July was fading into August and the growing detachment inside of her was something she still didn’t understand. All she knew was, the farther away from home she got, the less she felt, and if she didn’t stop moving soon she’d feel nothing at all. She was searching for somewhere She had been in the game long enough to know the rules. She had bounced from one foster home to another and yet the only home she truly knew was the one place they wouldn’t take her. After they took her away, for about the first 6 months or more she didn’t get it. She just was the same little Annie she had always been… waiting to be taken back home to her family. Then reality caught up. She realized not just that she was never going back, but that these homes that they took her to were not interested in little Annie. No, they all had their own expectations and motives. So she finally began to pretend. She would pretend to be what they wanted in the hope that they would leave her alone. She surprised herself at how quickly she learned the game, learned how to pretend. But even so, eventually something would happen and she would be back on the road again, waiting for her next “family”.
It was clear to her that the Ford Focus was being pushed to the limit of its useful life. The paint was faded and the tires threadbare. It was clean, but sterile. The caseworker, Morgan was her name (as if it 286497mattered), behind the wheel had a similar appearance. Anne had known her for years, but knew virtually nothing about her. She wore her usual cheap suit and strained expression, perhaps somewhat related to the time on a Friday evening.
“Are you ready for this, Anne?” Morgan asked, keeping her eyes on the road.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Anne replied as she gazed out the window. The usual pre-launch discussion.
Morgan sighed. “Look, I know you better then you think. You’ve been through a lot. No one denies that. But this is a big opportunity for you, Anne. I’m serious. This family, they are very excited about meeting you. It’s a very stable home, and they can provide for you. And I know you’re tired of trying, but you need to try this one last time.”
“And how many last times have we done?” The words came out before Anne could think to stop them.
Morgan stifled a response and returned her eyes to the road, and Anne turned her eyes back out the window.
Anne knew the system too well. She knew the caseworker too well. There was always something they weren’t telling you. But Anne wasn’t completely innocent either. There were some things she regretted, and more that she probably should have regretted, even though she didn’t.
The news from the South Carolina Department of Social Services had come in just 2 days earlier. Anne had been in the system for years now, since she was 8, D.S.S. moving her from one temporary home to another. This time, they said, it would be permanent. After all this time, the word “permanent” sounded so foreign. When they gave her the news, she said nothing. It had been too long and she had seen too much. She had no illusions of a fairy tale ending, but still… permanent? The traces of a smile flickered across her face, then quickly faded.
They drove through quiet streets in a wooded area with proud, well kept houses. Her meager possessions had been hastily stuffed into a duffel bag in the rear seat… a few changes of clothes and some spiral notebooks. After more then 15 years of life, it was the only evidence of her existence. There had been other possessions along the way, some lost, some discarded. She couldn’t help but wonder what all this said about her. She peered out the window with pensive but steady blue eyes. Her father had taught her to be brave. The system had taught her to be strong. It looked so peaceful here and, if she allowed it, the scene would easily carry me off to visions of fairy tales of princes and princesses, heroic struggles and happy endings. But she was not naive. She kept her fantasies on a very short leash, otherwise they would turn and bite you. These trees were only trees. Beautiful, tall green trees with birds singing from their branches, but still trees. However, the sky was a clear blue and the sun was strong. They were well within the city of Greenville, driving down a slope on a road called Cleveland Street. The area was quiet, the only evidence of human activity being some kids riding bicycles. They were younger then me, but they looked so happy and she smiled at them as they passed. It was a forced, perfunctory smile, but it seemed required. This one time Cherokee hunting ground was not urban. The houses sat on plots of land of less then one acre. But the lawns were neat and flourishing and the houses modest two story structures and she wondered what kind of people lived here. Not the kind that lived paycheck to paycheck. For a moment she remembered her old childhood home, her father smiling as he cut the grass, her mother sketching at her easel. They had always struggled to make ends meet, as had many of the foster homes, and she had learned to be resourceful. But the roads were smoother here, the houses larger, the property in better repair. At the bottom of the slope the road came to a T and the social worker turned left on an upward sloping road labeled “Henderson”.
A mere fifty yards down, the car slowed and turned into a downward sloping driveway. She could feel her heart accelerate as they came to a stop in front of a wood sided, recessed house. The clapboards were painted blue and it stood two stories high, with the driveway wrapping around the back. The social worker turned off the engine and looked at me, her hand sneaking into mine and squeezing it. Though this woman had been in the system for a while and knew better then to be falsely, overly nice, the system had not managed to kill her empathy. She knew what this situation was, and Anne thought the woman had a pretty good idea of what Anne was feeling. She might not be telling Anne everything, but this woman was her ally. Her only ally. This part was never easy, no matter how many times you did it.
Her other hand instinctively ran to the small prism pendant hanging from a simple string around her neck. When it caught the light it wouldn’t sparkle, but it would refract the light, producing rainbows, bright with the colors that life sucked out of the world.
For just an instant her father was there, his proud, sad smile on her. Take me home! She wanted to cry out. She never wanted to be here. She didn’t understand why she had to be. She didn’t want to meet these people who were trying to replace him but never could. The social workers face blurred as Anne tried to blink back the tears. She tried to shut him out, but she missed him so much. I miss you too, ‘Bow, always will.
