not leave your side. OK, Flora?”

  No no no. NO. Not OK.

  Except I can’t say that because all of my words are stuck.

  I know we asked Person for this trip, but now that it’s starting tomorrow, I’m scared.

  What if once I remember, I don’t want to remember anymore, but this time I can’t forget?

  “We’ll have a code word,” Person says. “If either of you get into a situation that you feel you can’t handle, you say the word elephant and we’ll leave immediately. I promise. I won’t worry about being rude or anything, I’ll just take you right out of there, OK?”

  What if my words are stuck?

  “And we’ll do something fun every day, too.”

  Person keeps saying that. Fun. How do we have fun in the middle of darkness and chaos? How do we have fun while also watching her learn exactly how terrible it is where we come from?

  Believe, Flora. Believe.

  When I finally make words they say, “Read another?”

  Person knits her eyebrows together. “Another chapter?” she asks.

  “Yes, yes!” I say.

  “Yes,” Julian says.

  And then we lie down and she opens the book back up. The funny words wash over me but I barely hear them. Instead I hear Person’s voice.

  She’s reading for me. She’s doing this for me.

  I’ll be OK as long as I’m with her.

  Seventeen

  FAMILIES HAVE HISTORIES

  WHEN WE ARRIVE SATURDAY MORNING, THE house looms over the car. It’s not big. I can see that with my eyes. But it feels huge. It takes up my whole vision. It takes up my whole heart.

  It’s exactly like I remember: blue-gray paneled with a small square front yard that’s half grass, half white concrete driveway. The yard is filled with stuff. Old, rusty-looking bicycles. Plastic cars that little kids would sit in and move their feet to make them go. Baby dolls and plastic bowling pins and basketballs and a fake lawn mower. Everything is broken or dented or missing a leg or a door. I even see a lone white sock hanging over the banister that leads up to the porch. There’s the pole for a basketball hoop in the driveway, but no backboard or hoop at the top.

  Every few seconds the screen door screeches open and a kid spills out. They seem to be everywhere, the kids. All sizes and colors and shapes of them.

  On the side of the yard, behind a chain-link fence, I can see three dogs running around back and forth, playing. There’s a lot of playing. Kids. Dogs.

  I never knew playing could be scary.

  “This was your last house. I think you were here for almost a year.”

  “Yeah,” Julian says.

  “Yeah,” I say. Because I’m remembering some things. I remember the way the dogs used to lick my hands in the mornings and how happy I was when one of them chose to curl up on the bottom of my bed at night. I remember Megan B. and her dollhouse. I remember the swirling chaos around Julian and me as kids careened in every direction.

  “It’s OK, Mom,” Julian says. “We don’t need to do this.”

  He’s changing his mind now that we’re here, now that we’re steps away from Gloria’s front door, the front door to our lives Before. I sort of want to change my mind too.

  I know that Person will say OK. She’ll take us back to the hotel and we’ll spend the days swimming in the ocean on a Dad-less family vacation instead of doing what we should. What we need to. Julian and I will pretend it’s OK while the holes inside us get bigger and bigger and bigger. Then there will be a baby and Julian will hide more and more food and I will talk less and less and Julian’s smile will get bigger and faker and crazier.

  I can’t let that happen.

  Person turns to face us in the backseat. She smiles like she’s taking charge. I love that smile. “Let’s make a game of it then,” she says. “I’m pretty sure I’m right about you being born, but if we gather the evidence in these houses to prove one of your other theories, I’ll accept that. We’ll look for clues in all the houses. We’ll keep track of which theory has the most evidence. We’ll assign points. OK? We’ll make it fun.”

  Julian and I don’t say anything. We stare.

  “Remind me of the theories,” Person says.

  “Sand,” I say. “Television. Blood.”

  “The horizon,” Julian says. “The sea.”

  “Alright,” Person says, turning from the front seat with a smile that’s too big to be real, but that’s OK because I know she’s doing it for us. “Let the games begin.”

  We get out of the car and all of the kids in the yard ignore us as we approach the front door.

  Before Person can ring the bell, a black-haired lady with a baby on her right h
ip opens the screen door and says, “Julian! Flora!” She looks at Person. “I’m so glad you came back to visit us. Thank you, Emily.”

  It’s Gloria.

