Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  “Foster.” He half laughed, half spoke my name. The dark eyebrows furrowed but his eyes remained gentle. “Foster, you make nervous all the time.”

  This was news to me. I could feel what must have been a stunned expression penetrating my face. “I do?”

  He laughed openly. “Yes,” he said emphatically, “you do.” Then he raised his arms high in the air, turning his head from side to side. “These didn’t show up because I was calm and collected tonight.” It took a moment before I actually saw the deep circles of sweat blooming outward from his armpits, darkening the fabric where it was saturated to a very light gray. “And this wasn’t the first shirt I put on either,” he added dryly.

  I don’t know why, but hearing that I made him nervous was like being told I had been picked first place in a contest. That I made Dominic nervous—it was beyond comprehension.

  “So what happened next?” I asked to cover my shyness. “With you and Summer?”

  “Well . . .” He sighed, blinked three times, and chuckled. “I tried to deny that I liked her for about one minute. Then Matthew threatened to call her down and ask her out for me. I was off the couch in one point five—flat.” I laughed, picturing the hasty exit; a fourteen-year-old boy’s pride on the line.

  “It was the slowest walk any person ever took up a flight of stairs,” he intoned flatly. “Eventually, though I can’t remember how, I worked up the nerve and knocked on her bedroom door. She called over the music to come in, so I did. To her I doubt it was a big deal—having me inside her room. I’d seen it hundreds of times, even slept on the floor once or twice. But I can remember staring at her bed like it had gnashing teeth and would swallow me up if I got too close.

  “I was also a little surprised to see she had a thing for Nick Lachey from Ninety Eight Degrees. I think she might have been lying on the bed reading one of those girly magazines with him on the cover. At that age I was still trying to navigate my too big feet and scrawny legs; Nick’s naked, chiseled chest wasn’t doing much for my confidence.”

  I covered my mouth, stifling a laugh.

  “Yeah, you laugh now,” he moped, feigning affront, “but it’s not an easy task asking a girl out on a date with Mr. Fabulous staring at you.”

  Dominic misinterpreted my laughter. I laughed only because I marveled at how someone as beautiful as he could ever give second thoughts to his appearance. But then it occurred to me that confidence that spawned from the outside and hoped to work its way inward was a fallacious thing, and very temperamental; the slightest bit of doubt or uncertainty could crush it. Dominic, although unfairly exceptional, possessed a confidence stemming self-worth and a healthy perception of himself. This was what made him beautiful, only heightening his ethereal beauty.

  I said none of this, though, allowing him to continue with his story.

  “I scowled at the posters for who knows how long until Summer yelled my name, snapping me out of it. Truthfully, I didn’t think I had an ant’s chance at getting a date with her, but I’d gotten this far—or so I told myself—and couldn’t back down now. So I asked her. I can’t remember my exact words, but I recall it going something like, ‘You think, maybe, you might want, you know . . . sometime, you and I go out?’” He gave me a deadpan stare. “You’re thinking how could she resist, right?”

  I nodded. “Precisely.” And actually I did find the blundering speech endearing.

  “Once I realized I had decimated all chances of getting a date, I turned around to leave, making plans to move to Iceland or the South Pole. Somewhere I could freeze away my shame and embarrassment. But all of sudden I see her getting off the bed. So I stop to see what she’s going to do. Slap me maybe? Tell me I’m an idiot. But she walks right up to me, puts her hands on either side of my face, and kisses me on the mouth. I was so shocked I think I forgot to close my eyes. Then it’s over and she plops back down on her bed, picks up her magazine, and says ‘Took you long enough, Kassells’ and I, not knowing whether to run out into the middle of the street and dance, or go shave a beard that hasn’t grown in yet, I walk downstairs like nothing incredible just happened and finish watching the movie with Matthew. And he’s just grinning at me like I’m the biggest stooge he’s ever seen. And I was. I was nuts about Summer.

