Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  My first day back to The House of Hope was momentous and eventful; I was nearly crazed with excitement to see my kids after so many days apart. However, long after the thirteen of us were heading toward the lake, I realized I hadn’t said goodbye to Dominic; someone had called in advance, and had the children convened and prepared for our arrival into the parking lot. They rushed the car, carrying me off in a net of hands and legs, squeals and shouts, making it impossible to hear one voice over the other. When I realized what he had done for me, I just barely had time to look over my shoulder before being pulled into the building. I caught a glimpse of his face, a smile of satisfaction prominent even from the distance apart. He raised an arm, waved, and not until the dinner bell rang did I remember I hadn’t come here alone. It was a great start to my week, different and familiar mingling together to produce a day akin to perfection. Three days of this, though, and we both were beginning to feel the effects of time and space apart.

  It was being at all the same places, together essentially, but unable to actually be together or talk that left both of us feeling itchy. With only short drives to and from school, brief interludes between periods, and the evenings claiming my attention in the way of homework and a quick meal with my family, something had to give. That unfortunately and unintentionally was my time with Dominic. I felt stretched beyond my means, devoid of the ability to create more time for us. My life, which at one point felt like a teacup barely moistened, had in a matter of days brimmed to the overflow. There simply was no room. By Tuesday afternoon I was shocked to realize Emily and I had barely said more than a few words to one another since early Sunday. I still had yet to ask about her date . . .

  Throughout a never-ending string of avocation, Dominic was incredibly understanding, and thankfully without my saying so, understood that eventually things would once again resemble normalcy. Never did he complain about our lack of time together, or leave me feeling responsible for the circumstances. There was one minor reprieve, where the two of us could be stationary and within close proximity; music class consequently provided us the best opportunity to spend time together. Still, it was not without its shortcomings, leaving the reprieve a flawed one. We were much further behind on our Senior Piece than everyone else, for one. This worried me more so than Dominic, the majority of my anxiety resting in the fact that I had yet to sing for him—in person anyway.

  Also . . . there was Vanya.

  While I hardly expected her to remember the events leading up to her unconscious state, I didn’t think for one moment she would have suddenly turned warm toward me. It did come as a surprise, however, that for whatever reason, an acknowledgment that never at any point surpassed dislike and indifference had spawned into a deep loathing and effusive ridicule. Monday consisted of defaming insults whispered cheerfully behind our back, only to be superseded by Tuesday’s complete lack of circumscription. Even for Vanya, I thought her cruelty reached a new level. After a considerably malicious remark about body odor, Vanya sniffing in my direction to insinuate where she believed the stench to derive from.

  “Hey,” she had whispered. I could hear the sneer on her lips, the cold blue eyes that sought Dominic’s attention. “What are doing with her,”—sounding like something between shocked and accusatory—“did you lose a bet or something?”

  Beside me, Dominic stiffened and forced whatever verbal assault working its way up his throat back down. After Monday’s evasive mockery, I pleaded with him to ignore her, sure that Vanya would grow bored if we didn’t react. It didn’t surprise me that Dominic disapproved or thought it wouldn’t work, but I remonstrated to at least give it a try. I didn’t want this marring our first week together, and the strategy worked wonderfully with my kids, so why not her? Vanya was no irascible six-year-old, though, and rose to the challenge with alarming tenacity.

  “How can you stand it?” she persisted, close enough to tell me she was leaning forward over her desk. “Ugh, she sheds more hair than my dog. You know . . . she actually looks a little bit like him, too. He’s a poodle.”

  Beyond rationalizing that poodles didn’t in fact shed, I couldn’t understand where this sudden flare of animosity had come from. Beside me, Dominic bristled and was already turning around when Gina, sitting two seats over and to the left, said something foul enough to earn a collective gasp from the class, and a very rare reprimand from Mr. Balfy. She was excused with a disappointed rebuke and immediate dismissal to the principal’s office, which she accepted gladly, but not before smacking Vanya in the face with her backpack as she traveled down the aisle. For the remainder of the period, Vanya mollified herself with offhanded canine references toward me. Luckily we were given some class time to break into groups, grateful for the opportunity to put some space between us and Vanya. When, at the end of the period, we came back to gather our belongings, a picture of a boy feeding a bone to his half human pet—one with extremely curly hair—was sitting atop my desk. Dominic grabbed it, crumpled it in his fist before I had time to look at it for very long, then tossed it across the room.

