Chasing Stars

by L. Duarte

  From time to time, I have questioned Dan’s sanity. Today, I know better to accept what is.

  I turn the key and the engine roars as it comes alive. I love this car so much, in so many ways, it represents a milestone in my life. I drive through a maze of busy roads until I reach the Henry Hudson Parkway. I roll down the windows, leaving behind the noise and air pollution of the city.

  The day is perfect, but my mind betrays me and brings me back to the violet-blue eyes staring hungrily at me. Trying to push the thought away, I focus on the road, remembering all the years it took to develop the self-control I have today.

  The lack of composure I experienced today, reminds me of a past I would rather forget. Until I was sixteen, I was a case number at Connecticut Department of Children and Families. In other words, I was a foster child. I lived in Hartford, the capital of Connecticut, bouncing from house to house and to group homes. One day, I guess around the age of thirteen, I learned to run away and desert the system that had failed me in so many ways.

  During one of my escapes from a random foster home, I met Jack. He introduced me to the crazy world of drugs and later became my drug supplier and boss. I sold the dope for him and, in exchange, he let me crash at his place and helped sustain my addiction to meth. I was a minor and he was nearing his thirties. He claimed my baby face made me inconspicuous, facilitating the merchandise drop off.

  One day, I had a delivery that turned out to be a police sting, which I didn’t realize, and I led the police straight to Jack. We escaped, of course, but I knew better than to stick around to talk it over with him since drug dealers are not known for their forgiving nature. Before I left, I went to the drug hideout, stole some cocaine and meth, and then ran for dear life.

  I hopped on the first bus leaving Hartford, and dashed away from the capital, escaping the cops and, most importantly, vanishing from Jack’s reach.

  On one of my stops, I traded a few grams of cocaine for graffiti sprays. I had never liked school, but when I went, I gravitated toward art. I never gave it a second thought. Foster kid packages do not come with art supplies or encouragement for individual expression.

  Drugged and aimless, I wandered around in a haze for what may have been weeks. One day I spotted a small church. For some unknown reason, I hated the building and the things it stood for. I mean, from the pit of my soul I loathed the small white church with its large red wooden door.

  Regardless of the hatred drenching me to my bone marrow, I pushed open the red door and scrambled through the threshold. (Beats me why churches aren’t locked, but they aren’t. Honest truth.)

  Once inside, the scent of lit candles and lemongrass permeated the small sanctuary. The strange combination, made the place welcoming, like a home.

  I sat in the deserted church bench for hours. When I looked out a window, the sun had set and a blanket of darkness covered the world outside. Though averse to the place, a strange tranquility swamped my soul and I did not want to leave.

  I scanned the inside, until my eyes fixed on the cross at the pulpit. I let out a bitter laugh that echoed against the tall walls. If there was a God, which I highly doubted, he had failed me.

  In spite of my disbelief, the church contained a peaceful mood. A good place to die. Not that I was suicidal, honest truth I wasn’t, but the vibe of the nave stirred emotions I had never experienced before, which my obscure mind construed as a desire to die.

  I went up to the choir and did the only sensible thing a guy like me could do. I got high. I don’t remember what happened after that. It is a black hole in my memory. Sometimes small fragments and images flash vividly through my mind.

  Fragments such as strong hands soothingly pushing my face against the smooth wood floor and a divine voice whispering the most significant thing someone had ever said to me. “Easy, son, I am going to help you. I promise. I will help you.” Since I was in a church, I decided at that moment that God did exist and had sent me one of his angels.

  The sharp edges of the handcuffs replaced the angel’s hands, right before I blacked out.

  I woke up in a hospital, where I stayed for several days detoxing.

  Disappointment swept over me when I finally broke free from the hallucinations. I had discovered not only was that the voice in the church probably a police officer’s, but that I was sober enough to feel pain. Depression crawled under my skin and soul. At that point, tormented by ghosts, I had wanted to die. Yes, I thought of ways to end it all. That’s when I heard my angel’s voice again. OK, call it cheesy, but those who have been to hell recognize a celestial voice when they hear it.

