She starts out by asking them how they feel.
“We’re okay,” says the father.
“I see you have tears in your eyes, Mrs. Korajec. This is hard for you isn’t it?” Parminder says. I stop the tape.
“That was a really nice observation, Parminder,” I tell her. “You did a lot with just that one sentence. You acknowledged that Mr. Korajec and his wife might not be feeling exactly the same way, you told Mrs. Korajec that you are paying close attention to what’s going on, you gave her an opening to talk about her feelings, and you normalized what she undoubtedly was feeling at that time.” Even though I don’t like my student, I still like to give praise where praise is due.
“Yes, I thought it was pretty good, too,” she says, and I find myself wishing that just for once she could show a little humility. “And as you’ll hear, Mrs. Korajec burst into tears after I said that, and told me just how hard it’s been. Which led to Mr. Korajec telling her she’s too sensitive and if she can’t deal with separating from the kids, perhaps she better not be a foster parent.”
We listen to more of the tape.
“Did any of this remind you of other losses you’ve had?” Parminder asks Mrs. Korajec. “I believe both your parents are deceased.” I stop the tape.
“This is where we have to draw a fine line. You’re a caseworker, not a clinician or therapist. So you have to be careful not to enter into what might become a therapy session. Your first intervention of acknowledging Mrs. Korajec’s feelings was a good one, but this one is a little too personal. You’re a caseworker and this is opening up a can of worms you want to keep closed. If you think Mrs. Korajec is too wrapped up in grief, then by all means you can suggest to her that she see a therapist, but we are basically here to focus on the children.”
“I understand, but I disagree. I think Mrs. Korajec appreciated my intervention.”
“I’m not denying that, but you have to understand your role. You’re a first-year social work student, not a trained psychologist.” She looks miffed that I am criticizing her. “Now let’s talk about you. How do you feel about the kids being transferred?”
“I think it’s terrible. Even though I wasn’t crazy about the interracial placement, it just completely lets the birth mom off the hook. She’s not going to work her family reunification plan. Even though visitation with her is meant to be supervised, you know that since the kids are with grandma, they’ll just be acting like one big, happy family. And who knows how long that will even last? There’s a reason Mom turned out the way she did.”
“So you don’t have much sympathy for birth parents who lose their kids to the system?”
“No. Why have kids in the first place if you’re not going to love and cherish them? I hate that these people do it so haphazardly without any thought of whether they can afford the kids, or even whether they want them. It reminds me of where my grandparents live in India. So many unwanted children, so many orphanages, so little access to birth control. But here women have access to birth control, so they have no excuse not to use it.”
It’s the longest speech I’ve heard Parminder make since we started working together and definitely the most honest. I’m glad that she’s starting to trust me enough that she’ll voice negative opinions, but I’m concerned that her opinions aren’t those of our profession. In my first day of social work school one of the students put her hand up and asked, “Is it true we have to be a bleeding-heart liberal to do this job?” We all laughed, but secretly we’d all had the same thought.
“Sounds like you’d like to just take all the kids from lousy birth parents and not give them a second chance?”
“I think the system is way too easy on them, yes.”
“I wonder if you’d feel differently if you’d actually had the task of separating children from their parents? When I was in my first job after school, I had to remove the cutest, most darling little three year old from her mom, knowing she would never see her again because Mom had used up all her last chances. I can still picture the mom and the child, both screaming as I walked away with the little girl. It was heart wrenching, and I suspect neither Mom nor daughter ever forgot that moment. Those women love their kids, even when they don’t know how to parent them.”
“But she must have done something wrong if you took the child away.”
“Yes, she did, but that’s not the point.”
“By all means, give me the chance to remove a child from an abusive home, I’ll jump at it.”
“What about when you have to remove a child from a good home, like the Korajecs? How will you manage that?”
“Oh, I’ll be just fine. I would never let my feelings get in the way of my job,” she says with such supreme confidence that I have to wonder whether she actually has any feelings.
“It’s important to know whether or not you can work in the welfare system. It’s not for everybody. We all have to find our own niche. Luckily, the world of social work is a big one. Speaking of which, have you thought about where you’ll do your next year’s placement?”
“One of my classmates suggested I work at the county psychiatric hospital. She thought I might really enjoy it.”
“Interesting. Your classmate is right that some people find it fascinating. I think for those of us who tend toward judging people a little, it’s a good place to be, because we all know that people with severe mental illness have absolutely no power or control over the lot they were given in life.” As I say this, I have to wonder whether Parminder could, in fact, find some reason to judge the person who shuffles up and down the hospital corridor all day long, cowering when a doctor tries to approach, convinced that the nurses are FBI agents.
“What about this summer? Some of my past students have done an international volunteer placement. There are some amazing internships all over the world—Africa, Asia, South America.”
“I guess I’ll have to tag along with my family to visit my grandparents in Mumbai.”
“Not if you tell them that doing a volunteer placement will improve your standing at school.”
She cocks her head to one side. “You have a point,” she admits. “And it would be a good way to improve my Spanish. Might make me even more marketable than I already am, you know, being a minority student.” I groan inwardly.
