Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  Surely I must have made a noise or something, because without looking at me, Mrs. Lennox—thumbing through a sheaf of thermometers—suddenly broke the silence and said without emotion, “Dinna fash yerself.”

  Immediately I stepped back, putting space between Vanya and me. Though I wasn’t quite sure what I might have done to upset Mrs. Lennox, I murmured an apology, meeting her eyes when she happened to glance over at me. I saw right away that her expression read neither angry nor bothered, which confused me. Mrs. Lennox looked a bit confused herself at that moment. She cocked her head to the side, which apparently was the cure to mystification; a noise akin to amusement shot from her mouth at the same time her eyes registered understanding.

  “Oh, A’m sairy,” she apologized through a blunt laugh, slapping the cabinet shut. “Aye . . . I s’pose ye can take the Scot oot o’ Scotland, but ye canna take the Scotland oot o’ the Scot. Sixty some years in the States, an’ I still havena the proper way to be phrasin’ it.” She smiled cordially. “Back home, when someone’s frettin’ about somethin’, we say ‘dinna fash yersel.’ I only told ye tae no be worryin’ about your frein. Tis true, her coloring might no be sae good, but her pulse is strong, even if her breathin’ is just a touch shallow.”

  I nodded, wondering how she might know all of this, not having gotten around to taking Vanya’s pulse, or spending more than a few seconds looking at her. My face must have registered this curiosity.

  “I dinna have tae lay hands o’er her tae ken that,” she said modestly. “Ye can see for yerself if ye only look.” She gestured at Vanya with a slow nod of her head. “D’ye see that vein right there? The one runnin’ along her neck?” Warily, I moved back to where I had been standing a moment ago. As I peered over Vanya’s shoulder, I saw the carotid artery Mrs. Lennox referred to; sure enough, a consistent thumping gently shook Vanya’s polished skin. “I counted six beats,” she said informatively. “She’s restin’, so that’ll be normal. If it were in the forties or lower, then we might have cause tae fa—to worry a bit.” She smiled warmly and winked. “Now let’s hope she doesna boak all ov’er me, aye?”

  With a prayer to that effect sent heavenward—my own fervent hope that Vanya’s vomiting would cease, at least until she could do so in her own bathroom—Mrs. Lennox galumphed toward us. I noticed she favored her left leg, so that she rocked from side to side as she walked. However, what she lacked in speed, she more than made for with experience and expertise; time had dragged its ruthless claws thoroughly over Mrs. Lennox’s worn face, leaving it abundantly lined and traced with patterns, like a well-utilized map forgotten in the glove compartment of an old truck. But in every wrinkle, I suspected innumerable knowledge was embedded, safely preserved, soaking all the way back into the mind touched by age. The furrow of concentration wedged between the shrewd and slanted gray eyes denoted that mind was at work now. She turned her weathered hand over, pressing the back of it to Vanya’s forehead. She took her other hand and felt all along Vanya’s neck and jaw. The knitted red and green Christmas sweater she wore made susurrant noises with each small movement. With it being the middle of March, I couldn’t help but smile a little, my eye landing on a crocheted elf dangling on a loose thread.

  “Mmpfh,” Mrs. Lennox mumbled a moment later. “I ken she’s fevered, but we must check tae be sure.” She sighed heavily. “I havena the desire to find my wee stool; help me, will ye?” she asked, gesturing that I should take Vanya by the shoulders.

  Easily enough, we were able to get Vanya onto her back, Mrs. Lennox’s swift, competent hands managing to get a pillow beneath her neck. Once she was awake, however, Vanya began to cause a commotion. She moaned dolorously and tried to curl back up, but was impeded by the firm grasp holding her flat.

  “I know, dearie,” Mrs. Lennox commiserated. “Ye musn’t waste your strength, lass,” she asseverated, pushing gently on Vanya’s shoulders. Vanya began to cry softly, protesting the intrusion into her mouth and fighting the nurse with what little energy she had left.