  Today, there was a palpable tension as we entered Music. I smiled for Dominic’s sake, but on the inside was incredibly nervous about Vanya, wondering what antics she had in store for me today. Fifteen minutes into the period, Mr. Balfy allowed us to breakout into our Senior Piece groups, suggesting we spread out and find some place unoccupied and get to work. Dominic and I chose one of the many nooks at the back of the room, separated by soundproof partitions. Forty-five minutes later we were not too disappointed with the progress we’d made. Not only that, but a full hour had passed without Vanya so much as speaking a word to or about us. Which was why, when Mr. Balfy asked both of us to stay behind requesting to speak privately, I knew something was very wrong.

  Mr. Balfy perched on his stool, Dominic and me seated in the front row desks, listening as he somberly lectured us on the differences between inappropriate and appropriate usages of class time. Confusion registered on Dominic’s face, and I too was having trouble following his train of thought. After a few minutes of this, neither of us understanding what he was attempting to convey, Dominic’s patience capped out.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Dominic interrupted Mr. Balfy who had begun to ramble, and if allowed to go on much longer, would make us late for our next period. Politely—but somewhat insistent—Dominic asked if he could be a bit more specific.

  At that point, Mr. Balfy smiled with reluctance, laid a brotherly hand on Dominic’s shoulders and said, “I know you guys are a new couple, and I think you know I’m all for you—encouraged it, even . . . but you can’t be using the back of class to make out.”

  I very honestly don’t know what was said immediately following that comment because the hum of embarrassment rung so loud in my ears, I could hear nothing above my own shame. A shame that was neither merited nor justified. Apparently someone had come forward some time in the last hour, and informed Mr. Balfy that Dominic and I had ceased working on the Senior Piece, instead using the time to “canoodle”—Mr. Balfy’s exact word as he attempted levity in an effort to make the situation less awkward and uncomfortable. I don’t see how it could have possibly been any more awkward and uncomfortable. Rather than deny the claims against us, Dominic simply rose from the chair and left the class without a word, fuming. Less angry and more shocked that Vanya would make such a lewd assertion, and hurt that Mr. Balfy would believe it, I followed soon behind.

  And so now, three days after the most incredible night of my life, Dominic and I were having our very first fight.

  He was waiting for me in the hallway, scarce of the bodies now well on their way to fifth period. He had his arms crossed over his chest, leaning up against the wall of lockers. I had a feeling I would be late today.

  “You and I are going to talk to her—today,” he enunciated. I had yet to close Mr. Balfy’s door, and hurried to do so. “This is insane. She is insane!” He pushed off the wall and began to pace. I was trembling. Seeing him this upset was remi
niscent of the very first day we had met, and though his hostility was not directed at me, it was frightening just being near it.

  “I still . . . I still think it would be best to ignore her. Eventually she’ll stop.” These words lacked the same conviction as before; I had begun to question whether Vanya truly would grow tired of torturing us. The look on Dominic’s face when I suggested we do nothing sent a violent shudder rippling up my back.

  “You can’t ask me to do that,” he demurred, calm enough to assure me he was livid. “You can’t ask me to do nothing, to sit there every day and let her talk to you that way.”

  I walked toward him, trying to ignore the stares of those who were now lingering in the hallway, doubling back upon hearing Dominic. I stood in front of him, pleading. “Can we go somewhere and talk about this?” It made no difference that I kept my voice hushed, people were already crowding in. “Why don’t we sit in your car?” I reached for his arm, but he stepped outside my reach, not so much jerking away from me, but making it clear he did not want me touching him right now. Tears instantly sprang up behind my eyes. I blinked, swallowed, and stepped back to give him space.

  When he spoke, his voice was adamantine. “How long has she been doing this to you, Foster? Do you ever plan on confronting her?” I stared up at him wordlessly, devastated, and with the stark realization that my cowardice no longer affected only me. “Do you?” It was a roared whisper.

  “I—I don’t know.” I looked away and stared at the floor. “It wasn’t always like this, she—” I was making excuses and I knew it. Looking up, I saw he knew it, too. “I’m sorry,” I whispered so softly it was lost in a breath.

