by Caela Carter
“Or we crawled out of the horizon,” Julian says.
We try to tell them about as many of the theories as we can remember.
Person smiles and says, “That’s very creative. You two are so smart.”
“But you were born,” Dad says.
Julian and I shrug across the table. They can think what they want. We know the truth.
It’s midnight and I’m in Julian’s room, sitting on the floor with him, our knees pressed against each other’s, the way we always sit when the ground is shaking.
“Do you think the baby will love us?” Julian asks.
“Love us?” I say.
“Yeah,” Julian says. This matters to him. Some baby not-born that will-be-born.
To me the baby is change. I’m not even thinking of it as a person yet.
But Julian. He wants to love the baby.
“Like Person?” I ask.
“Yeah, like a person,” Julian says. “It’ll be born and then it’ll be a person. Like all normal kids.”
My face burns. I used my secret inside-my-head name for our mom.
“I mean, do you want the baby to love you like Mom? Or like me?”
“Like Mom,” Julian says, scrunching his eyes and moving his head back and forth like I’m being ridiculous. And I am. Of course.
We’re Onlys.
I calm down a little.
“Maybe,” I say, because I don’t care if some stupid baby loves me but I can tell that Julian does. “Maybe it’ll love us like Mom.”
Julian sighs. “I’m trying to figure it out, you know?”
“Figure what?” I ask.
Julian shrugs. “Whether it’s worth it. Thinking about the baby. Worrying about the baby.”
“I’m only worried about Mom,” I say.
“Huh?” Julian says. “She’ll be fine. Women have babies every day.”
“No. Loving. I’m only worried about Mom. Loving still . . .”
Julian is staring at me. His eyes are extra dark. His knees press into me. He’s begging me not to say it. He’s daring me to say it. It’s the most awful thing I can say, but I say it anyway.
“I’m only worried about Pers—about Mom loving us, still.”
I thought I never really believed Person with all her “forevers.” I thought I wasn’t good at believing. But now, now that everything is changing, I realize I must have started to believe her somewhere in me. I must have thought deep down that we were enough for Person, somehow. But how could we be? Not Julian and me with the failing in school and the unable to talk and the hiding food. Not Julian and me who have no memories and no history. Not Julian and me, people who were never born.
“Also,” Julian says. “She still didn’t tell us about the postcards she stole.”
“Also that,” I say.
We’re quiet after that, but we sit and we sit together while the night moves around us. We sit with our knees pressed against each other. We connect each other to this house, to this family, to this planet.
And I know, deep in my heart, that there was only Julian at the beginning.
There could be no birth mom.
There could be no other story.
It was Julian and me, me and Julian.
Flora and Julian Castillo, the never-born siblings.
THEORY #3
The stork messed up for my brother and me.
They say the stork is a legend but they say a lot of things and none of them explain how Julian and I came to life. So maybe the stork is real. Maybe the stork uses his big beak to stitch up babies, to connect their fingers to their hands and their toes to their feet. Maybe the stork sits on babies to keep them warm the way Pringles sits on the new mice.
And then the stork drops the babies into homes where moms wait holding out their arms. And if the babies fall into the right place, boom. That’s their family. That’s when they’re born.
But the stork missed with Julian and me. He stitched us too late. Our fingers were too big. Our heads were full grown. And when the stork dropped us, we landed outside a mom and outside a house. We landed somewhere where there was no one to say “hey, look, kids!” and so we grew. I grew a little faster. Julian stayed a bit behind.
We grew in that abandoned spot, that empty yard or parking lot or mountain or desert where the stork dropped us by accident. We grew bigger and stronger and we slept sitting up with our knees pressed together. We fed each other and talked to each other. We grew and grew until the Division of Family Services found us and said, “If you don’t have a mother, that means you’re ours.”
Julian and I are just like everyone. Or we would have been. If the stork didn’t mess up.
Seven
FAMILIES WORK HARD
THE NEXT DAY IS SATURDAY, WHICH means the court says Dad gets to take care of Elena, so she comes over even though Mom is at the hospital and Dad is at the fire station, both at work.
Meredith, Elena’s mom, drops her off and our babysitter, Elliot, lets her in the front door. Julian and I are on the couch watching the dancing teenagers on television but we only get to watch for ten more minutes before it’s screens off until Jeopardy!
Elena comes and sits next to us on the couch.
It takes me too long to realize I should say hi.
“Hi,” I say.
She smiles at me like she didn’t on the playground yesterday. “I just got four new nail polishes from my mom,” Elena says. “Do you want me to paint your nails? I’m getting really good at it. I practice on my mom all the time.”
I don’t say anything for too long.
“You can paint mine,” Elliot says, and he waves his fingers at us from his seat next to the couch.
Elena giggles. “You’re a boy,” she says.
“Boys can have painted nails,” Elliot says.
But I think he’s only offering because I usually say no. That’s what happens every Saturday. Elena comes in with some idea of something we can do together, something that doesn’t involve Julian. And if Person and Dad are here they nudge me so I say OK. And if they aren’t here, I say no because I feel too weird sitting in a room without Julian when it isn’t even school or nighttime.
