Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  “I knew it.” His lip curled back in disgust. “I knew you would make a fool out of me.”

  And with that, he grabbed the leather strap at his chest and pulled the guitar over his head. Discerning his next move, my body reacted instinctively, angling away and lifting hands effortlessly to protect my face. Horrified, I actually tried to stop it, but was too late. It was the only thing that could have made him angrier than he already was. Just as he was about to drop his guitar, he paused in astonishment, staring at my traitorous hands. Astonishment quickly shifted to fury. He inhaled deeply through his nose and changed positions, grabbing the neck of the guitar and slamming it onto the stage. It connected with a thunderous crash, splitting at the base and shattering into a dozen wooden shards. A low moan pealed through the hollow gash at the center. I blinked as each tightly wound string snapped from a tuning key. One final kick sent what was left of the guitar skidding to a halt at my feet. The sight of the mangled instrument, mutilated and softly wheezing, was difficult to look at. It wasn’t the guitar’s fault. It hadn’t done anything wrong. Broken and beyond repair, I knew it would never play again—because of me.

  In the deafening silence, a rustling noise easily caught my attention. Keeping my head lowered, I glanced up in time to see the purple curtains shuddering. He was gone. Without looking, I knew the seats would be empty.

  I was alone.

  One at a time, the spotlights went dark, leaving a cone of light surrounding me. A blurry glance at my lap told me I was no longer wearing the beautiful dress. It had vanished along with everyone else. I placed my bare foot above the cold, iron pedal and lifted one clear nail to middle C, pressing down firmly. The friendly note traveled the room, rich and lovely, filling up the quiet until it too had enough and disappeared. The final light dimmed. I raised an arm, thankful when just like before, I couldn’t make it appear.

  But even the darkness couldn’t hide everything.

  Chapter Nine

  I woke with a start, gulping for air. Instead, I received a mouthful of pillowcase. An attempt to remove the fluffy obstruction covering my face resulted in learning that I could not feel my arms. And in that half-asleep stupor, I was absolutely positive they had been taken.

  Screaming like a banshee, I scrambled out of bed, abruptly dropping to the floor in a heap of sheets and gangly limbs. Luckily, when I landed on my face there was a pillow to cushion my fall. I opened one eye, groaned, and closed it immediately. Either a tornado had picked up our house, or I was suffering from getting-up-too-fast syndrome. I decided it might be smart to lie there for a moment. As hysteria waned, I noted both arms were intact. It was a close call, but I was not an amputee. Would I ever learn? How many hundreds of times had this happened after a night of heavy sleep—the pinning of one or both arms beneath me, leaving me without feeling, and each time I woke up frantic and petrified, certain I was less than whole.

  My bedroom door creaked open. Still vertiginous, I didn’t risk opening my eyes. The sympathetic moan made it an easy guess as to who was standing at my door.

  “I heard the thump from the kitchen,” my mom announced warily. “Are you okay?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “The Arm Snatcher again?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Well,” sighing, “I’m glad there was a pillow this time.”

  “Me too.”

  She hesitated. “Do you . . . need help getting untangled?”

  Through a slitted eye, I could tell my mother was using every bit of restraint to remain where she was. She leaned forward gripping the doorframe, ready in an instant to hurl herself toward me and free me from the sheets. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But, I wasn’t a child any longer, and she knew as well as I that rescuing me for the rest of my life wasn’t an option. Eventually, I would have to learn one of two things: either control the fear upon waking to unfeeling arms—not likely—or control the thing keeping me pinned to the ground.

  “I’m okay.” Electricity buzzed through my veins as if they were power lines. I grunted, rolling onto my side in an effort to reach the tingling fingers and circulate the blood flow. When my body wouldn’t cooperate, bits of dream surfaced, bringing fresh emotion to my face. For my mother’s sake, I lifted a leaden arm and threw it over my eyes.

  The old wood crackled beneath her grip. “Are you hurt, Foster?”

  “Oh no, I’m fine. The light was just hurting my eyes.” Blindly I smiled, and because it was the truth, it came easily.