  He stared down at me for a hard second, then ripped his eyes off me—like I was a wound he no longer wanted to be adhered to. “I can’t. I can’t do this.” He turned, and was halfway down the hall by the time I realized I was crying. In a state of complete shock and dismay, I watched him leave.

  Three days. Three days and it was over.

  ~

  How I arrived here, I was not entirely sure, but eventually I found myself standing before the door of my Anatomy class. I was late—again. Entering, I received reproving looks from my teacher, her weathered features more pronounced by furrows and a frown. Not wanting to interrupt her lecture, I sent her a look of compunction and hurried along the wall to my seat in the back row. She made her way down my aisle, wide hips knocking things to the floor, and handed me a makeup exam. She paused lecturing to inform me succinctly, “You have the remainder of class to finish.”

  Turning the completed packet over, I set down my pencil and glanced toward the clock. My chest throbbed. Ten minutes was all that had passed. The rest of the period was spent in a mental tug-of-war. I did my best to focus, jotting down answers to questions I was more than prepared for. If I gave myself even a second to process what had just happened, though, I knew the tears would not only come; they would be unstoppable. Still, I would surface from a daydream to find I had stopped writing, the eraser shoved between my teeth, my lungs tight and desperate for oxygen.

  When the bell rang, what felt like days later, I was shaky and disoriented. I stood in front of my teacher’s desk, waiting, as she quickly graded and handed it back—a ninety-eight circled in red at the top.

  She cleared her throat, and flashed an imperceptible smile. “Very good, Ms. Kelly,” she praised impassively.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking it from her hands.

  “You missed only one,” she added listlessly. “Highest score in the class.” Rising from her chair, she groaned, bending over to retrieve her purse from beneath the desk. After fighting her way into a taupe pea coat, pulling the belt tight at her waist, she paused. Her clunky heels made a strident sound as she pivoted at the door, facing me. “I must say I’m somewhat surprised by your error,” she remarked, bemused. She smiled again, no less apathetic than before. “I have every reason to believe you know the answer to that question.”

  At that moment, I wasn’t compelled in the slightest to see for myself. Not wanting to appear disrespectful, I replied, “I’ll look as soon I get home.”

  She nodded. “Do that,” she insisted, “and try to get some rest, Ms. Kelly; you don’t look that well.”

  Numbly, I made my way down the hallway. I didn’t feel all that well, either, I reflected to myself. Everything ached; a raw, unequivocal soreness left me without a derivation point, no way of consoling myself. I just wanted to be home; some place where I could process what had just happened and perhaps try and find a way to resolve things—if he would let me. Something occurred to me then: I hadn’t driven myself to school today—or the last three days for that matter. My throat thickened as I contemplated that this morning, without my knowing, was the last time I would ever sit beside Dominic in his car. I could hardly bear to move beyond that point of recognition. My immediate concerns were far less pivotal; however, the fact still remained that I was without transportation. Stranded.

  Searching my backpack, I pushed through the double doors and into the insensitive sunshine, deliberating between calling my parents or Emily to come and pick me up. Forced to switch hands to remove my phone, the forgotten exam crumpled. Maybe I would just walk home, I decided. My parents would be knee deep in soil at this hour, and Emily and Jake were likely already at the beach for their afternoon surfing session. Somewhere between curiosity and the need to not think about the reality ahead of me, I turned the pages of the exam, searching for the incorrect answer. I found the red slash marked through the question.

  Using the material learned in class, thoroughly explain in your own words the following: What is cardiomyopathy and how does it affect the body?

  She was right—twice, actually—I had answered incorrectly and I did know the answer. I thought of it now. Anything to keep the thoughts most pressing from making themselves known.

  Cardiomyopathy is the weakening of the heart muscle. It affects the body in two ways: Dilated cardiomyopathy and Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Dilated cardiomyopathy occurs when the ventricle becomes dilated, and the ventricular muscle weak and relatively flaccid. As a result, the pumping action of the ventricle becomes weak; the amount of blood pumped with each beat drops; and the body’s organs do not receive their full quotient of blood.

  Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy is generally a genetic condition that tends to run in families. It is characterized by a thickening in the ventricular muscle that results in muscle stiffness . . .

