Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  “Okay.” A second after he spoke, he dropped his eyes, breaking the hold. I felt dizzy and wasn’t sure where to cast the blame. “What’s the number?” I sent him an anxious, questioning look, to which he took a moment to acknowledge, then did so with an eye roll. “I’m going to call over and let them know we’re running thirty minutes behind,” he explained impatiently.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and quickly gave him the number.

  He nodded and stepped to the side, allowing me access to the car door, but kept his eyes fixed on me as he lifted the phone to his ear. A bewilderment and heavily diluted anger was written over the stony, amber face—more like an exasperated amusement now that I thought about it. I fidgeted, listening intently for Geraldine’s voice. I exhaled the second I heard her husky sing-song through the receiver.

  “Yeah, hi,” Dominic intoned politely, mechanically turning to the side. “My name is Dominic Kassells. I’m scheduled to volunteer today with”—he stopped as if he’d been interrupted, then began to nod—“yes, with the B-group kids, right. Unfortunately . . .” When he paused, this time of his own doing, my heart lurched into my throat. He didn’t turn to look at me, but I knew he was well aware my eyes were glued to the side of his cheek. Had he changed his mind? Would he tell her we wouldn’t be coming? He wouldn’t do that, would he?

  “Unfortunately,” he repeated, and I thought he was holding back laughter, “I’ve had a little car trouble, and myself and another volunteer, Foster Kelly, are going to be about a half-hour late. No, no, nothing serious,” he said in a very reassuring tone. I coaxed my heart back to its home as he continued speaking with Geraldine. “But I have an extremely important message I would appreciate you delivering to Foster’s kids, if you don’t mind. Sure, let me know when you’re ready.” His glowing blue eyes bored into mine, too intense for him not to have something up his sleeve. “Yeah, I’m here,” he said, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Will you please tell them Foster is on her way and has a very special day planned for them.”

  I heard Geraldine repeating the message back to him and ask, “Ju need anything else, baby?”

  “Just one more thing,” he said, the smirk widening. “She’ll be needing to borrow a helmet for the day.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Are you afraid someone might try and steal it?” I called to the back of Dominic’s head. I was stunned he would leave something that was obviously so precious to him, completely unguarded. I stole another glance over my shoulder, hoping no one had been around to see him leaves the keys out in the open. Turning back around, I didn’t see that Dominic had stopped walking and turned to face me. In a reflexive maneuver my arms shot straight out in front of me, trying to prevent my body from colliding into his. I did manage to stop; however, only after my hands landed splayed on Dominic’s capacious chest.

  Before, when Dominic and the store clerk had moved the car—the clerk steering and Dominic pushing—he’d wisely thought to remove his jacket so as not to be restrained. The maroon jacket was lying on my passenger seat, folded twice, just the way I’d left it. And now, with my hands fixed like barnacles to him, it was impossible not to notice the solid wall of his well defined muscles protruding from underneath the thin, white thermal. I instantly burned hotter than a heat lamp. Heat bubbled up my neck, making me most certain my face donned various shades of scarlet. Staring at my hands in utter indignation, I saw that one of them rested just below his heart. It beat against my palm; a strong, rhythmic pounding like a bass drum.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off my hands. I gaped at them—shocked and betrayed—like they were two rebellious soldiers who had disobeyed orders and wandered off for reconnaissance. And although I willed them to release their grip, they remained clasped to him as if adhered with super glue. A very small, hopeful, and delusional part of me thought I might explode or melt at any moment; burning this hot, it seemed possible. When I didn’t instantly release him, I thought for sure he would step back. He didn’t. This of course was just an extension of his courtesy, I understood. Not wanting to humiliate me, he waited for me to make the first move. The only problem with that was . . . I wasn’t.

  Why aren’t you moving? What are you waiting for? Stop touching him!