  “Oh!” Instantly, the inside of my lids changed from yellow to black. “Well, if you’re okay, I guess I’ll let you get ready for school.” It was clearly a question, but I treated it as if it were a statement.

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be down soon.”

  She left, and the familiarity of sitting in a darkened room summoned the rest of my dream. When I thought I wouldn’t just sink back down, I pushed up from the floor and headed for the bathroom. I had in mind a long, hot shower to boil the unpleasant dream away.

  “Ouch!”

  The probability that one person alone could sustain this many injuries before sitting down to eat a bowl of cereal seemed ominous and implausible. Nonetheless, the sensitive pad of my foot stung and throbbed. Imaging a piece glass was stuck there, I hopped on one leg, arms outstretched and roving from side to side in what probably resembled an extremely hideous hula dance, until I reached the bathroom safely. I flipped on the light switch, and with some surprise realized it was not a piece of glass, but a shard of wood protruding from just below my big toe. The tweezers were easily accessible lying next to my toothbrush. Gingerly, I removed the shaving no longer or thicker than a mini paperclip, wincing only a little as I brought the pinioned shard close for inspection. What I found odd about it was not its textile—as plenty of items in my room were made of wood, including my floor—but that the color didn’t match anything in my bedroom. All of my furniture was a dark espresso. This was many shades lighter, the color of sand or wheat perhaps. Strange. I raised it to the sconce, leaning in toward the light and holding it millimeters from my nose. What it really looked like, I thought, was . . .

  No. It couldn’t be that. It had to be something else.

  ~

  How was I ever going to get through this day? Making it past my mom, then Emily, not to mention I had no idea what I was going to do when it came time for Music . . . fourth period would be here before I knew it. After culling my closet, I came back to the mirror with a few options. Very few. I eventually settled on a butterscotch yellow sweater, hoping the happy color would simulate some sort of osmosis. I cocked my head to the side, noting I would look just as dismal in cheerful yellow as I would in dreary black.

  “You’re hopeless, Foster Kelly,” I mumbled to my reflection, and left to finish getting ready.

  As usual, my curls refused to be anything but wild and untamable. I patted the top of my head, still warm from the blow dryer, then gave up when the voluminous mass retaliated by puffing up even higher. After lint rolling my sweater and white jeans, I padded barefoot into my closet and slipped into my TOMS. Jumping on fashion trends wasn’t something I tended to do, but TOMS combined two of my favorite things: comfort and charity. Owning a pair was due strictly to the happenstance that their company worked directly with The House of Hope for their annual shoe drive, “Buy a pair, give a pair.” Through a very part-time job at the library, I’d been able to save up enough for two. Plain beige ones for me, and sparkly silver ones for Emily. Best part of all, they had even let me decide what country to send the shoes to. Whenever I wore them I smiled, picturing the blissfully surprised faces of the two Rwandan children who had received what was very likely their first pair of real shoes. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror, and went still as stone.

  That’s it. That’s the smile.

  I closed my eyes and continued to visualize the faces of the two nameless children. All along my jaw and below the curves of my cheeks, I could feel the muscle
s in my face moving and lifting. About to grab one of the half-dozen picture frames on my dresser, I changed my mind, preferring the way they looked in my head rather than on inanimate paper. I saw Javier’s cowlick, Makayla’s freckled nose, Anthony’s never-tied shoelaces, and every adorable, irresistibly cute cherub that would be waiting to see me after school today. To be honest, I didn’t know who would be more excited, me or the children.

  When I opened my eyes, there was no sign of the girl with the wobbly or toothy smile; only someone who had the undeniable markings of doting affection on her face. And what soothed me most was not that I physically looked happy—though, that would most definitely make my day much easier—but more importantly, I genuinely was happy. It didn’t seem feasible, or at the very worst another one of my half-truths. Checking to be sure, I waited, wondering if the nausea associated with lies and subterfuge might be running late. When my smile didn’t falter, but expanded, I knew this was because of an inexplicable contradiction that existed within me; two forces that would neither yield nor submit. The myriad of unpleasant emotions, including hurt, fear, and heartache, could not be denied; all of it was there, rooted to my ribs like barnacles clinging to the bottom of a ship. But passing between and over those uncomfortable growths was restorative water. Salted and purifying, the steady flow of love for each of those children made it possible to be both wounded and healed all at the same time. Only seven hours. I could hang on to this for seven hours. After that, I would have the real thing, times twelve, and bundled up in every spare inch of my arms.