  She turned her attention back to Vanya, cupping her chin and pulling the paper from her mouth. “Jings! Is she always this crabbit?” Mrs. Lennox asked, narrowly avoiding being obstructed with Vanya’s flailing arm. “Stubborn as a mule, this one,” she added, not without some appreciation. “I bet she’s loads o’ fun when she’s no hampered by fatigue and sickness.” She flicked a sardonic glance my way. I didn’t answer—not audibly, anyway—but bobbed my head with the utmost empathy.

  “Is there anything I can do?” If possible, Vanya looked worse now than we I had found her; her skin was slick with fever, eyelashes damp with tears and sweat. And whereas before it had been intermittent, the shuddering now appeared to be continuous.

  “Not likely, dearie; no unless you happen tae have a potion that’ll be curing the flu, aye?” No point in waiting for my answer, she turned around, muttering a curse as she bent her aching body, tossing the contaminated stick of paper into the trash. “The only way she’ll be getting’ o’er this is by goin’ straight through it, I think. Couple o’ days and she’ll be canty enough.” She peeped out the door then and shouted, startling Ms. Appletree. “Any word from her Mum or Da?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Ms. Appletree called back. “I’ve left two messages on both her parents’ cell phones, but I can’t seem to get through to their direct work-line.”

  Mrs. Lennox turned to me, a look of fierce disapproval on her ill-disguised face. “Poor lass should be home in bed,” she grumbled, before turning around. “But I s’pose someone’ll be along, presently,” she added tartly, clearly entertaining pernicious thoughts of Mr. and Mrs. Borisova.

  And though I knew very little about Vanya’s parents and their occupation, it was hard to believe they could be any busier than Jake and Emily’s, who without question would have already been here. Even in my parent’s most grueling days, sometimes working sixteen hour shifts at the lab back in Roxbury, there was not a single time I was led to believe their work came before my well-being. Whatever struggles I had, whatever obstacles I had yet to overcome, a mother and father who were too busy to make time for me was not one of them.

  “Okay . . .” I said. “Well . . . if for some reason neither of them are available, can I leave my mother’s number? She works from home and it would be no inconvenience for her to pick Vanya up and drop her off.” Had my mother been here, I know she would have extended the same offer herself.

  “That’s verra kind o’ you, dearie, but we canna be releasin’ students into the care o’ those not on the emergency contact list,” she said regretfully. “Tell you what, though.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially, pulling out a clunky black cell phone. “Let me have your number and should there be none to claim her, I’ll see what I can do, aye?”

  ~

  Barreling down the empty hallway at a speed that should have been illicit for me, I slowed to a stroll, deciding it was pointless to get back to class thirty seconds sooner. Ms. Dashels did not espouse leniency, and although I had never personally tested her limits, I had seen her merciless tactics carried out on other students in the class. The number one rule: punctuality was not to be flouted. This meant it was highly unlikely, even with the pass Ms. Appletree had graciously given to me, that Ms. Dashels would be overly impressed with my whereabouts for the last fifteen minutes. I could count on some sort of grunt work or public humiliation. That is, if she hadn’t already locked the door and decreed that I would not have the benefit of hearing what homework was assigned, or the specifics on an upcoming exam. If that was the case, my only chance would be to sit outside the classroom with my ear folded into the crack of the door.

  Delinquents—as Ms. Dashels referred to all those who did not abide by her rules—were not to be given leniency or assistance in any way. And if she had any reason to suspect the guilty had solicited help or another student had granted clemency, she then gave the entire class a quiz, one that covered only the material discussed the day prior. This, without fail, re
vealed at least one culprit. It was only a matter of time until the second came forward . . . the remainder of the period was spent in lecture, a lesson on integrity and what it means to be a person of character. Primarily it focused on peregrinations of Ms. Dashels’ childhood, recounting tales of her childhood hero and father, Lieutenant General Conroy Dashels. It also touched on the blessed hardship of living transiently. How after a lifetime of moving from military base to military base, never settling long enough to become comfortable or rely on anything but the clothes on her back and the sparse items she still carried around in a black duffel bag, she had become the person she is today. While I admired Ms. Dashels—in a terrified, prefer-not-to-make-eye-contact kind of way—how these stories tied into the lesson on integrity, I wasn’t exactly sure.