  The angel’s name was Dan. He was the pastor of the church where I was arrested. The miracle of all miracles was that he had come to take me with him. Unbelievable, but true.

  When Dan came, he had all the paperwork ready to become my foster parent. I left with him the same day. Later, Dan told me, he was a foster parent for emergency placements for transitional children. For this reason, it took him only a week to be cleared as my foster parent. I stayed two weeks in the hospital, and then went to court. Dan accompanied me. He convinced the judge to give me a fresh start under his care. The judge ruled I had to do tons of community services and probation, on which I had to wear a horrendous leg bracelet for an entire year.

  If someone had asked me then, I would have said that I thought Dan was just a crazy fool, not an angel. Because he had to be a nutcase in order to want me. I had an extensive and ugly record, and Dan had a beautiful family that included a daughter about a year younger than me. Securing the paperwork in one hand, he placed the other hand on my shoulder and guided me outside the hospital. I gathered all my strength not to squirm away from his embrace. Having someone touch me was unbearable, but I endured it because I had learned in the past not to openly defy a foster parent.

  “Well, son, first things first.”

  He held open the car door and turned to face me. I glared at him and thought, here is when he lays down the rules and here is when I begin to plan my runaway.

  “Finally, we are able to head home. You can call me Dan. It is a pleasure to have you join our family.” Oh-Kay, that caught me off guard and, though it was not enough to convince me of his good intentions, my trembling hand reached for his. After being a case number for so long, I knew better. Foster families can be categorized. Some are well-intentioned families, eager to take foster kids as charity cases to earn brownie points from society. For some families, fostering children is simply a source of extra income. To others…do not ask me about those. I try to erase those memories from any wide-awake moments, though they chase me in my nightmares.

  “You are very quiet son, you haven’t even introduced yourself. Of course, I am babbling so much, I didn’t even give you the chance to speak.” He said. “What do you like to be called son?”

  “James,” I replied dryly.

  “Well, James, do you have a nick name?” Dan grinned.

  Seriously? He had my damn record, why the stupid questions? I rolled my eyes. “No, just James Williams.”

  “Hmm, I shall call you Will. For I know for a fact, son, that you are the will of God in my life,” he added another grin, I guess for drama effect. Psycho. I did mention he was crazy for fostering me, right. I rest my case.

  I had just turned sixteen when my path crossed with Dan. The memories of those days are hazy. Withdrawal from meth is not as pretty as they make it out to be in movies.

  Part of Dan’s arrangement with the court was for me to get counseling and to clean up the church’s graffiti. On my second day at his home, Dan gathered the supplies and we went to the church. After he pulled the drape covering the graffiti, I briefly admired my artwork. Minus the profanities, it looked somewhat neat.

  “Well, son, looks like we have our work cut out for us,” he announced.

  Enough with the son bull, I mentally grimaced. “If you say so,” I said under my breath.

  Until then, life had been a chain of unfortunate events, t
eaching me to be skeptical. Nothing had prepared me for what Dan had in store for me. For the first time in my life, I conceived that I mattered to someone. Together, for the following week, we cleaned and painted the church. All the while, he stood by my side, with his even voice, and his ever-present grin, telling me all about himself and his family.

  After seven days of hard work, we sat on the step of the pulpit, admiring the freshly painted church.

  “You know what, son? God works in mysterious ways. This church really needed a fresh coat of paint,” Dan said. I simply nodded in response.

  “You are quite skilled with your hands, y’know. I am not a fan of graffiti, especially on the walls of my church, but you did an exquisite drawing,” he continued. “We all have hidden treasures, tiny pockets of precious secrets, harnessed inside the chambers of the heart. They lay dormant waiting to be cultivated, so they can sprout to life.”