  For the first time in what seemed like days, I felt a lightness abound. In the same second, an emptiness rose up with fervor. Thankfully, it was one that could be easily remedied. I rubbed placating circles over the thin fabric of my sweater, hurrying to organize my backpack. With all that had happened yesterday and this morning, I’d overlooked how hungry I was. Skipping dinner in combination with the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked dough, clumps of brown sugar, and sweet buttery icing, was enough to send my stomach into a fit of demurring growls. When I opened my bedroom door, I had to resist sticking my tongue out and licking the air like an ice cream cone.

  With Rhoda on my heels, I followed the heavenly scent, resting my backpack at the foot of the stairs. “Okay . . . moment of truth,” I whispered to Rhoda. “Let’s hope I didn’t mess things up too badly, or else you might just end up with cinnamon rolls instead of dog food for a while.” Rhoda had no apparent objections. She pranced along with an extra bounce in her step, toenails echoing on the marble floor as we headed through a corridor and into the kitchen.

  “Morning,” I said, eyes skimming the counters. “Sorry about the shower, I lost track of time.” Flitting past the percolating coffee maker, I spotted the cinnamon rolls and hurried to the granite island in the center of our kitchen. I surveyed the line-up cooling over a sheet of parchment paper. I eyed them critically, the way a nurse would check the symptoms of a patient, looking for good color. A gentle poke told me, so far so good. Tasting them would be the final test.

  “Good morning, my incredibly-thoughtful-amazingly-wonderful-marvelously-fantastic daughter.”

  Concentration broken, I turned toward the sing-song voice, finding both parents facing me from high-back stools behind the bar counter. I smirked, the blatant incongruity still astonishing to me even after almost two decades. My mother looked lovely in her pale pink robe, hair unbound and tucked behind one ear. Looking at the mirror that is my father, I empathized greatly. Morning was rarely good to either one of us. From beneath the counter, I could see one pant leg of his flannel pajama bottoms stuffed into a thick blue sock. The other foot, tapping at the rung on his stool, was unabashedly bare. In comparison with his top half, these were minor issues. Out of a rumpled white t-shirt, his head exploded in a maelstrom of curls, splayed like crinkle fries over the smudged lenses of his glasses. Hunched over the L.A. Times, one hand gripped the edge of the newspaper while the other marched to the same beat as his foot, looped through the handle of a black coffee mug.

  “Have I told you,” my mother continued, gazing dreamily at the gooey pastry inches from her lips, “that you’re the best daughter in the world?”

  She sunk her teeth in to the roll, sounds of pleasure following immediately. Pretending to deliberate, I picked off a spongy wedge. “Mm, maybe just once or twice,” I replied. “They turned out okay, then?” I watched her closely to corroborate her face with her words.

  She moaned, cheeks puffed like peach parachutes. “No . . .” She held up a hand to cover mouth. “No, definitely not okay. They did, however, turn out perfect.” Breaking into a wry grin, she added, “But you should probably find out for yourself.”

  I took a bite to confirm, nodding along with my mom in approval. “Yeah, not too bad at all,” I agreed.

  She snorted, muttering, “Not too bad . . . when did you do all this? It must have been really late. You couldn’t sleep?”

  It was my turn to have my face inspected. “Oh no, I definitely could have.” I casually popped another piece in my mouth, shrugging. “I was a bit wired after so many hours studying and I thought cooking might help me relax.”

  “And did it?” she inquired, a little too eagerly. “Help you relax, I mean? It must have taken you over three hours to do all this yourself.”