  “We dated all through high school. It was always easy with us,” he remarked, the distance in his eyes at an all-time high. “Neither one of us ever tried to pretend we were something we weren’t. Had we done that, it wouldn’t have worked. But growing up together, seeing it all—the good, the bad, and the ugly—afforded us with something most thirteen and fourteen-year-olds don’t have with each other: a history and friendship. When she was sad she told me. When she was mad she’d hit me. When she didn’t know what she was . . . I held her. We broke up a couple times.” He laughed through his nose. “Only to get back together a day later. We didn’t just love one another—we were each other’s best friend.”

  Something about the way his face shifted caused a rising fist to materialize in the pit of my abdomen, and carefully place its iron fingers around both my stomach and heart. Dominic reached up and scratched his cheek with one finger. “Summer died four months ago.”

  Tears were in my eyes before I had time to hold them back. Involuntarily, my hand flew to my mouth, the word No on my lips beneath it. And as I said her name in my mind something happened; a time warp, sending me back to certain memories. The first was from the day I hit Dominic’s car, the conversation he and I had on the way to the House of Hope. He had asked me about the weather, if the rain was uncommon this time of year. And I had flown into a rant about the—about the Summer. Summer.

  I could see his face clearly, white as death, rippled with hostility and torment. How his hands had gripped the steering wheel like he might rip if off, the knuckles about to burst from the skin. The first time was definitely the worst. When we had gathered with my family for dinner, there was a moment when Dominic spoke of his plans for the summer. Only he couldn’t say that word and spoke around it, changing it to something else. His face had clouded, though not nearly as intensely. And when Emily, on a unseasonably warm day at school last week, mentioned that the weather felt like summer, it was only a dim shadow of the heartache from the first time; still there, but like a scar that had faded after some time had passed. I could see all of them; all the tiny little moments when Dominic had left me, gone another place to grieve Summer, to be with the girl he loved. I waited for the stirrings of jealousy—the way it had risen up with Joan.

  But I felt only loss and despair and elucidation.

  My head spun as I tried to piece together the things that, at the time, didn’t make sense to me and now did: Emily calling Dominic by his last name, the panic and strange behavior in the face of my getting sick. Replacing gnawing confusion was the acute ache of clarity.

  When the visions in my eyes cleared, Dominic had not moved. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought no more than a few seconds had passed. He still remained with his face posed down, his eyes fixed to the flickering votive. They carried a thousand hurts I was powerless to heal.

  I almost touched him, then decided not to.

  “Summer’s family was very involved with an organization called ECHO. It stands for Ecuador Children’s Hope Organization,” he said, and cleared his throat and sniffed. “Before Matt and Summer were born, they lived there for almost five years, partnering with different groups and ministries. When Summer’s mom found out she was pregnant with her, they made the decision to move back to Virginia where their family lived, and visit when they could—leaving the kids with grandparents and taking them once they were old enough. It was never for much longer than ten days. But when I was sixteen and she fifteen, they began taking longer trips down there. Sometimes they would leave and be gone for the whole summer. I hated being away from her that long, so I asked if I could go. Both my parents liked the idea of me spending my time helping other people, but there was my dad’s schedule and my sisters to take care of. I
couldn’t always go with them, but when the trips didn’t inconvenience my parents or conflict with something else, I would.”

  He gave his head a hard shake, looking both awed and reverent. “I had no idea . . . what they were doing down there. It was incredible. Along with five other families they built an orphanage from the ground up, and were now running it, employing some of the natives and the missionaries based there permanently. Some of it was heart wrenching, though. There was a lot of depravity going on in that area. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s a fairly common custom for parents to kill their children when there isn’t enough food to go around; they see it as an act of mercy, the sacrifice honorable. The orphanage allowed them to instead leave the child at the door, no questions asked. They did everything they could to spread the news and within months, the number of dead children had dropped by almost sixty percent.

