Along Came the Rain

by Alison R Solomon

  Michaela was one of those children. Even though her mom was in the picture, she was more than happy to try to get into a fost-adopt situation. She’d sidle up to every adult in the room, smiling coyly, willing them to talk to her. The first time I placed her with a friendly, well-meaning couple who’d made a conscious decision to adopt instead of having biological children, I hoped this was a Happily Ever After scenario. The Fords adored Michaela. I explained Attachment Disorder to them so they wouldn’t be surprised at how she might veer between appearing so loving but acting in ways that might show a total lack of emotion. They were willing to overlook her stealing food from the fridge and hoarding it in her bedroom. They were willing to hold her when she tantrummed for hours at a time. But when she cut off the dog’s tail (“he kept whacking me with it when it wagged”) they gave her back.

  I didn’t give up. Next, I placed her with the Ortegas, an overweight couple who’d been told they’d never be able to have a child. Lorna Ortega was thrilled to have a little girl who had the same black eyes and dark skin she had, the same thick hair snaking down her back. Michaela settled in and stopped hoarding food. When she put pepper in the cat’s eyes to watch if it would sneeze, they carefully explained to her why she must never do it again. Her behavior improved and so did her school grades. I was all ready to terminate parental rights with her mom and set an adoption date, and then I got the phone call.

  “We’re pregnant!” Lorna Ortega was laughing and crying at the same time.

  “That’s wonderful. Michaela will be thrilled to have a little sister.” My excitement mirrored hers. I was genuinely excited for her.

  “Yes, well, that’s the thing. You know we love Michaela, but…but…” Lorna had started crying and her husband took the phone from her. “But we can’t risk her being around a newborn,” he said firmly.

  When Mrs. Clark’s home became available, I knew it was the ideal placement for Kallie and Michaela. The two had met several times at holiday parties the agency held, as well as at gatherings for prospective adoptive parents. By the time they were teenagers, they didn’t bother mixing with the adults. They took the soda and snacks into a corner with them and played Angry Birds on their cell phones until everyone left. I used to watch them and it broke my heart.

  Since they moved in with Mrs. Clark, things have definitely been on the upswing. She enrolled them in tennis lessons—tennis of all things!—which they love. Kallie has a natural talent and Michaela’s not bad either. They spend hours practicing together and even started playing in some junior tournaments before school ended. Their grades are getting better and since Kallie’s Mom is now in jail for at least eighteen months, Kallie’s settled down too. More importantly than all of that, they really like Mrs. Clark. She’s the right mix of loving and firm and they thrive on it. We were all devastated when Mr. Clark died suddenly, but the girls turned out to be a great comfort to Mrs. Clark. I’ve been trying not to get my hopes up, since both girls steadfastly refuse to give up on their moms, just as much as their moms refuse to give up on them. Still, I can’t help visualizing the adoption ceremony, the judge in his red robes, the girls standing on either side of Mrs. Clark, beaming. But this sudden absence is troubling. I thought we had all agreed on a plan for the summer. I’m worried for my own skin and I’m annoyed with Mrs. Clark for making an unapproved change.

  I trust Mrs. Clark and don’t want to make trouble for her or for myself, so I’ll make some reassuring noises to the camp director and wait a little while before I report the absence, but I can’t wait too long. “Please,” I breathe. “Let her come home soon.”

  Chapter Three

  Kallie, June 13

  Today has to be one of the craziest days of my life.

  It starts when Mrs. Clark gets off the phone and has a really peculiar look on her face. It’s a mix of sadness and resignation, like she’d been expecting something to happen, but hoping it wouldn’t.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask her, putting my hand awkwardly on her shoulder.

  She turns toward me and gives me a big hug. “You have to start packing,” she says in a strangled kind of voice.

  “What?” I ask, and then I repeat it again, only this time it’s a yell. “What are you talking about? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand. She just said you girls are leaving this morning.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say. She just said she’s gonna be here in an hour.” We’re standing in the hallway. I’m still in my PJs and she’s in her flowery short cotton robe, because it’s summer vacation and no one has to be anywhere in a hurry.