  “Thank you,” I had the decency to utter, though I was clueless to what he was saying. The wacko was going out of his way to be kind.

  “Well, I shall remember to get you some paint supplies. Right now, if you swear to secrecy or Maritza will kill us, we can go for an ice cream sundae before dinner. I don’t know about you, but I feel an urge to celebrate.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and, not wanting to hurt his feelings, I fought the urge to cringe.

  Today, I clearly see what I was unable to understand then. Life is a maze and we are seekers. When Dan helped me to paint the church, it was the first act of kindness done toward me. His gesture was, in a sense, what I had been searching for. It taught me that somehow, we find what we are looking for even when we do not know what it is. If we search, we are bound to find.

  After a quick stop at an ice cream parlor, Dan took me to an arts and crafts store, where he bought me brushes, paints, and canvases. Until this day, I remember the prickling of anticipation on my fingers during the ride home.

  During dinner, I shoveled in broccoli and mashed potatoes, hastily finishing the meal in order to go to the basement and start painting. A frenzy of need possessed me and, on that same night, I painted the three blank canvases Dan had bought me.

  As it turned out, Dan was right. I have a selective memory that allows me to memorize a scene or a face in a really weird way, along with an innate and unique instinct for translating my memory into an illustration. Some people call it talent and others call it a gift. I say it was a life jacket thrown to me in the midst of a long, dark night adrift.

  With a burst of creativity humming through me, I became obsessed with drawing and painting. Most of my artwork was—and remains—depressive and morbid, but always with a crack of hope contained within. I think that is what makes it relatable to people. We are creatures wired to hope. Life can be mean as a bitch. Oftentimes, we only strive because we all seek and hope, even when the search is to find our very own unknown.

  Did I say foster homes don’t come with painting kits and don’t allow you to express yourself through art? Well, erase that, mine did.

  I park my Jeep, and walk across the empty parking lot of the church building. Once inside, I deeply inhale the familiar scent of lemongrass. As I stride to Dan’s office, I enjoy the peaceful silence of the sanctuary. I knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Dan says. He lifts his green eyes from the heap of papers on his desk, and smiles. In his fifties, he is slightly bald but incredibly in shape.

  “Hey Dan,” an involuntary grin spreads across my face. Dan invokes this reaction in people. He is soft spoken and kind. He reminds me of a Willow tree slowly swaying under a breeze, but with strong roots, and a sturdy trunk.

  “Sit down, son.” He points to a chair. “I will be just a minute.”

  “Sure.” Sitting across from him, my foot taps the brown-carpeted floor. I examine the pictures frames over his desk, one of him and Maritza, and the other of Mel and me.

  “You look upset,” Dan raises a brow as he shuffles some papers.

  “Had a long day, that’s all.” God, sometimes I forget how perceptive Dan is.

  “Is there any problem with your upcoming exhibition?”

  “No, I need to finish a few canvas, but the gallery is taking care of all the details for the event.”

  “You tattooed the actress today, right?”

  “Yeah,”

  “And…”

  “It was ok. She is not what I anticipated.”

  “People often surprise us. But tell me, in which way was she different?”

  “I don’t know Dan. I thought she was going to be this conceited woman, but she wasn’t. She was kind of nice.” I rub my hands over my jeans.

  “Then, what was the problem?”

  “Dan did you ever doubt your values and your faith?”

  “Sure. Many times.”

  “Today I almost betrayed what I consider to be most precious to me.”

  “Your said you almost, so I assume you did not go through with whatever you struggled with.”

  “I didn’t. But what bothers me is the way I felt. How can I doubt my beliefs and worse almost betray it?”

  “Oh, Will, any value worth keeping should stand the test of doubt.”

  “I suppose you are right.”

  “OK, I am done. Let’s go have lunch and we can talk over your doubts.” He puts his arm over my shoulder, ushering me out of the office.

  It has been a week since I met Portia. After spending a few hours with her, I doubted my entire belief system. But talking to Dan reassured me that I am doing the right thing.