  “Summer was passionate about Ecuador. She had a growing interest to get more involved, and even talked about taking a year or two off before going to college and moving down there once we had graduated. I didn’t hate the idea, but I didn’t love it either. For the last couple of years, both of us had spent a fair amount of time working at the youth home nearby. I really liked the kids, enjoyed working with them and seeing the growth and change for the better. I was asked to take a full-time position there after I graduated—Summer, too. But it was never enough for Summer; while she loved many of the kids, she wasn’t satisfied there, and felt like she could make a bigger impact in Ecuador. I had avoided the fight for as long as I could, but when she turned sixteen, her junior year, the guidance department had her start looking into filling out college applications. But she didn’t want to go college. Not anymore. She wanted to move to Ecuador.”

  “We had argued and argued and argued.” He sighed wearily, running a hand through his hair. “We could hardly be around each other for more than fifteen minutes before the conversation inevitably turned into a battle about Ecuador. She was leaving again for the summer, and this time I had opted not go with her. Not out of spite, really . . . I wanted to stay and continue working with the kids at the youth home.

  “The night before she left we had another fight. A pretty big one, actually.” He paused. “We were at my house watching a movie and she just got up and left—didn’t even tell me. I came back from the kitchen, having left to cool down for a minute and she was gone. I was very mad. I thought about going after her. I always did. But this time I didn’t. I didn’t know if this was us going our separate ways or what, but I knew we both needed time and space to figure things out. I almost didn’t go see her off at the airport, but at the last minute my mom changed my mind. She told me . . .” He trailed off, sniffed. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “She told me that if I got there and I still didn’t want to see Summer, I could lose myself in the crowd. But if I did, then I wouldn’t always regret it later.” He grabbed his bottom lip, pinching hard. A deep line surfaced between his eyes and I felt my own heart fissuring down the center.

  He held a fist to his mouth and swallowed. “That was the last time I ever touched her,” he said. His voice was even, carrying the weight of agony stoically. He hadn’t looked at me in a long time. “They made it to Ecuador fine, but the next day they had to take a small plane into a remote part of the jungle. That one didn’t make it. They, um—they think there was a mechanical problem,” he commented. “It crashed about five minutes after takeoff.”

  His voice was no louder than a whisper, though the tension running up and down his body was palpable. He had begun to sweat at the temples, holding back the emotion. I watched a single tear roll down his face.

  “I couldn’t—wouldn’t go to her funeral,” he said with utter adamancy. “Summer was the most vibrant, alive girl I’d ever met. I didn’t want to see her lying there—hard and cold and completely lifeless. I found out a few days later that they weren’t going to have an open casket ceremony, but still . . . I just couldn’t. I couldn’t do it.

  “After that, I tried to find a way to live my life without her in it. It was impossible. My whole world was wrapped up in her—our neighborhood, our school, our friends, the places we ate at. I couldn’t take one step in or outside my house and not think of her. Summer was in everything, all our memories tied up in one ball of yarn.

  “I lasted a couple months before I told my parents I couldn’t do it any longer or I would go insane. I needed to leave Belle Haven. They didn’t try to argue with me. I think my mom knew. And I think watching me deteriorate was breaking her heart. She got on the phone with my aunt that morning, and a flight was booked for two days later. I felt terrible about leaving the kids,” he admitted, “but luckily someone had just moved into the area and was fit to take my place. I trained him for those two days, hugged all my kids goodbye, and didn’t look back. I always had interest in architecture and design. My new plan, if you could call it that, was to finish school—that was part of the deal—and then do a six-month internship with my uncle after I graduated. After that, we would see where things were at. I didn’t care about anything. As long as I could forget what I had left behind.”

  He was silent for a moment, and slowly his eyes rolled up to meet mine. “And then I met you.”

  My heart clenched like it had suddenly frozen in my chest. Then he smiled; the slow, beautiful smile just for me.