  “Who called? Barker?”

  “No. Barker’s away. But she said it came from Barker. She’s going to be here in an hour.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t remember. I was in such a state.”

  “You’re going to just let some stranger come and take us away?”

  I’m shaking really badly. It’s been a long road to get to where I am with Mrs. Clark. Contented—that’s the word I’d have used up until three minutes ago. At first I wasn’t sure how I felt about her; she seemed a bit too good to be true. She was the kind of mom you read about—making us cupcakes, teaching us what hobbies are, helping us with our homework. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it didn’t, I started to relax and enjoy myself. For the first time in history, I started sleeping solidly at night, and found that with a decent night’s sleep, I wasn’t as dumb as I thought. I even started getting A’s for English and Spanish. I stopped stuffing food in my bedside table and I unpacked the backpack I’ve always kept, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Mrs. Clark started making little comments, implying she might even adopt me if my mom gave up her parental rights. Whenever she would say that I’d just kinda shrug. Agreeing to it seemed like it was a betrayal of Mom. But lately I’ve started thinking about how much Mom’s betrayed me over the years. I started to imagine what it would be like to have Mrs. Clark as my mom, and it felt good. But now she gets a phone call and tells us it’s all over. The other shoe has dropped.

  Just then, Mikki comes out of the bathroom, still wrapped in her fluffy bath towel, and sees us standing there, probably both pale-faced, me with my hands on my hips. She looks at us suspiciously and asks, “What’s going on?”

  “They’re moving us,” I tell her, my face twisted in a snarl. I’m so fucking tired of getting my hopes up, thinking life is good, and then discovering it’s a pile of shit.

  She drops her towel in shock, then quickly picks it up and covers herself. I tell her what we know, which isn’t much, and we get dressed and begin the grim task of packing. We don’t have that much—Mrs. Clark’s been encouraging us to get rid of our old stuff and start out fresh with things she buys us. One suitcase each and our daypacks, and we’re both packed. Mrs. Clark goes to the hall closet and pulls out our tennis rackets.

  “Here,” she says. “Don’t forget these.” She pushes them forward.

  I can’t help noticing she’s awfully calm and dry-eyed. Stupidly I thought maybe she loved us a little. Stupidly I thought that if someone called and told her out of the blue that we had to leave, she would burst into tears and cry.

  “Nah,” I say, “I don’t need that.”

  “Please,” she says, and finally I see tears forming in the corner of her eyes. “You’re really good and you know how much tennis relieves your stress. Don’t stop playing. Maybe you’ll think of me when you win your first tournament.”

  I grimace, but I take the damn racket and Mikki follows suit. Mikki hasn’t said much the whole time and I can’t make out what she’s feeling. I figure she must be having some of the same reactions I am.

  It appears that while we were packing, Mrs. Clark whipped up our favorite Pillsbury biscuits. She puts them on a tray and offers them to us, and Mikki grabs two. I know if I take one I really will burst out crying, and there’s no way I’m gonna give anyone the sati
sfaction of seeing that. So I shake my head and turn my back on her.

  “I’ll just wrap them in this napkin,” she says. She unzips my daypack and puts them inside it. I haven’t had breakfast yet and I hear my stomach growl, but I clench my teeth. Then the doorbell rings and a dark-skinned lady is standing on the threshold, holding up her county badge. “I’m Parminder,” she says and ushers us out of the house, barely giving us time to hug Mrs. Clark, and into her silver Prius. I’ve never understood when social workers use the big county cars and when they use their own. Generally their own cars seem like they’re for good things and the black county cars seem to be bad news. But today’s news can’t get any worse.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as she pulls out of the driveway, and I wonder if I’ll ever see the cute ranch house again, with its rambling pink bougainvillea over the door and the blue morning glories I planted under Mrs. Clark’s guidance, climbing the gate.

  “I’m dropping you off near the bus station. You’ll be picked up from there.”