  I was rounding the corner when I heard someone say Dominic’s name. My shoes squeaked against the floor as I lurched to a halt, ears pricked for the voice that had ripped me out of my ruminations.

  Silence.

  I waited, feet apart, arms and hands rigid in front of me, and angling my head left and right like an osculating satellite. This state of being was not unlike what happens following a small, unremarkable earthquake: the heightened senses, the stillness of body and acceleration of pulse, while the mind sorts through for the best course of action. Run, or stay put were the two I currently had on replay. Because I had yet to take a breath in the better part of a half minute, I exhaled, biting it off when the voice—quieter this time—spoke again. It had come time to make a decision . . . to go or stay put.

  Of course the right decision is to go, I thought, an indignant voice, appalled I would even consider such a sordid, preposterously wrong thing to do.

  Twice I had heard Dominic’s name spoken, and twice it had sounded both concerned and somber. This conversation I had happened upon—uninvited came the outraged reminder—was a conversation intended for the ears of only those directly involved; not the selfish ears of someone hoping to gain insight into the many sides, layers, and mysteries surrounding Dominic Kassells.

  Yes, you should absolutely leave right this minute. As it happened, my feet did not agree.

  As if I needed more reason to make haste and go directly back to class, I saw for myself a moment later—was I really tiptoeing down the hall?—the nature of the conversation was in fact extremely private; though, I didn’t need to see the name plate tacked on the wall to confirm this. Lurking—yes, I was most definitely lurking, I thought, more than a little disgusted with myself—near the open door, I wasn’t sure if Mr. Michaels, Shorecliffs’ school counselor, was merely engaged in a phone call, following through on a newly enrolled student, or perhaps requesting transcripts, records, and other pertinent information from Dominic’s previous school, or if the agenda centered on another, no less important aspect of his job. This of course, being the aspect in which Dominic was not only the topic, but in present company as well.

  Either way, you shouldn’t be here!

  Clearly this was a black and white ethical issue. Why then, could I not make the right decision? Warring parties presented their cases, one firmly in favor of reporting immediately back to class, and the other . . . preferring something not nearly as virtuous. Stay and learn the truth about him? Leave and wait for him to tell it to me himself? Presently, I couldn’t have been any more frustrated over my naiveté and willingness to dismiss his attempts at honesty last night. Seconds away from telling me everything, and I had told him no . . . that I could wait. And while I believed the reasons for doing so remained valid, I was having difficulty remembering just how exactly. If I’d only let him speak! Then I wouldn’t have any need to sneak around like some miscreant.

  My breath caught in my throat at the sound of Dominic’s voice. He was there. Inside that room. Not in class.

  The moral debate was suddenly not so much a debate, but a reproving outcry, derived from a very distant part of my mind I currently paid very little attention to. As I crept closer to the ajar door, an instinct like nothing I had ever felt took over. Tiptoeing softly, I took care not to drag the soles of my feet. I nearly ruined everything when I lost my balance, and was forced to clench my teeth to avoid making any noise. Despite my best efforts to quiet my landing, my hands slapped against the wall noisily as I steadied myself. Cringing and palpitating, I waited to see if someone would emerge from the room. When that didn’t happen, I permitted myself a rewarding gulp of oxygen and bent at the waist to catch my breath. With a moue, I stared at the objects responsible for the trouble—my two hapless feet. A male voice, not Dominic’s, continued in a low murmur.

  Seeing that—for the time being at least—I was in no danger of being spotted, I pressed my back flat against the wall and began to walk sideways toward the door, until I dared go no further. I rested my chin on my left shoulder and with my heart hammering the guilty’s song, I peered in the doorway. It was open about six inches, at an angle allowing me a clear view of Mr. Michaels sitting behind his mahogany desk. Just in front of him were a computer, keyboard, a Newton’s cradle, a glossy miniature globe tilted on its side, and a few frames with pictures of his wife and baby. Prestigious looking degrees were displayed behind him, mounted to the wall in two lacquered wooden frames—a maroon and gold tassel in one, and black and teal in the other. An item I knew was in there, but could not be seen from my vantage point, was a state-of-the-art espresso machine, using those tiny, colorful disposable capsules. Beside it, would be the mason jar filled with biscotti. I knew this because Mr. Michaels had offered both to me the day I met him.