  The rising hysteria as I self-scolded did not help. If anything, it made it more difficult to do as I said, clarifying how unfixable the situation was. The small window of time to giggle awkwardly, apologize, and pretend it hadn’t happened, long since passed. That didn’t mean, however, that the longer I went on not moving, I wasn’t absolutely worsening the situation.

  His chest rose and fell under my hands. With each cycle of breathing completed—a total of five inhales and exhales, if my counting was accurate—my flaming face intensified. I couldn’t bear to look up; not after I had stood there—with my hands inappropriately groping him—for much too long to be considered normal. As he cleared his throat, I gave myself the translation: please take your hands off me. Against their will, like two positive charged magnets, my arms finally dropped to my sides. I didn’t move away from him, however, and I didn’t look at him. A space no wider than a foot remained between us, and my eyes stayed rooted to the spot my hands had recently vacated.

  “You, um, have something in your hair,” he said in neutral observance. I forced myself to stay still as he reached into my curls. His long fingers moved gently through the wispy tendrils along my hairline, sending a tremble roaming over my entire scalp. I peeked up just as he was bringing something toward his face for inspection. “Gravel, I think.” I flushed again. I could always count on some things to never change.

  “Yes,” I said in agreement. I stared at the gravel for as long as possible, as if mesmerized by a magical rock, and not temporizing with the prosaic pebble. When he flicked it away, though, I had nowhere to direct my feigned interest. I resisted staring at his chest again, and raised my eyes to his.

  Wide brows furrowed, his serious face appeared even more severe than usual. “You have dirt or something, too,” he remarked, his gaze somewhere on my cheek. I would have lifted my arms to swipe at it, but I’d given them direct orders to stay below my waist, not completely trusting they wouldn’t initiate more exploring if permitted to wander.

  He looked directly at me for a moment; a look of fugitive consideration passing over his eyes, before focusing on the smudge again. “Hold still,” he ordered in whisper. Realizing what he was about to do, I swallowed, went stiff as a board, and held my breath.

  Without looking away, he raised a hand, extending his thumb from his palm, and ran it gently across my cheekbone three times. My eyes felt wide and humongous; I blinked, hoping to coax them back into my head. Despite the hammering heart, the breath that was quickly running out, and the muscles tensed and tight, I was immensely enjoying his touch—a little too much, I decided. The fierce eyes didn’t simmer one bit as he carefully went about removing the grime from my face. Once he was finished, his attention refocused on my eyes. For a moment, it was as if I was being pulled from myself—an extraction I had no desire to resist. The warmth was rich, quickly spreading throughout me; up my legs, circling my stomach, filling my chest with soft pressure—all my senses heightened to some awareness I couldn’t quite describe. Almost unwillingly, I lowered my gaze to his mouth, where his full, soft lips were just beginning to curve upward. Then I went cold all over.

  He took a purposeful step backward, managing to put as much distance between us in that one small step, as if he had suddenly been transported to the other side of the world. It was just like before, I observed when I was lying on the ground. There seemed to be a pattern—not just physical, but literal—developing in the advance-retreat maneuvers.

  With his face now completely closed off, he peered over the top of my head, a million miles away. “Well”—he cleared his throat, speaking in a deep, remote voice—“if anyone does, they won’t get very far—the harmonic balancer and front power disc brakes are toast.”

  I stared at hi
m blankly for a moment, reeling from all that had passed between us in the last thirty seconds. The nonsensical words played on repeat until I eventually remembered my question about someone stealing his car. I realized then that maybe, all that had passed between us, was nothing more than a fabrication, solely on my part—some trauma induced surrealism that didn’t actually exist. And if anything had happened—which it hadn’t—the delusion was mine and mine alone.

  “The alignment is probably screwed up, too,” he continued, raising a hand to rake at his neck. Like magic, three stripes instantly appeared, starting at just below his ear and running into the scoop of his white thermal. The bronzed skin bore the self-inflicted marks better than my alabaster skin would have. Still, the dark pink lines didn’t vanish, only faded to a lighter pink. Watching his throat muscles, I knew he was about to speak again. “And the distributor will most likely have to be replaced . . . the cluster lens and bezel, too. I won’t really know anything until he takes a look at the instrument panel, though . . .”

