Chapter 2 - But Listen by Gina Ann Day

Foster Fare

     We were the new kids on the block and the stressful stimulation was plenty enough to further distract us from our agonizing loss.  Our new foster parents were a kind loving pair that already nurtured a whole house full of children including their own, Maxine, an older girl, and Sterling, a teen boy.  The names were so different, odd compared to what names I knew. But it felt good here.  So far.

     I admired the young lady Maxine, quietly watching her every move from afar, not to bother her whimsical concentration in the extravagant little silver mirror she was so proud of.  Applying her makeup was a long and exciting ritual that I actively helped her with. She took her sweet time with almost everything she did.  She took long baths in what she called lavender water, sometimes pouring in milk when she could slip a glass past her Mother. 

     She would take me for walks to the neighbor’s house, visiting an elderly lady for hours on end.  She would share her life’s journey with us, tales that would sometimes make you cry and some would make you bust a gut laughing, but most were fascinating accounts of her travels and of her family. 

     We drank her special spiced iced tea, laced with an orange slice squeezed in and a sprig of fresh mint on top, and ate her homemade walnut packed fudge brownies by the batch as they were popped out of the antique oven.  More times than not, I would be cuddled up in her lap, quite obviously filling a void for the both of us, judging by the shared vibes and connections made through to the soul.  The kind lady, with sadness etched deep in her powdered face, never wanted us to leave, her pleading voice so soft and distant, yet amazingly young and vibrant.

     I truly believed Sterling was a star.  He was named after a beer!  The commercials bellowed his name out all the time. He sang and danced with as many of the advertisements as he could possibly catch, and believe me he made efforts to do so.  I bet he was the only kid who could know from another room when one of those commercials was about to sputter to life.  He was like magic popping up when you least expect it to chime in with the music. He made us laugh until our sides hurt, mimicking the actors in assorted versions of each character. 

     He took the time to play with us “babies” as he called the three of us, while the other kids were so much more distant. They always seemed to be calculating, planning Lord who knows what behind their blank appearances.  The older ones kept their noses stuck in the television all the time, never playing, hardly ever conversing with one or the other, and certainly not socializing with us.  But, Sterling and Maxine were consistently looking after us in a nurturing, almost parental, mode even if they didn’t have to.

     The new home was a casual one-story ranch style, painted white.  It had lots and lots of room with plenty of furniture.  Often, we could be seen just staring at the things taken granted by others.  And wow! It had a carport.  It was a home for their very own car!  Amazing!

There were bedrooms on one end of the house with the great room next to them.  The front door led to the bathroom if you went straight or to the great room if you went left, and to the carport if you went to the right.  It was very amusing to us that one had to go through the bathroom to get to the kitchen.

     Ahhhh!  That funny bathroom was pure fun and relaxation.  All three of us were allowed to take our baths at the same time.  We played in the bubbles and laughed at each other’s crafty disguises until we were worn out.  We were always splishing, splashing, and singing little tunes in that big, deep old tub.

     Giggles were contagious to the lady as she always sat and supervised.  She was such a nice, kind woman; kissing and hugging us at surprising times. We felt like the three musketeers in her presence, invincible and happy.  Her love caressed me with warming rays of sunshine entwined with tenderness, constantly reminding me of Mother.

     School began with me being extremely enthusiastic, my grief buried deep for the time being, considering everything was feeling so wonderful for the time being.  First grade friends were easy to make and the teacher’s outgoing personality made the transition rather easy.

In awe, at first, of one little boy’s face crammed full of freckles, I would encourage him seriously on an everyday basis, in a bossy tone, and shaking my finger in his face, to be sure to wash his face really well after he got off the school bus. As if thinking magically somehow they would go away, I wouldn’t worry about him again until the next bus ride.  How silly I was.

     They never did go away.  The spooky blotches bothered me and I was relentless, but nice about it. I thought, but didn’t say it, that I was too little to be so bossy.  He tolerated me with a consistent cheerful attitude.  I hope he learned to accept himself, thinking if he really did scour his face at my prompting, he came to realize he couldn’t change it and that he was accepted as a friend anyway, no matter if a scared little blonde tormented him. 