“Would you like me to bring you some information to next week’s supervision?”
“Sure,” she says and I wonder whether she really wants it, or whether she’s just humoring me. Still, it sounds like she might like an excuse not to drag along with her family to the Indian subcontinent this summer. Maybe doing a social work volunteer project in a different part of the world will also give her a little more empathy to those who are less fortunate.
As for me, I’m looking forward to the end of her school year and hoping that next year’s intern is a little more humble. But maybe before the year is out I can think up some difficult task for her, just to really test her mettle.
Chapter Nine
Kallie, June 13
After the lady who brought us here leaves, I realize my stomach is grumbling furiously. I turn to John and ask if it would be okay if I fixed us something for lunch.
“You don’t have to ask,” he says. “Just go right ahead.”
I know the freezer is full of ready-made meals, but I decide I want to be really grown up and prepare something for us. I try to remember what I know to cook, but it isn’t very much. Most foster homes won’t let us near the kitchen. They’re scared we might secret away a butcher knife, steal the food, or eat the special treats they were keeping for themselves. I look in the crisper and see ingredients for a salad.
“Why don’t you two go into the living room,” I say to John and Mikki, as if I’m the mom making lunch for us all. They walk toward the large window, overlooking the bay and stand by it, looking out. I chop lettuce, tomato, and cucumbers and put it in a large bowl, then toss it with ranch dressing. I find cold cuts and make us all baloney sandwiches. There are c
hips in the larder and I put a few on each plate. Then I load everything on a tray and take it into the living room.
“Shall we sit at the dining table, or on the sofas?” I ask, but Mikki and John are so deep in conversation they don’t seem to even hear me. Mikki is standing very close to John and because they have their backs to me, I can see that the hand he’s using to express something is about to make a landing on her butt. I clear my throat loudly. “Table or sofas?” I practically yell.
They turn around.
“Let’s sit here,” he says, patting the love seat. He puts himself in the middle. It’s a bit of a squeeze, and his thigh is jammed up against mine, but he’s so good-looking, I don’t really care.
“So,” he says as he picks up his sandwich. “how well do you two know each other?”
We tell him some of our stories from foster care. I tell him how much we enjoy playing tennis together.
“We even brought our rackets with us,” I point to them sitting in the entryway.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think you’ll have time to be playing tennis,” he says and I think to myself that I don’t really care. Clearly, we are going to be having a whole lot more fun than playing a ball game, and I can’t wait. “Did you bring your swimsuits?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Of course! Who would come to a condo like this and not bring one?”
“Great,” he says. “Why don’t you go put them on.”
“Don’t you want to finish your lunch?” I ask, slightly put out that he’s ignoring my efforts at meal preparation. But on the other hand, I can’t wait to get to the beach, so I don’t pout too long as he shows us into our rooms.
I’m glad Mrs. Clark got us the two-pieces because up until this year, all the families I lived with said they weren’t appropriate for young girls. I remember Mrs. Anderson saying, “Females who wear bikinis are just asking for it, showing men everything they’ve got.” But Mrs. Clark was different. Just two weeks ago, we were out shopping with her when she asked if we had bikinis. When we told her we just had one-piece swimsuits she took us right over to the swimwear and picked out two of the skimpiest ones in the store. “It’s so hot and you’re both young and pretty, why cover yourself up?” she asked.
In my room, I wriggle into the tiny little bottom and quickly put my shorts back on top of it. I’m a little concerned you can see my crack at the back. I slip on the top, wishing I had more to fill it out, put my tank back over it, and return to the living room.
Mikki isn’t there yet.
“What happened? You didn’t put it on?” John asks me, looking at my shorts and tank.
“I figured I’d wear my clothes down to the beach.”
“Who said anything about the beach? You girls are going to do some modeling. What do you think of that?” To be honest, I don’t think much of it; I’m hardly the type who wants to parade my body around. But Michaela will be thrilled. I shift my weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. John comes over and cups my face gently in his hands. He smells spicy and sweet at the same time and I feel myself starting to tingle as he runs his fingers on my cheek. I still haven’t quite worked out who he is. At first, I thought he must be a social worker, but now it’s pretty clear he’s not. He is so good-looking it’s almost frightening.
“Let’s see what you have underneath those clothes,” he says, stepping back. I want him to take my face in his hands again, so I slip off my shorts and tank, and then decide to strike a pose.
“You’re a natural!” He pulls out a camera and starts taking pictures. I put my hand on my hip, like they do on fashion runways, and push my almost non-existent tits up and out as far as they’ll go.
“That’s better!” He laughs “Now turn around.” I spin around and as I do, I see Mikki standing in the doorway with an odd expression on her face. Unlike me, she didn’t keep her dress on and also unlike me, she has plenty to show off in the upper department. When she sees me modeling for John, she puts her arms against her chest, trying to cover up her cleavage. John sees me looking in her direction.
“Hey, sweetheart, come on in. Your friend here was just modeling her bikini for me. Will you take a photo of both of us?” he asks throwing her my phone, then putting his arm around me and holding me tight. After she’s taken the picture, he says to me, “Go ahead and put your shorts on now, if it makes you more comfortable,” so I do. Then we go through the same routine of me taking a photo of the two of them.