  This was the answer I should have written—the one necessary to receive full-credit. As I stared at the four word answer I had put in its place, the tears came unbidden.

  Cardiomyopathy: a broken heart.

  I took a deep breath and forced the tears back. Not here, I told myself firmly. I made my way down the steps, headed for the school’s entrance.

  And then I saw him.

  My heart sputtered and I lurched to a stop. The urge to spring forward was strong, my feet wanting to take me to my joy. My brain was faster, though, reminding me that my joy did not likely want me. So I just stood there—staring at Dominic—not sure what I should do. Thirty or so feet from me, he was turned to a profile. This view allowed me to clearly discern the clench of his jaw, the brow bone thrust low. He leaned up against the passenger door of his car, arms crossed over his chest, leaving only his thumbs visible. The wind tousled his hair, blowing it backward off his face, revealing the profound line of his jaw and the high, rosy cheekbones. Even his lashes couldn’t be muted by distance. It would have been entirely impossible to not take notice of just how beautiful he really was.

  It took me a moment to realize that Dominic no longer remained turned away and unmoving, but walked directly toward me, nearly halfway across the grass. My heart flip-flopped at least a dozen times before he had closed the distance, and I had the irrational urge to run—to him, not away as I would have expected. Beyond a very clear determination to reach his destination, his expression was unreadable. He could have been angry, disapp
ointed, regretful, or none of these. A few feet from me, I braced myself for whatever was coming, not at all prepared when he wrapped his arms around my body, crushing me to him. His hand traveled up my back, gently taking a fistful of curls in his palm. Trembling—partially due to shock, but mostly to elation—I held him back.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his lips against my hair, cradling my head. “I never should have left you—I’m so sorry.”

  He apologized for everything; for losing his temper, for leaving angry, but mostly for not being more patient and understanding with me—change took time, it didn’t happen overnight, he said. A few times I attempted to offer my own apologies. He would have none of them, however, only pressing me tighter to him as he continued to reassure me of his culpability, casting all blame upon himself. I couldn’t even shake my head in disagreement. I found it preposterous that he would assume the entire fault, and begun to feel itchy with desperation, wanting to assure him he was absolutely justified in how he’d reacted; the only thing worse than how Vanya treated me, was that I allowed her to do it. Until this week I had managed to stay under her radar, never a victim of the full extent of her wrath. This had changed for reasons I couldn’t understand, and persisted for three days. It was wrong of me to expect him to be anything other than who he was. This was my fault and mine alone.

  He pulled back, one hand still wound in my curls. “I want you to promise me something,” he said, his eyes earnest and beseeching.

  “Yes,” I answered without thinking.

  He smiled, laughed lightly, and reached up with the other hand to stroke my cheek. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” he commented. I was unreasonably overjoyed to see some of the humor return to his eyes. “What if I’m about to ask you to get a tattoo or take a trip to Greece with me?” He had a point with the first; subjecting my body to pain by needles was not something I ever intended on doing; however, the second wasn’t remotely out of the question. “Foster.” He laughed again. “You can stop mulling it over,” he said, a dry tone to his voice. “I’m not going to ask you to do either of those things.” Using his thumb, he tilted my chin up, meeting my eyes warmly. “At least not right this minute, I’m not.” He paused, preparing to make his request. “What I want is for you to promise me it won’t always be like this. That the day will come when you refuse to be that girl’s punching bag.” Frustration and irritation worked its way back into his voice. He furrowed his brows, exhaling strongly through his nose. “And not just hers, but anyone’s, Foster. I’ve been thinking about it since I walked away . . . once I was able to get past how badly I wanted to—” He broke off, turned his head to the side and took a deep breath. Watching me from his peripheral, he said evenly, “It’s incredibly fortunate for Vanya that I didn’t run into her at any point during the last hour. If I had . . . well I know myself, and when the people I care about are mistreated, I basically lose all control of my tongue and turn into a complete jackass. But, anyway”—he shook his head abruptly—“after I calmed down a little, I realized that confronting her or saying anything would be rather pointless.” Tossing his eyes to the sky, he considered this, a slow smirk forming at one corner of his mouth. He flicked a brow up. “Maybe not completely pointless, I suppose.”