  “You were the last thing I expected.” He tried to laugh, but his throat wouldn’t allow it. “I was so angry—devastated in fact, but I knew better than to let that fill me; the never-ending pain that came when I thought about her. All I wanted was to do was get as far away from the life I knew back home. Get away from everything that reminded me of Summer. I tried to stay away from you. But it seemed everywhere I went there you were, literally right next to or in front to me. The day we were assigned as partners, I left. Just took off and drove down to Mexico. It was a jerk move; I scared the heck out of my parents and aunt and uncle, but I was so certain there would be nothing in Mexico to remind me of Summer. I was wrong.

  “I stayed for less than twenty-four hours before realizing that I would never out drive this pain. No matter where I went, it would always be waiting for me when I got there. Time. The only thing that would ever heal me was time.” He took a deep breath, resituating in the chair. “So I came back. I told myself that on Monday when I saw you I would apologize for being a horrible person and then pretend that being around you didn’t bother me.” The corner of his mouth quirked up and he gave a breathy laugh. “And then you hit my car.” He looked up and his smile fell instantly. “Foster, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to hold back the tears. But it felt as if invisible hands strangled me, prohibiting me from speaking normally. “I just—” I swallowed and tried again. “I only wish I would have known,” I choked out. “I likely would have still run in to you—both times. But maybe I could have . . . done something—switched classes or—”

  “Foster.” He whispered my name with such tender affection the tears burst from my eyes. “You, of all people . . . I can’t believe you don’t see it.”

  I sniffed and raised the napkin to my eyes, dabbing at the corners.

  “Foster, you saved my life the day you hit me.”

  “How?” I asked, wholly bewildered by that statement. “I caused you pain.”

  “No. I was pain,” he asserted, voice grim. He leaned forward, staring straight and deep into my eyes. “And I dealt with it by being really angry, all the time. It was all I had at that point. The anger kept just enough of the grief at bay so that I could function. But I was only pretending. When I met you, I couldn’t pretend anymore.”

  He was watching me closely—close enough to see when a thought crawled across the inside my mind. I hadn’t planned on asking him, but that didn’t keep him from asking me.

  “What is it? There’s something.”

  I sucked in a deep breath, hesitating.

  “You can ask me anythi
ng, Foster,” he said gently, and I believed him. His face was open and unguarded.

  “Ever since the day we met, I’ve never been able to figure out why being around me was so difficult for you. I had guesses, but none of them making sense. Not now.” His gaze didn’t flinch, but I watched his face go from wide open to just a little open; his measured breaths hitch, then began again, slow and controlled. “You don’t have to answer that.” I could see that I had touched a nerve. “Not if—”

  “No,” he interjected. He tried to smile but it was a weak, an undulating thing. “You have every right to ask questions. Anything that you have wanted to ask me—please, don’t hesitate.” He cleared his throat and still holding my hand, began drawing designs on the tips of my fingers. “The answer to that question is two-fold. Watching you at The House of Hope with the kids was hard,” he admitted ruefully. “Only because it reminded me of the way Summer and I had worked together. But very quickly, I realized it wasn’t at all the same. The way you were with your kids was completely different than the way she was with hers. And long before, even before we got there, I could tell that you lived and breathed for those kids. You wouldn’t even let me take you to the hospital,” he reminded me with a look of admonishment mixed with affection. “I wouldn’t allow myself to think it—not at the time, but some part of me knew how special you were—even from very early on. You scared me I think.”

  “I scared you?”

  “Not you you, but that I was capable, while still heavily grieving someone I loved very much, of recognizing something in you . . .” He smiled and released a breath very slowly. “Yes, that scared me. And then how fast I developed feelings for you. It felt like it happened over night. I struggled. I couldn’t keep it all straight. It was like there were ten different versions of me living inside my body. One moment I was elated to have found you. The next I was wallowing in disgust for myself. Then I was back to feeling nothing but gratitude, and an hour later I was pacing the corridors, terrified at the possibility of something happening to you. I felt like a madman. I don’t know how you did it—put up with me.”