  The way he spoke, disinterested and detached, it was if I wasn’t even there. Which I suppose was for the best, as I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was saying. “Mm-hm . . .” I agreed with a noncommittal murmur. “That could be a problem.” I stepped around him, continuing the short distance to my car. Since he’d taken care of calling The House of Hope, and the kids knew we were running a little late, I wasn’t so anxious. Still, I was eager to be with them, and more than ready for some semblance of normalcy to even out this disorienting, if not entirely terrible and bizarre, day.

  A throaty laugh from behind stole me from my thoughts. I turned around to meet its owner with the last bit of, “What else could possibly go wrong?” wafting away like the smoke trail of a doused campfire. He smiled, displaying the top row of his straight, white teeth, and having unlikely any idea of how this affected me. His silence unnerved me, until finally he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head at an ironic angle.

  “Have a lot of experience with cars, do you?” The smugness in his posture was substantiated by his tone of voice. Mostly, though, his mood seemed playful. I smiled hesitantly, nibbling into my bottom lip, and then shook my head.

  Deciding that dawdling would only continue to eat up more time with my kids, I wheeled, closing the last couple steps to the car, realizing only too late I’d moved too fast. A scorching heat, like a hot flashing strobe light, overwhelmed me. I started to panic when I lost my vision for a few frightening seconds, but forced myself not to overreact. It was back within a few seconds, albeit blurry and warbled around the edges. Everything was spinning and my legs suddenly felt very, very heavy. I was forced to thrust out an arm and brace it on the doorframe. Closing my eyes, I lifted a placating hand to the middle of my forehead and pressed very lightly, rubbing in small counter-clockwise circles. Remembering Dominic was behind me, I quickly tugged the fingers through my curls, feigning an absent gesture. The sharp movement was heedless, instantly conjuring tears to well at the inner corners of my eyes.

  “You have a headache,” Dominic said, in low voice from behind me.

  It wasn’t a question, but an assertion—and one I didn’t think I would be able to deny. Still, the reflex to do so or deflect the attention elsewhere, sprang into action as I slowly turned around to look at him. A pathetic, wambly smile was all I could muster. Having expected to find the smugness still on his face, and with it an accusation, I was surprised to find neither. This concern took me off-guard just enough to answer with the truth.

  I nodded. It hurt terribly. He mirrored the wince that must have flashed across my face. The vulnerability was unexpected, affecting me in a poignant, almost distressing way. I looked away.

  “Foster?” Even with a pounding migraine, my name on his lips still managed to sound melodic.

  I raised my chin. “Yes?”

  Shoving his hands deeply into his pockets, he closed the gap between us. His eyes poured over my face, full of obstinacy. I watched as discomfort took him by force—watched him afflicted with the pain he so clearly felt when standing close to me. It actually swarmed him like a limbed thing—pulling, contorting, and squeezing; attempting to subvert any happiness his face might show. Under the brows set low, his stunning eyes wavered, and then retaliated by burning a determined icy blue. He was clearly unsettled, though, and visibly shaking. At that moment, I would have given anything to know what he was thinking. I had numerous questions, but insistency warred with another voice; a watchful, prudent advisor heeding me to tread carefully.

  “Do you think”—he spoke and stopped abruptly, breaking the silence—“I mean . . . would it be all right . . .” I was not accustomed to hearing him fumble over his words. Neither was he, apparently, judging from the impatient noises and tight-lipped scowl. “Would it be all right with you if I drove us to The House of Hope?” The words tumbled out of his mouth in the same manner as toys exploding from an overstuffed closet. My gut told me there was more behind this simple request than I could know for certain. Putting these allegations aside for later speculation, I made myself focus.