  I don’t dwell on the past. But in one morning, this woman single-handedly revived an untamed side of me, where lack of restraint abounds. It took years for the angry, scared homeless kid to turn into a man with self-control. I am not about to undo that now.

  We are on opposite sides of the spectrum. While I live a simple, quiet life, she is rich, gorgeous, famous, and leads a wild life. She is a paradox. At a glance, she displays a shallow image. Yet, at a closer look, her haunted, sad eyes dismiss all the nasty gossip associated with her name. Not that any of it matters. As of now, I will most likely never see her again, unless, she decides to ink her flawless skin. I won’t hold my breath though, women like Portia, don’t waste a second shot on a guy. Damn, she did take a shot at me. My pulse speeds with the thought of her melting inside my arms.

  Back at Mystic Ink, I find myself fidgeting, my eyes glued to my laptop screen as I wait for a Portia fan site to display the latest pictures of her. Sickening. I ought to be ashamed. I’ve become her stalker. Pathetic? Yeah…

  Though it’s been a week since I met her, for the life of me, I can’t erase her gorgeous face from my mind.

  A series of pictures of Portia plop on the screen. Though I’ve seen them a thousand times, I scroll down again. In one picture, the musician Tarry Francis—I hate the guy already—has his arms draped over her shoulders and is kissing her full lips as they leave a nightclub. According to the site, their romance is stronger than ever, she is pregnant, they just eloped, and she caught him in bed with his band’s male drummer. The gossip goes on and on.

  All bullshit, I know. These photographs are not poorly angled shots taken out of context and manipulated to sell. The moron has his tongue down her throat. The following footage shows Tarry flipping the finger to the paparazzi as she beams, before she hides her face on his shoulder. I recognize the smile. It is the flirtatious one, saying I don’t give a crap.

  I shove the top of the laptop closed.

  “Whoa, sonny boy. You shouldn’t navigate those sites, if you know you’re not going to like what you find,” Rick says from behind the shop counter.

  Rick is the founder of Mystic Ink. Technically, he was my father’s partner. Meeting him was one of the things that perfectly lined up for me after Dan entered my life. For reasons beyond my understanding, there is the time before Dan when everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and the post-Dan, where everything that could go right went right. Weird, huh? Also mind-blowing.<
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  I met Rick when I was eighteen. Dan and I had gone over my long and repulsive record. You know, it’s the file social workers keep as there is no one other way to share how cute I was at the age of six or when I lost my front teeth. The types of crap parents remember about their children.

  Anyway, Dan read the record from the hospital where I was born, and he noticed an important tidbit of information. Before my biological mother gave me up for adoption, she claimed a man named Joseph Colin was my father. My heart constricted for a full minute until we found, attached to the papers, a letter from the State of New York notifying the hospital’s social worker had attempted to contact Joseph, but discovered he had died of drug overdose before I was even born. To our surprise, the record contained Joseph Colin’s home address and Mystic Ink as his place of employment. Curiosity got the best of me.

  With Dan’s support, I visited the parlor. When I arrived, I almost gave Rick a heart attack because I kind of look like Joseph. We talked and Rick told me details of my parents that really changed my life. He remembered both my parents. Most importantly, he recalled how excited my father was about the pregnancy.

  According to Rick, Joseph planned to do a DNA test right after I was born and file for full custody. It healed something inside my heart to know someone had wanted me.

  Until this day, I don’t understand the force that compelled Rick to disclose what he told me. Rick informed me that not only did my father worked there, but also they were partners. Rick told me that the parlor had faced a bad time when he met Joseph, who expressed interest in inking and offered Rick a partnership. Joseph was twenty-five years old at the time, but recognized the great business opportunity. He sold a property he inherited, and injected cash into the business, keeping it afloat. In exchange, Rick taught Joseph the ins and outs of inking. Not long after, Joseph became one of the best tattoo artists in Manhattan.