  My eyebrows shoot up. So do Julian’s. I guess I figured the mommies would remember us, especially if we remember them. But I didn’t think they’d know Person.

  “Come in,” she says.

  We file into a dark living room. There’s no one in here but the TV is on anyway, playing cartoons loudly. We sit on the couch in a row: Julian, me, Person.

  “I was so glad when your mom called to say you guys would be visiting. What brings you all back this way?” Gloria says, before she leans forward and mutes the TV.

  At that moment two kids bound into the room. I don’t recognize them so they must be new. I didn’t recognize the kids in the yard either. There were always new kids here. These two are black and one is a girl around six and there’s a boy that looks about a year younger. “Gloria!” the girl whines. “Sam took my juice.”

  She snatches at the juice box in Sam’s hand.

  “So get another one,” Gloria says over her shoulder, without bothering to look at the kids.

  The girl snatches at the box again. “But that’s the last grape one!”

  “We’ll have more soon. I pick up the WIC check today. Just get a different one.”

  “I want grape!” the girl shouts. This time she manages to get her hand on the juice box and squeezes so juice explodes into Sam’s face. “Jasmine!” Sam screams. He throws the juice box at her and then puts both of his hands on her shoulders and shoves her into the wall.

  Julian starts to shake next to me. I shake back. We’re talking in shakes. Yes, we remember this. No, we didn’t want to.

  “That’s it!” Gloria shouts. “Outside, both of you! I have company, can’t you see?”

  She gets up and shoves the kids out the front door and when she sits back down, Person says, “Well, it’s nice to see you, Gloria. I can see you still have your hands full. We don’t need to stay long but—”

  We’re all shocked when Gloria talks again. It almost sounds like she’s going to cry. “I know, I know,” she says. “Dios mio, I know.”

  “What?” Person asks.

  I scoot closer to her. I belong to Person now, not this frazzled black-haired lady.

  “I know I have my hands too full,” she says.

  Person nods. Julian and I shake.

  Person says, “So if we could—”

  “I’m weak, you know? The county, they call. They say there’s kids who need help. I can’t say no. I have to say yes. If I don’t say yes . . . what kind of person am I? I’m a Christian. I can’t turn a child away from my home. But they give me too many. I’m never doing a good job.”

  Person’s eyes are huge. It’s like she doesn’t know what to say.

  “I love these little ones but . . . it’s not supposed to be this way. They shouldn’t all be here, you know?”

  “No,” Julian says, and I love him for it. What is this woman talking about?

  “I mean, foster care is supposed to be temporary. They’re always saying ‘Just for a few days, just for a month’ so I say yes when more kids need a home. I think, I can handle ten kids if it’s only for two days. I think, what’s one more for this week? And then they stay and stay.”

  “Maybe you should say no sometimes,” I say. “You look tired.”

  My face burns. Stupid lung filters.

  Gloria looks right at me. Her eyes are big and brown like Julian’s.

  “You talked!” she says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Flora! You talked. So quickly.” She turns and looks at Person. “The whole time she was here she barely talked except to Megan and Julian. Maybe three words in what was it? Six months? Or five?”

  “Eleven, I think,” Person says.

  “Eleven! Eleven months, I had these babies!”

  Person squeezes my shoulders. I’m thinking. Gloria remembers me. And I didn’t talk.

  I try to remember not talking. I try to remember being here. But all I remember is scariness and a few bright memories of dogs and Megan and her dollhouse. I don’t remember a routine. I don’t remember breakfast and going to school and bedtime and all the normal stuff. I remember stuff from here but I don’t remember being here.

  “Flora’s pretty smart. We should all listen to her more,” Person says.

  “Do you know anything else about us?” Julian asks. “Like do you know how we started?”

  Gloria shakes her head. “By the time you guys got to me, you’d been in care a long time. I’m not sure how you came into care in the first place.”

  “Do you know anything about their previous houses?” Person asks.

  Gloria’s eyes get wet again. “No . . . no, I’m sorry. I should be finding these things out. It’s just that I have so much . . . and . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Where’s Megan B.?” I ask because we need to change the subject.

  She’s the one who started this after all, with all her postcards.

  Gloria smiles. It looks a little forced. “Megan just moved out! She’s going to be adopted. At twelve years old. She’s such a good girl, I’m so glad she found a home.”

  “You don’t look glad,” Julian says.