     Our first grade class had recesses behind the school.  We rehearsed for a special program at these times.  Many days we missed recess’s to practice, although we didn’t seem to mind, until the night for the assembly finally came. 

     Everyone was nervous and could hardly wait to show what we had practiced as a class, as a team; wiggling, wiggling and wiggling some more, but never speaking, as we were taught to respect, always mindful of manners. But geezers whizzers, it was sizzling hot!

 We were the first class to perform and the other classes waited outside revved up with excitement shining from their scrubbed faces. I remember there were bedazzling gleams in their sparkling eyes despite the sweat running down their cheeks. 

     There was standing room only in the gym, hot enough to fry and egg on the sidewalk outside, but never mind, because we were ready for show time!  We all smiled, singing our little hearts out, while we sang “put your left foot in, and put your left foot out, and shake it all about” and “Jimmy cracked corn and we don’t care!”  Simple pleasures carved an everlasting souvenir of grand proportions in our hearts and minds, knowing and believing in teamwork, respect, and happy times.

     Our guardians were really good people, and loved us so that we never doubted it.  Yes, we felt safe and happy, but you know as well as I do, crap happens, hitting the fan when you least expect it.

     Hide and seek was a wonderful invention for a child’s imagination.  As did other kids, we played the challenge often, with never ending ideas for the most perfect hiding place to confound the kid that wound up having to find us before we ran break neck speed to home place without being tagged. 

     So it was we had a marvelous jungle to hide in.  It consisted of a shed, partially dismantled school bus, a discarded refrigerator, empty fifty-gallon drums piled high, an alluring woods, and various other potential hideaways. 

     On this day, Matthew and I reached the old frig simultaneously as the familiar countdown neared the number ten.  Jumping in quite impatiently, the door to the abandoned appliance slammed shut behind us with a solid whop ca-lank.  We nudged each other back and forth, settling down into the bottom of the box.

     Great!  Perfect!  Or so we thought until moments later we found the door wouldn’t budge to let us out. 

     We had sat quietly until we could not hear anyone at all. We both tried to open the door by jointly thrusting our weights into it to no avail.  The darkness of our prison was getting muggy. Struggling in our intensifying discomfort, scratching and kicking at the door, we realized it was getting harder to breathe, and were forced to sit still instead.

     Really worried by then, sobs began to echo in the cramped cubicle as tears, combined with dripping sweat, stung our dusty faces.  What a yucky taste!  What if nobody found us?  “Please, somebody help us!” was the continuing thought in my boggled mind.  We sat holding hands and softly began singing “Jesus Loves Me”.

     Almost instantaneously, as if on cue, the door leisurely opened with a groaning squeaking sound. Bewildered, squinting into the bright sunlight, we were expecting to be chided from an adult, but became flabbergasted to see that there was not a soul around to claim to be our hero.  Not a solitary person stood in front of us seeing the fear dissolve from our faces to be replaced by relief.  Or were they?

Another hairy time, this venturesome child managed to secretly scale up the kitchen cupboard, falling a time or two before getting it right, and snooped with delight into its uppermost shelves. Gobbling up the tasty cheese left sitting there without any packaging covering it, I wondered if it was a trick. As I dug around for more, a pair of hands clutched my waist from out of nowhere.  Mama immediately returned me to the tiled floor with a solid plump, and spun my face around so fast it did made my head spin. 

     I looked at her in wide-eyed bafflement, considering that there had been no immediate spanking. In a alarmed yet stern voice, I was informed that I had eaten poison intended for a darned mouse.  Her lips quivered as she explained that I could get very sick or even die!

     What?  Never see Mother again?  Never play with the boys again?  Will Maxine miss me? 

     She scurried around frantically to get it up and out of my belly by teasing my tonsils with a wooden spoon.  That was surely no fun, let me tell you, but it was a trick that worked.  I wasn’t looking forward to wings yet anyway.   Nor cheese again, for that matter.

     Several tears dropped from Mama’s beautiful eyes, as she explained how special I was, and that I should ask for something when I was hungry, because I was too little to not need “Mama’s” help.  Explaining further that I really needed a good whipping, she sighed and hugged me instead. Her cologne could have been edible, scented of aromatic strawberries, giving her always fresh as a bath smell second place in line to the berries, even though she worked hard from before sunup to well after sundown.  I inhaled raggedly, still shaking from the scare, and sighed.