  “Who by?” Mikki finally speaks up, and her voice is so squeaky I realize she’s trying really hard not to cry.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  I feel exhausted already, even though it’s barely 9.30 a.m. so I just let her drive and don’t say anything else. I look out the window and think to myself that if we’re headed to the bus station, they’re moving us far away. And that means a new school, which is about as unfair as you can get because it was bad enough last year being a freshman, but to start a new school in sophomore year means everyone will already know each other and, once again, we’ll be the new kids, the outsiders. Earlier, I felt desperately sad. Now I’m just pissed off.

  Parminder drops us off opposite the bus station. There’s a bench on the side of the road and she suggests we sit there. “You’ll be picked up soon,” she says and drives off.

  I turn to Mikki. Her head is down and she’s not even bothering to play a game on her phone. Just looking forlorn and dejected.

  “How much money you got?” I ask.

  “Why?” She jerks her head up.

  “We could get on a bus, and just go anywhere. Start over. Pretend we’re eighteen.”

  I’ve got her attention now.

  “Where would we go?”

  “I dunno. California? It’s warm out there. That’s where people go to start a new life. It’s not like there’s anything keeping us here. But we have to hurry—whoever it is, will be here soon.”

  “But where would we find a place to live? And how would we pay for it?”

  “We’d get jobs. We could work in McDonald’s. Or we could coach tennis. Mikki, think about it. We’ve never just been left like this—it’s our big chance.”

  “Why don’t we just see where they’re sending us this time? Maybe it’ll be as nice as Mrs. Clark’s. If it’s not, we could always just leave one day instead of going to school.” She’s twisting the handle of her suitcase back and forth and I know she can’t make a quick decision like I could. She’s always been timid.

  “Every place we’ve lived, they put us on the school bus, they drive us places, they follow our every move and check up on us. What if the next foster mom is a total bitch? Aren’t you tired of it?”

  “I—I don’t know.” She pauses and I think maybe I can convince her after all. I figure rather than push my case, I’ll let her think for a minute. She pulls out her wallet and just when I think she’s gonna count her money to see how far we can get, a white Kia Soul pulls up and a woman rolls down the window and says, “I’m here to pick you up,” and it’s too late.

  Parminder said whoever was meeting us was a surprise, like it was someone we already knew, but I’ve never seen this woman before. She doesn’t introduce herself, and at this point, I really don’t care who she is. I figure she’s the new foster mom, though this is never the way it happens. There’s always been a social worker to make the introductions.

  She puts our stuff in the trunk and we climb in the back of the car.

  “Does one of you want to sit up front,” she asks, “so I don’t feel like a taxi driver?” But we both stay put. “You’re going to have such a wonderful time.” She puts the car into drive and takes off. “I’m so excited for you.”

  Not what I expect to hear.

  “Yeah?” I ask sarcastically, “Where are we off to—Disneyworld?”

  She laughs. “No. But I’d say staying at a beachfront condo, all expenses paid, isn’t a bad second choice.”

  Mikki looks at me and I raise my eyebrows.

  The woman continues talking. “I think it’s so neat that you get to do this. I know how hard it must be when you—” She stops, cuts herself off midstream, like she’s already said more than she’s supposed to. “Let’s just say, you got lucky. Most foster kids never get an opportunity like this. Pelican Beach is so beautiful.”

  I’ve heard of Pelican Beach, an upscale resort I’d never expect to set foot in. I can only remember ever being at the beach once. One of the times I lived with Mom between her rehab and jail stints, her boyfriend loaded us all in his pickup and we drove to this isolated beach where there were no buildings in sight. It was chilly but I was determined to wade in the water. I kept my hoodie pulled over my head as I rolled up my jeans. I turned around to wave at Mom, but she and the boyfriend had already lit up joints and right then I knew my days with her were numbered. The next foster home I went to was Mrs. Anderson, and when I asked her if we could go to the beach, she said that beaches were too dirty and we’d just track sand all over the house. Besides, there was no need, she said, because we had a perfectly good neighborhood pool for swimming.