We sit in the living room, making small talk, when suddenly John gets up. “I almost forgot. There’s beer in the fridge. Let’s celebrate the start of this ‘vacation’ in style.” He puts air quotes around the word vacation and I wonder why. Perhaps he’s just one of those people who put air quotes around everything. One of the kids at Mrs. Anderson’s used to do that and it annoyed the heck out of me. But nothing about John annoys me. I’ve never hung out with anyone like him before. He’s older than us, but not real old. He seems like such a man of the world, stroking his goatee while we talk, adjusting his glasses occasionally.
He brings in three bottles and I wait for him to bring in glasses but he tells us only sissies drink from glasses.
“Let’s see who can down theirs the quickest!” he says and tips his head back as he takes a sip. I’ve been drinking beer since I was three years old. My mom used to dip my pacifier in it when she discovered how easy it was to use it to calm me down. It was her go-to form of comfort, for me as well as for herself.
“Ha!” I laugh. “I got you beat on this for sure.” I tilt my head all the way back and pour the liquid into the back of my throat, swallowing carefully so that I don’t cough. I down the entire bottle in one long swig, then jerk my head forward again. He stares at me in awe.
“That’s pretty cool,” he says, snapping a photo. “Can you do that too?” He turns to Mikki. She puts the bottle to her lips and starts drinking, but I know there’s no way she can do it in one gulp like I can. Still, she keeps going till the bottle’s empty.
John appears with three more bottles and we go through the same routine again. I feel like I’m at some kind of modeling shoot and even though I never even thought of myself as pretty, I feel glamorous and grown up, drinking beer, being admired by an older guy, having my picture taken. At the end of the second bottle, I start to feel slightly dizzy and look around for my sandwich. A little food will settle me down in no time. It’s not there. John must have taken it back into the kitchen when he brought out the beer.
“Can I get my food back?” I ask him.
“No problem,” he says and heads to the kitchen. When he comes back in, he’s got two more bottles of beer. “Just show me you can do it one more time, and the food’s all yours.”
Who does he think he’s dealing with? Some wimp who can’t manage more than two drinks? Not that I’m one of those who get drunk, Even though I was introduced to it young, I’m really clear that I’ll never end up like Mom. She ruined her life—and almost ruined mine in the process—so even though I enjoy some alcohol, I know for sure I will never get addicted to it. I pause because I don’t really want to drink any more beer right now.
John puts the bottles down and winds his arm around my waist. “Can’t do it?” he teases, and his hand feels so cool on my skin that I throw caution to the wind. I pick up the bottle and drain it, laughing a little stupidly. Mikki does the same. I catch her eye and as we stare at each other, we start giggling. I don’t even know what we’re laughing at but all of a sudden, I can’t stop. I stumble a little and Mikki catches me. We fall into each other’s arms, shaking with laughter. I think to myself that we better stop, or John’s going to see us for the stupid little girls we are, but he roars with laughter and says, “This is great! Even better than I’d hoped,” and steers us toward the sofa where we fall down in a heap on top of each other. John extricates himself and as he does so, his hand catches the string of Mikki’s bikini top. With one pull, the whole thing comes undone, and she’s sitting on top of me, her breasts almost
touching my face. She puts her hand up to cover at least one of her tits, but John says, “Don’t do that Mikki,” and when she looks questioningly at him, he looks at me and says, “I think Kallie wants you to stay right where you are, don’t you Kallie?”
A slew of emotions rip through me all at the same time. He’s right of course. I’ve shared a room with Mikki so I’ve watched her getting undressed plenty of times, and whenever I do, my groin gets all tingly. But I’ve never done anything because I’m pretty sure she’s not inclined that way. Right now, her gorgeous breasts are swinging so close to my mouth I could put my tongue out and lick them. Mikki looks from John to me and then John says, “Here, let me make it easier for you Mikki,” and comes over to kneel behind her on the couch. He cups her tits in his hands and makes circular motions round and round. I can tell Mikki really likes it because she throws her head back and closes her eyes. John keeps kneading her tits, and then he whispers to me, “Go on, lick them,” and even though I’m not sure if she’ll like it, I take her nipple in my mouth. John slides his hand to her groin and as I feel myself getting wetter and wetter, I think, “If I’m dreaming, please don’t let me wake up.”
“Keep your eyes closed,” John whispers to Mikki as he moves from behind her to where I am. He pushes me away so that I half fall off the couch onto the floor. I see him start to undo his pants and just like that, my mind is razor sharp.
“Get off her,” I hiss. He pulls his pants down further..
“Stop!” I yell, scrambling onto all fours so I can grab him.
I want to jump him, but my reflexes aren’t there. My body is sluggish, but my head is clear. And right now, the sinking feeling I had when Mrs. Clark told me we had to leave is back. And it’s worse than ever.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going to do anything she doesn’t want. We’re not going to have sex. We’re just fooling around. You’re okay with this, aren’t you Mikki?”
Along Came the Rain Page 5