  “I know,” Gloria says. She takes a deep breath. “Megan deserves a home with parents forever. Like you and Julian before her. But I miss her like I miss you.” She’s looking right at me again. “I love you all. I love all of my babies, I do,” Gloria says.

  There’s something warm in my heart. Like maybe it believes her. Like maybe she did love me when I lived here but my heart was buried too far beneath my ribs for me to even recognize it.

  Or maybe she was too busy to tell me.

  I think about Sam and Jasmine. There’s no way they know she loves them.

  Is there such a thing as too busy to love?

  “I know you’ve got a lot going on,” Person says. “But do you happen to have any pictures of these two that you can share with us?”

  “Oh, oh oh,” Gloria says. “I do, somewhere. Of course. Come on. Follow me.”

  We go with her through the door into the next room, which I know will be the kitchen before I even walk into it because I used to live here.

  I used to live here. It’s so weird.

  “Come on, come on,” Gloria says, walking toward her fridge. It’s covered in pictures. They are taped on mostly because it looks like she’s run out of magnets, and anyway, the pictures are three layers thick. Mostly there are photographs but there are also some drawings and postcards and even report cards. She starts rifling through the top corner and when the baby on her hip cries she jiggles her a little and then keeps rifling.

  “Come on,” she says. “You guys can help.”

  Julian and I start looking at the bottom of the fridge since we can’t reach the top and Person takes the other top corner. We pull back pictures of some kids to find pictures of others. A picture of a baby boy falls on my head when Person drops it.

  Gloria must love all of these kids to keep them on her fridge forever.

  But doesn’t Gloria realize her fridge is too crowded to see all of the kids she loves?

  We look for a minute and it’s quiet except the screams and the barks outside and the occasional crying from the on-her-hip baby.

  Then, I pull a picture from the stack at the very edge of the fridge against the floor. It was on the bottom of the fridge, but it was in the front of the stack. At the same time Person says, “I found it!”

  “Me too!” I say.

  We put the two pictures on the kitchen table and the five of us—me, Julian, Gloria, Person, and the hip-baby—stare at them.

  In the one Person found, Julian and I are in the middle of a crush of kids all standing on Gloria’s porch. Julian looks at that one and points to one of the kids. “That’s Chris. He was my age.”

  I point to the girl next to me. “That’s Megan B.,” I tell Person.


  Suddenly I miss her. It feels like my heart is ripping apart. I think about her writing me all of those postcards and how it’s been months and months or maybe a year since I thought about her but I miss her anyway. I didn’t know I could miss someone this way, someone who wasn’t Julian.

  It makes me a little uncomfortable, like there’s pebbles in my shoes.

  In the other picture, we’re on the sand. Just the two of us. It isn’t the beach because there’s no ocean behind us. We’re just little specks, squatting in the sand and looking at it in our fingers.

  Below us is sand. Above us is sky.

  “The horizon,” I whisper, pointing.

  Person laughs. “Point for you guys,” she says, like she doesn’t really care.

  “I . . . ,” Gloria starts. “Well, no. You can . . . well . . . I . . .”

  I look at her. “It’s OK,” I say, “Sometimes my words get stuck too. Just take a deep breath and we’ll wait for you.”

  At that, Person and Gloria burst out laughing and I feel my face get hot. I didn’t mean to be funny.

  But it works because after a minute, Gloria says, “I’d like to offer you the pictures because I know they’re important for Julian and Flora to have. But they’re my only two of these babies and . . . I know they are your kids now but they were—”

  “Oh!” Person says. “How about I take a picture of these pictures with my phone?”

  Gloria nods happily and a dog barks at the back door off the kitchen. She crosses the tile floor and opens the door and the dogs pour in.

  And they walk.

  Right.

  To.

  Me.

  Within seconds I’m on the floor with my face in their necks. They’re licking my hands and wiggling around in my lap.

  And this. This is remembering.

  “Good boy, Francis,” I say to the small one. “Good boy, Sully,” I say to the fast one. “Good girl, Cassie,” I say to the shy one.

  Person has tears in her eyes when she pulls me off the floor.

  “Thank you, Gloria,” she says, giving her a big hug. “This could not have gone any better.”

  “Wait!” I say, maybe too loudly. Everyone in the room jumps. “I need one more thing. Do you have Megan B.’s address where she lives with her new parents? I owe her some postcards.”