Suddenly Anne became aware of someone gently shaking her, and she was back in the car again, the social worker’s voice dragging her back from where she belonged. Once.
“Are you ready, Anne?” her eyes spoke compassion, but her expression betrayed impatience. You should have let me stay.
But it was years too late for those words, and they didn’t listen then so there was no reason for them to listen now. And before She could put my thoughts into words She saw movement in the corner of my eye. They both turned towards the house. The door had flown open and a woman came bouncing out, trailed behind by a more much subdued man.
Anne furiously swiped at her tears and steeled herself for the usual presentation. She had no makeup to adjust, no fancy clothes to arrange. One of the suits had pushed her to wear a dress, but Anne had refused. She did not like dresses, and she resented the presentation ritual. She was no longer a feisty, unruly little girl. She had learned form and function. Her manners were irreproachable. But she was still her mother’s child, her father’s daughter, and Anne Marie would not be paraded around for the pleasure of others. If they did not understand that now, then they would learn.
Her eyes reverted to the woman. “I’m ready.”
The suit nodded and climbed out. Anne lingered just a moment, then followed.
A tall wisp of a woman with sharp features was approaching them. She was dressed in a well cut and fashionable black dress, her makeup perfectly applied, her hair pulled back and pinned up. She looked like a doll. She walked with energy, however, her hands moving to adjust her dress and jewelry. Anne would have marked her for a museum curator or lawyer, if not for the anxious energy that characterized her. Her smile was surprisingly genuine looking. In fact, in her eyes Anne saw a little girl who just got the big birthday present she had been asking for for months. She burst forward and engaged the surprised suit in an embrace.
“We’re so excited!” she exclaimed as the caseworker awkwardly disentangled herself. The suit opened her mouth to respond, but the woman was too quick for her.
“You must be Anne!” The woman giggled as she threw her arms around Anne. At first her body tensed up, then she reluctantly returned the hug.
“Yes, Ma’am.” she struggled to force a smile.
“Aren’t you precious! I’m Janet Cardinal, but you can call me mom!” Then to the man “Andy, say something!”
The man who lumbered up behind her was a sharp contrast. His button down shirt and slacks were neat and clean, but not fashionable, in fact, they didn’t even match. He walked slowly and deliberately, and did not smile nor speak. He simply nodded at the social worker and glanced at Anne, acknowledging Anne with a grunt and a nod. He seemed to take an odd interest in the Focus, as if sizing it up for auction.
“Anne, this is Andy, your new dad!” Janet squeaked.
“Hi”
Andy looked at Anne for a second, then addressed the social worker “Have any problems?”
Anne looked at Mrs. Cardinal, who laughed and pulled her aside, half whispering to her “That’s your dad! Always a man of few words.”
Andy pretended not to hear her and continued speaking to the social worker as Janet drew Anne towards the house.
“Come, dear, I’ll show you your new room.”
As an afterthought she called over her shoulder to Andy “You can finish up here, right?”
“Yeah, ok.” He replied to her back as Janet led Anne into the house.
Janet gave me a whirlwind tour, then brought me up the stairs and down a hall to a solitary room. My own room. I even had my own bathroom just down the hall. By that time Mr. Cardinal had come in and dropped my faded duffel by the door. Janet wanted to linger and chat, but her husband drew her away.
Left alone in the room, I let the situation wash over her. The first thing I did was close the door and lock it. I wrapped my arms around myself and took a deep breath. She shouldn’t have hugged me. She did not know me. I didn’t like to be touched… I still don’t. Even when I make love, I keep guys at a distance. I don’t like to cuddle. But I knew I could not afford to offend the woman. And the man… he was polite. He didn’t seem cold or unkind. But he seemed rather disinterested. The two of them had an odd dynamic. I had the strange feeling that I was viewed more as a pet then a person in his eyes. Except… that one moment when the social worker was speaking and Janet was completely absorbed in her instructions, I couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes seemed to dart in my direction, but not to my face, rather, running down my body for a mere instant, so quickly that by the time I thought to look back his eyes had returned to the social worker, nodding along to the details. My heart beat faster, and I closed my eyes and breathed again. When they opened they were calmer, and I released my self embrace. But the first thing I did was double check the lock. My life was not a fairy tale, hadn’t been for a long time. There was no one here to rescue me if something went wrong, and at the end of the day I would always remember the one truth of my world: I was often amongst others, but I ALWAYS stood alone. I moved my bag away from the door, but did not move to unpack it. Instead I looked to the window slipped over to the it and opened the glass. It was dusk now. The window opened on a sloping back yard that vanished into a thicket of trees. In the distance I could hear the sound of a burbling brook, and crickets began their nightly song. For a moment I could see a man there on the grass below smiling up at me, his features honest, his eyes sad. I blinked him away and the image blurred as I felt the disconnect again. Still the crickets sang their chorus and I remembered the song of another time, a children’s rhyme, part French, part English. The voice was gone, and gone it would stay. The crickets now would be that voice, and I left the window open. I needed the sound to ground me. I glanced over my new quarters. I could not help but smile at the quilt on the bed, an illustration of popular fairy tales stitched together. I pulled off my shabby sneakers and laid down upon the bed, wrapping the quilt tight around me. And there, armored in my tales of yore, I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the crickets song, blocking out my thoughts as best I could. Slowly, reluctantly, I slipped into anxious slumber.
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