  I never heard of any foster parents living in swanky beach resorts and I still don’t understand why we’re being moved out of Mrs. Clark’s, but my bad mood is definitely lifting. We drive the bridge across the Intracoastal and I see yachts bobbing, people kayaking, and fishermen in long waders casting their fishing rods. We turn onto a wide boulevard, lined with luxury high-rises and large, gated-building complexes. It feels like a different world from the ranch bungalows and chain-link fences of Jade County.

  She pulls up in front of the one of the buildings. Not quite as luxurious as the ones we passed. There’s no security guards, or intercoms or glass entrances, but it’s still pretty amazing and it leads right onto the beach.

  As we get in the elevator, she tells us, “You deserve this. It’s going to be an experience you’ll never forget.”

  Part Two

  Chapter Four

  Wynn, March 1

  I must be on time tonight. We are meeting Dot and Evie for dinner and last time I was an hour late. Barker tried really hard not to get mad at me, but I could tell she was embarrassed. The waiter wouldn’t seat them at their reserved table until everyone was there, so they had to sit at the bar, drinking cocktails. By the time I arrived, the high barstools had put Dot’s back out of whack and she spent the rest of the evening writhing and fidgeting in her chair like one of the kindergarten kids I used to teach. I apologized profusely and of course, they were gracious, but tonight I will be on time.

  I like Dot and Evie, but I admit they intimidate me. Dot has a high-powered job in a financial services institution doing something with information technology. I’ve asked her a number of times what she does, but I never seem to quite understand the answer. I know she makes a lot of money. Evie is a massage therapist and the reason she intimidates me is that she’s absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. I never believed in the whole butch/femme thing until I met them. We were at a fundraiser for the counseling agency Barker used to work at and in walked this distinguished-looking couple. I thought they were straight until I looked closer and saw that the guy in the tux and bow tie was actually not a dude at all. Evie was wearing stilettos, a sequined black cocktail dress that hugged her hips, and her cleavage put all of us to shame. You could see it was all her, with “all” being the operative word.

  Dot and Evie like to eat at the kind of upscale
restaurant I thought existed only on TV and they think nothing of dropping a couple of hundred dollars for a meal. After we became friends, they insisted we let them pay when we went out for dinner, since they knew we couldn’t afford those kinds of prices. It still makes me uncomfortable but Barker assures me it’s nothing to them. From time to time, we invite them to our home for dinner. I cook elaborate meals, and they gush over the food, though in truth, I’m not sure if they really like it. Evie pushes the food around and takes a couple of bites, declaring it “heavenly,” or “divine,” and Dot shovels it in as fast as she can without seeming to pay any attention to what it is. They do the same thing when we eat out though, so I guess I shouldn’t take it personally.

  Four thirty. I put down the thread I’ve been stringing beads on. I tidy the beads back into their container and line up the variety of tools and implements I use to make my necklaces. Barker thinks I ought to put them away, but if I did, I’d never remember where I put them, and I’d waste too much time just trying to find them again. I’m careful not to drop any of the beads because picking them up is a task that can take hours. I take one last look, assure myself that everything is tidied away in its place, then close the door behind me. In the bedroom, I rifle through the closet trying to decide what to wear. We’re doing Indian food tonight. Even though I seem to have a somewhat sensitive stomach, I love curry. It loves me too—my blouses and pants especially; I don’t know that I’ve ever succeeded in eating curry without spilling at least a drop of it somewhere, and it stains instantly. So I forego the pink silk shirt (which Barker says is so dated I ought to throw it out) and instead go for a multicolored pant set that I hope will hide any stain that happens to find its way on there. The pants are a little looser than the last time I wore them and drag a little on the ground so I can’t wear my beloved Tevas and instead wear a pair of ropey sandals that have a three-inch platform heel. I apply eyeliner and the new lip gloss Barker gave me (“That plum color will accentuate your gorgeous lips!” she said winningly) and look at the clock. Five fifteen. Plenty of time to make it by six.