     The disgusting feelings in my mouth remained for hours after the unpleasant incident, even after I gargled, however it was the lesson of love I was taught that lingered in my contemplations.  She had come down to my level.  She loved me.

     Yet, misfortune still followed me around like a shadow.  In an innocent game of chase, my brothers and I scrambled over the heap of fifty-gallon drums, scaling them like little squirrels scampering up trees they had dominated numerous seasons.                            Somebody forgot to advise the barrels though.  One of them didn’t like me, rolled me off its back, and toppled me to the ground painfully, more rapidly than I had conquered it.

     I never cried, probably because I never had the time.  It was as if she knew I was going to bite the dust even before it happened.  After scanning my arm for injury Mama scooped me up tenderly mere seconds after my tumble and simultaneously began hollering for Papa to get the car ready; we needed to make a trip to visit the doctor.  “And do be fast!” she added in a screeching voice after surveying the damage. 

     She carried me securely like one would a prized china doll. After positioning me closest to her in the front seat of the giant burgundy Station Wagon, which probably could have fit an entire uniformed football team in it with us, the pain began to nag.  It hurt so dreadfully that a few bangs on the horn was permitted to keep me from dwelling on the injury, quickening Papa’s steps after he came out the door. 

     Grinning and shaking his head playfully at me, he lightheartedly said, “Girl you keep us hopping like Lucas does his frog, don’t you?”  He added, “But I love it.  Taking care of you I mean.”   

     Smiling back at him made the hurt disappear for a brief few seconds and then I let the flood gates open wide.  We drove away with them fluttering verbally to me like I was the most important thing in the world, more valuable than my weight in gold Papa had explained with a hug and kiss on my cheek.

     Once the doctor informed them that my left wrist was broken in a couple of places, he proceeded to wrap it in a cast that covered the length of my left arm from just above my elbow and down over my knuckles of my petite fingers.  As he busied himself with the task, it was clearly commanded that if I broke it again, he insisted that he would be forced to chop it off. 

     Sincere or not, he got my attention squarely, depositing terror solidly into my mind.  For a very long time, cautious was my middle name.

Content as a kitten with a belly full of milk, I was the center of attention at home, school and Church.  There was that enchanted princess feeling again.  I looked around for Mother, fully expecting her to appear, only to be disappointed once again.  Everyone fussed and fretted, taking very special care of me for a long time after the accident, easing the ‘ I want Mommy syndrome” a little.

      Laughing as they wrote different messages, everyone had fun signing my cast in school.  They made “Lydia Deanne” a celebrity with their antics and attitudes.  And even better, to confirm my status, our Church members awarded me my first Bible.

     Admiring the gift, Maxine pointed out that “Lydia Deanne Walters” was inscribed on the second page.  New to me, the calligraphy was stunning.  How many writing lessons did they have to take to write that prettily? Another book.  I was beginning to have a love affair with books.

     It takes sun and rain to make a rainbow, sometimes a thunderstorm or two, maybe more.  My world was about to be shattered without my permission.  For whatever reason, the older foster kids were given rank of babysitters for a short spell one afternoon. 

     Intimidated by the powers that their size equipped them with, without arguing, I shakily followed their instructions to lift up my dress and strip off my panties. The group of jealous eyes surrounded me, crowding me, looking much like demon’s eyes.  Mother, oh Mother where art thou dear Mother oh Mother?  Mary had a little lam, little lamb………

     I was swiftly shoved onto a nearby bed with a pillow forced into my face tightly restraining me as the attackers proceeded to raise my dress. Investigating quietly without fanfare, they pierced my tender privates with straight pins. I struggled to be released, but my feet and hands were held securely.

     The pillow was eventually dropped after what seemed like hours, allowing my red face to allow once muffled screams to shrilly escape.  Regaining some of my composure, I watched hatefully as the hideous monsters sauntered out of the room. I wanted to kill somebody, to make them disappear for a while!  The rascals would not even look at me!

     Suggesting innocence to the cruel act, they scattered with their noses in the air. This was the initiation into a lifetime of abuse for one little girl.