  Along the same lines as Mr. Balfy, Mr. Michaels was one of the few putative administrators collectively agreed upon as “Cool.” Well outside of being a moderator—or participator—of such things, I was more or less inclined to say I admired him. When I arrived to Shorecliffs last year, I was only partially taken aback on the first day of school when an office attendant walked through the door of the Chem-lab, interrupting Expectations and Explorations of the syllabus, to hand-deliver a request for my immediate excusal from class.

  Shorecliffs’ policy, as written in the Section IV of the handbook, mandated that all transfer students will have an initial “Welcome!” meeting with the school’s acting school counselor. As this was not the policy at my last high school, where time in any staff member’s office was reserved for those with academic, social, or behavioral problems, I had extremely vague and cliché notions of what to expect. Would he ask me to lie down on a leather couch? To close my eyes and imagine myself on a remote island? Would he be using a tape recorder to document everything I said? My plan was to appear as normal as possible, say as little as possible, and be dismissed as soon as possible.

  And like most of my plans, this one was no exception. Ten minutes after taking a seat across from him—declining both the coffee and biscotti—I found myself answering questions truthfully and sharing details—nothing too personal, but nonetheless more than I would have said had I not been completely disarmed by his calming presence and easy to talk to disposition—about my goals and what I hoped to achieve during my last year of high school. More than anything, I left his office with the feeling that he didn’t simply act liked he cared, but quite genuinely did care. This attribute, as far as I had experienced, was surprisingly uncommon among the majority of the overworked and heavily burdened teachers and administrators. Against all my proclivities, I couldn’t help taking an instant liking to him. However . . .

  There was another reason—not even halfway through thinking the thought and already blushing—why Mr. Michaels ranked among the top five percent of Shorecliffs’ staff. And this reason had nothing to do with his compassion, ability to disarm, or solicitous involvement with the students. No. It was owed to the fact that he looked less like a school counselor and more like one of the actors on Geraldine’s soap operas—one who played the role of an intellectual. To say he was pined for, would be putting it lightly. Emily, with her nearly unreachable high standards for prospective boyfriends,
had once been inspired to orchestrate a problem that only the school counselor could assist her with. Not even one as fastidious as she was impervious to the combination of intelligence, likability, and fine-boned good looks. And when I did think about it, in fact I did imagine Emily would end up dating someone older perhaps, and definitely someone who matched her in both wit and charm—late twenties, with a wife and child was not quite what I’d had in mind.

  I forced myself to take three long, deep breaths.

  I heard a brief grinding noise and knew this to be the sound of Mr. Michaels’s office chair as he resituated. I imagined him to be the way he was with me: relaxed, attentive, giving nothing less than his undivided attention to the person across from him. I heard a sigh, but was unable to distinguish which tall, dark-haired male it originated from. Then it was very, very quiet.

  Instinctively, I swung around and stared through the door, pulse pounding inside my ears. What I saw gave me no cause for alarm; however, the body was much slower than the mind where processing was concerned, so even though I could see the only reason it had become quiet was because no one was speaking, my body was still trying to make sense of the fight or flight message it had been sent. Mr. Michaels, correctly imagined, was slightly bent forward over his desk, left hand lightly resting over the other. To his right was a window; the late morning sunlight reflected the silver wedding band, giving it an almost coppery tint. Not changing since the last time I’d seen him, was his short, dark brown hair, combed neatly to the side. In addition, he had not lost the indescribable way in which he could appear both interested and respectful of boundaries. Behind slate rimmed glasses, the brown eyes were fixed straight ahead on the person who was just out of eyeshot.