But today I think about how I felt on the playground yesterday when Elena wouldn’t even smile. And how I thought maybe one day we’ll try on the same day.
Maybe that can be today.
So I say, “If boys can have painted nails, you can paint my nails and Julian’s.”
Julian smiles and nods and Elena says, “Woo-hoo!”
It feels good to make someone so happy just by offering my nails.
Mom gets home at seven. Dad comes in with a pizza at seven thirty. We sit in the dining room and Elena talks-talks-talks about nail polish and Julian and I show off our nails. It’s a very normal Saturday night. Dad goes back to work. Mom tucks me into my bed and Elena into the pullout next to me.
It’s not until I fall asleep that I realize it was too normal of a Saturday.
I didn’t think about babies or postcards all day.
And Elena didn’t say anything about the baby, and no one said anything to Elena about the baby.
Did they forget to tell her?
On Monday, Ms. K sticks a Post-it to my desk about fifteen minutes before recess. We’re supposed to be reading silently. I have my book open in front of me but I’m letting the words swim. Last week, I tried hard to make the words make sense during silent reading time.
This week they keep sailing off the page.
Ms. K lets us read whatever book we want, which means we should be able to enjoy it. That’s what she says. And last week I really cared about what was going to happen to Nikki Maxwell on the pages of this book, but today I don’t care. Nikki isn’t real. I am. Nikki doesn’t have a baby showing up ready to make everything change and destroy her life. I do.
I care about Ms. K though so I’m able to read the note.
It says, “See me at recess.”
By the time I put the words together, she
’s telling everyone to line up and go outside. I stay in my seat and Ms. K comes and sits next to me in David’s desk.
When Ms. K asks me to see her at recess, it’s similar to when Person and I have to see her before school. It’s good because she cares. It’s bad because it doesn’t make her happy. It’s bad because it doesn’t make Person happy.
It’s all very confusing.
Ms. K says, “How did you feel about your spelling test this morning, Flora?”
I shrug.
She says, “Did your mom or dad review the words with you last night like usual?”
I nod. They did. Last night, after Elena went home, Dad and I sat at the counter in the kitchen with flash cards and flipped through them over and over until I could spell all ten words perfectly.
“What happened?” Ms. K asks.
She hands me my test. It’s a list of words in my sloppy handwriting with a row of perfectly neat red Xs next to it. I got eight words wrong. I got only two right.
Ms. K already limited my test. Everyone else has twenty words, but I only have ten. She recites my words every other word so I have longer to write. She did all of this stuff for me and I still messed up.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You’ve gotten perfect scores on your spelling tests all month,” Ms. K says. “What happened this week?”
I shake my head. Nothing happened. I took the test. I knew the words last night. Now I don’t.
“Look at this word,” Ms. K says. She points to number four.
It looks like X4. Anxous.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong with it?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
“Can you tell me how to spell anxious?” Ms. K asks.
“A-N-X-I-O-U-S,” I say.
“Right,” Ms. K says. “Did you say the letters in your head like you did last week?”
I shrug. The truth is I don’t know. Did I? I barely remember taking this test. I’ve been thinking about the baby all day.
“You don’t remember?” Ms. K asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably not.”
Ms. K nods. “OK, Flora. I want you to get some recess time. But is there anything you’d like to tell me? Should I have more understanding here as to why you failed this test? Why you refused to read aloud in social studies today and why you stared into space during independent reading time? Remember that in order to pass fourth grade, you need to pass almost every test and assignment in between now and the end of the year. Should I know anything that might stop you from being able to do this?”
Yes: you should know my person is going to be someone else’s mom. You should know I couldn’t make her happy enough. You should know that I didn’t want to mess up trying to make Person happy by not making you happy too.
Those words are too heavy. I shake my head.
She says, “There’s nothing?”
I can’t. I can’t tell her any of it.
“No,” I say.
Ms. K nods. “You’ve made some huge strides over the last few months, Flora, but I need you to really focus on these last few weeks of school. You’re passing fourth grade by the skin of your teeth right now. You really need to work hard and pass almost every assignment until the end of the school year if you want to go on to fifth grade.”
“I know,” I say.
But I don’t want to go on to fifth grade. I’m trying hard to do it because I want to make Person happy more than I want Ms. K to be my teacher forever. And I want to make Ms. K happy too. But it’s so confusing that making Ms. K happy means leaving her. Especially when Person promised no more changes. Forever.
How do I believe in Forever if it doesn’t include Ms. K?
Person picks us up from school and as soon as Julian and I crawl into the backseat of her car, she says, “We’re going to see Dr. Fredrick.”
Dr. Fredrick is a counselor that Person took us to when we first moved in with her, and then again when Dad moved in with us. His job is to help us learn to trust other people. For a long time, we saw Dr. Fredrick after school every Friday. We haven’t seen him the past few weeks. He said it was a good time for us to take a break and focus on family at home. He said we were all doing well.
I guess we aren’t doing so well anymore.
“But it’s Monday,” I say.
“Why?” Julian says.