  “But . . . you don’t know where it is,” I said, thinking this sounded reasonable enough. It wasn’t so much that I minding him driving, but the implication behind it. If I allowed him to drive, I would be blatantly stating that I wasn’t well enough to, and then he might decide to take me to the hospital. I’d already seen just how impulsive he could be, making drastic decisions without a moment’s warning.

  “You can tell me what streets to turn on,” he replied, just as practical.

  “I’m not exactly sure of the street names, actually.” I was glad this was true, and I didn’t have to try and come up with a half-truth. “I just know how to get there.”

  He inhaled impatiently, then widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. I got the impression he was preparing for a fight. My aversion for confrontation impelled me to hand over the keys without another word, all in the hopes of circumventing this conversation entirely. If I did, though, there was no guaranteeing we would ever make it to our destination. This was entirely a lose-lose situation. If I didn’t do what he wanted, he would be angry; if I acquiesced, there was a possibility I might not see my kids. Expecting to see the controlled stoic start to unravel and burst into fury, I was more than surprised when all traces of fight left him, seeming to evaporate right before my eyes. He let his arms fall to his sides, took a deep breath, and smiled very weakly.

  “It would really ease my mind if you would let me drive,” he said on an exhale.

  “But, I feel fi—”

  “No,” he interrupted softly, “you don’t.” He sighed and took a step closer. “I know you’re in a hurry to see the kids, but I’m afraid that with your headache and blurry vision”—an urge to deny both these claims sprung up; doing so, however, would have been a full lie, and those always left me feeling nauseated. I couldn’t afford to feel any more nauseated than I already did—“the rain, and the fog—low and dense the way it is . . .” He trailed off and a look passed us, hanging suspended for a moment.

  My mind itched with questions.

  “Well,” he said, abruptly, “you could accidentally run a red light, or not see someone crossing the street, or end up hurting someone or yourself. And you won’t be doing those kids any good if you wind up in the hospital—or worse.” The last two words came out slightly strangled. “And . . .” he said, arching an eyebrow, “I know you think I’m going to try and stop you from going to The House of Hope, because you and I both know you should be going straight to the hospital”—he held my gaze firm, his face neatly composed—‘but, I promise I won’t prevent you from seeing the kids. If you let me drive—I won’t bring it up again.”

  The keys made a jangling noise as I lifted my arm. Full of relief, his features relaxed all at once. Wasting no time, he raised his hand to collect them, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. I could see by his reaction that I’d taken him by surprise; precisely the way he h
ad done to me a moment ago. Truth be told, I was pretty shocked myself. I lowered my head and sidled to the left, trailing a balancing hand along the outside of the car as I made my way around to the passenger side door. I had closed my eyes only for a second, feeling for the door handle, when I heard a familiar noise. I knew better than to believe the door had opened on its own, but was still startled by the large, slender fingered hand tucked around the handle. Once ajar, Dominic stood behind it, shielding the lower half of his body. The puzzlement and relief had already dissipated, leaving an easily deciphered expression on his face: you’re welcome.

  I smiled back, and then carefully lowered myself into the car. Even with being careful, I couldn’t help but fall a bit into the seat. As the door closed beside me, my whole body celebrated by thrumming with a faint electric current. My head, however, was not as thankful, protesting to what sounded like gunshots fired at close range with every door slammed shut. I fought back a cringe as Dominic scooted into the driver’s seat, hoping I at least looked better than I felt. Closing my eyes was out of the question, so I watched with considerable admiration as he sprung into action, checking the mirrors, buckling his seatbelt, flicking the wipers, and releasing the parking break in as little time as it took me to complete just one of those steps.

  He reached down with his left hand, presumably to adjust the seat to accommodate his considerably longer legs, and ceased the ministrations suddenly. “Is there somewhere specific you want me to put this?” he asked, lifting his hand to reveal a slightly crumpled white piece of paper pinched between his fingers.