  “Thank you, by the way, for rolling out the dough. I can never get that part right. They end up looking like blobs.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, and Rhoda definitely contributed.” Beside me, with her rump to the floor and head cocked, she waited with the remarkable patience only an animal of her esteemed age could demonstrate. I broke off a small piece and held out my hand. “She licked every bowl and utensil, which saved me the time of having to rinse dishes. You were a big help, weren’t you, pretty girl?”

  Rousing, my dad lifted his head and looked at my mother curiously. “Did you say something?” She smiled, nodding in my direction. “Oh! Hey, good morning, Fost.” He brushed a palm at his curls, leaving a trail of snowy icing behind. Holding the roll aloft he said, “These are incredible! Even better than when your mom makes them.” He took a bite, content for a few seconds. Then, as if instead of icing, the roll had been smothered in something spicy, his face turned as red as a chili pepper.

  With swan-like poise, my mom turned her long neck toward him. “Is that right?” Knowing what was good for him, he kept his head down, pretending to be fascinated with a news article.

  “I mean . . . as good,” he amended. “They’re as good as your mom’s. They’re not better,” he prattled on, shaking his head. “As good.” He stuffed another bite into his mouth.

  “Mm-hm. Well lucky for you, I happen to agree. And . . . I’m much too busy stuffing my face to feel affronted.” She glanced down at her cinnamon roll, about to take a bite, but stopped. Across the kitchen, her eyes flickered toward me. She raised one eyebrow, looking dangerously beautiful. I mashed my lips together to keep from ruining it.

  Even with the two of us suspiciously quiet, it took a moment before my dad noticed and lifted his head. She was ready, launching the roll into his mouth. She erupted with laughter, enjoying herself thoroughly as she smeared the icing over his chin.

  “Well . . . I suppose I deserved that,” he allowed, sliding his tongue over his chin.

  “Oh, absolutely,” she agreed with dignity, running a finger below his nose and scooping up a tiny mound of icing. She popped her finger in her mouth, giggling as my dad tried to kiss her. She tilted her head back just out of reach, beckoning him with feminine charms that would never be anything more than a bracelet on me. In pursuit of the kiss, my dad lost all motor function, lobbing an elbow into the full cup of coffee. He jumped back, losing his balance and narrowly missed taking both stool and self plummeting to the floor. In the back of my mind, I knew I should be doing something; grabbing paper towels, or at the very least, thwarting the pink tongue lapping gratefully at the steady brown stream trickling off the edge of the counter. But I couldn’
t seem to move; only marvel in wonder at the potency of Kelly genes. Sometimes it frightened me how alike we were. Swap out the kitchen for the Shorecliff’s chemistry lab, and coffee for hydrochloric acid, and by all accounts this was me last Tuesday.

  Trying to help, which of course meant making things worse, my dad blotted at the spreading puddle with newspaper. He mumbled unintelligibly to himself as the impermeable business section shriveled in his hands. All the while, my mom could hardly breathe; unrelenting were the wheezing bursts of laughter shooting out of her mouth. As if responding to my call she turned, her hand to her chest, shaking, eyes dripping mercilessly, and looking only at me. It was then I noticed what I had been too distracted to see before, so concerned with botching my great-great-grandmother’s beloved recipe. How could I have forgotten the whole purpose behind making the cinnamon rolls? Especially, when very obviously the answer I’d been hoping for stared me right in the face. I wasn’t the only one who was genuinely happy this morning.

  And there was something else, too. For all my blaring similarities to my father, both physically and invisibly inherent, as I studied the small mouth we did not share in either teeth or lips, I did find one subtle distinction in her smile. I had long since made my peace that I would never be beautiful and enchanting as she, but this commonality, clear as freshly cleaned glass, made me almost absurdly happy.

  I handed my father a wad of paper towels and gently pulled Rhoda away from the caffeine drip. Looking up, I found my mom’s freshly wet eyes still on me. Spilling out of the corner of a secretive smile, I caught the words I love you on her lips. I saw my own smile reflected, the one I found in my room and almost left inside my mirror. We looked more alike than I had ever imagined we could.