Person turns to look at us. Her face is red and sweaty again. “To be honest,” she says, “I need some help.”
I shoot Julian an alarmed look, but he has that lying smile on his face and that makes me feel even more lonely. He wears that smile all the way into the parking lot, out of the car, and down the hallway to Dr. Fredrick’s office.
Dr. Fredrick’s smile is the opposite of Julian’s: very real. He says “Flora,” and then “Julian,” He only needs to say our names to make us feel like he’s happy to see us. He has short black hair that’s gray in a couple of places and tiny glasses that match the black part of his hair. He’s Japanese, like Brian from school.
We chat for a few minutes and I feel a little more relaxed.
Then he says, “So I hear you guys are going to have a new brother or sister? How are you feeling about that?”
I look at Julian. He knows I can’t answer a question like that. He knows my words will get stuck. But he doesn’t say anything either. He has that crazy smile pasted on his face so hard I want to shove him.
“Does that scare you?” Dr. Fredrick says. “I’m sure you’re worried about what it will be like, how your mom and dad will have time for you, how your daily routines might change . . .”
Dr. Fredrick has a soft voice that makes even me answer him. I used to find myself mid-sentence without even realizing I’d opened my mouth. But today my mouth stays closed.
“Julian,” Person says. “Tell Dr. Fredrick what you said about when you were a baby.”
Julian turns to look at her. “We weren’t babies,” he says through that awful smile.
Dr. Fredrick’s eyebrows jump a half a centimeter and I jump in my chair I’m so surprised. He doesn’t let anything but kindness show on his face. I’ve never seen him move his eyebrows except to say hello.
“You weren’t?” Dr. Fredrick says. “Why not?”
Julian shrugs.
“Flora,” Person says, nudging me, “you said something about how you don’t remember . . .”
She nudges me with her elbow again. I’m confused. I feel like she wants to rush this meeting with Dr. Fredrick along, but she also said she wanted to come here to get some help. How is he going to help her if she rushes us right out of here?
“Don’t remember what?” Dr. Fredrick says.
“Tell him,” Person says.
Dr. Fredrick looks up at her quickly. “Remember to be patient with Flora, Emily. She needs time to turn her feelings into words. Sometimes when a child experiences a lot of trauma, it can take longer for the words to come.”
I finally find my voice. “Being born. I don’t remember it. Or being a baby,” I say.
“Me either,” Julian says.
“Ah,” Dr. Fredrick says. He thinks for a second. Person taps her foot. “Do you believe in other things you don’t remember?”
“Huh?” Julian says.
“Like when you were moved from house to house. Do you remember all of that?”
I feel Person shifting and shifting in her seat beside me.
“No,” Julian says.
“No,” I say.
“Do you know how many houses there were?” Dr. Fredrick asks.
Person crosses her legs. She uncrosses them. She rubs her sweaty forehead.
“No,” I say.
“What do you know?” Dr. Fredrick asks. “What do you remember?”
“There were a lot of houses before our home now,” I say. “Like, more than two.”
“But less than ten,” Julian says. “Right?”
I nod. “Probably.”
“Great,” Dr. Fredrick says. “Wha
t else do you remember? Which house was the best house?”
“Some were nice . . . some were . . . not,” I say.
“Yeah,” Julian says. “Gloria’s was . . . sort of, neither.”
“Yeah,” I say. “She was just . . . busy.”
Dr. Fredrick nods. “And who else?”
I lean around Person to look at Julian. He’s doing the same thing to look at me.
“We don’t remember anyone else,” Julian says. “Not like names or faces.”
“Just . . .” I can’t even finish. What do I remember? It’s all in feelings. I remember leaving. I remember hugging. I remember crying. I remember being carried on someone’s shoulders and I wish I knew who the someone was.
“But you know there was more than Gloria?” Dr. Fredrick says.
“Yeah,” Julian and I both say.
“Maybe being born is like that,” he says. “Something you can know happened but something you don’t remember.”
“No,” I say. Because that wouldn’t make sense. It’s OK for foster parents to disappear, but real moms don’t. The only thing that would make sense is that there was no first mom.
“Well, why not? No one remembers every minute of their lives, but all of the minutes do happen . . .”
Dr. Fredrick is talking and talking. I’m letting the kindness of his voice lull me into a trance while I ignore the words he’s actually saying because they don’t work for me.
“Look, guys,” Person says, interrupting. “I need you to know you were born. I mean, the circumstances . . . we don’t know them. And . . . we’re all a family now, right? So maybe it doesn’t matter so much but—”
“No!” Julian says, so loudly. I jump out of my seat, ready to cover for him, to protect him. Then I remember Person is there and I don’t have to. I sit down slowly while he’s still yelling “No! No! No!” The smile is gone. I forgot to be ready for this. I forgot how that fake-lying smile is always followed by the truth shouted way too loudly. “No! No! No!” he yells. “You’re not even talking about the important part!”
“Julian, lower your voice,” Person says, too calmly.
“No! No!” he screams.
“What’s the important part?” Dr. Fredrick asks.
Person says, “Be quiet, Julian.”