Forever, or a Long, Long Time

by Caela Carter

  “I did. I tried,” Kelly says in that quiet, calm voice. “I didn’t have too much more power than Margie and Vanessa.”

  “Then why didn’t you find them better homes? I don’t understand. These children could have had permanency in a loving home at three and four. Instead they came to me at eight and nine. Instead they had years more trauma.”

  I’m so small I can barely see over the table. I’m so hot I’m sure if I touched the tablecloth it would explode into flames.

  Person used to say that was the best thing that ever happened to her: us arriving at nine and eight years old. Now it’s like she’s angry about it. Now that there’s a real baby, she’s upset we didn’t stay where we were.

  Person is still talking. “Why didn’t you try to find them a better home, then? Some place they could stay together? Some place they could get the help they needed and be free to mess up and be who they are?”

  “I was the foster care caseworker,” Kelly said. “I did what I could. I was working on finding the children a connection to their first family. When I failed at that, the judge freed them for adoption and I was no longer their worker. I talked with the adoption caseworker about getting Margie and Vanessa certified for adoption and that looked possible for a while but . . . she was . . . she was . . . and it’s procedure to give all of our freed children a photo-listing just in case something happens . . . and the adoption case worker . . . she was . . . she put a lot of value on . . . material wealth, so when Marta came forward—I did . . .”

  “Sounds like you didn’t do anything to help them stay where they were loved,” Person says.

  Julian is not smiling anymore. Instead I hear him squeak.

  I feel like squeaking too. And crying.

  “I mean, I made a lot of noise about it. And then I was gone. Social workers and foster parents . . . we can’t make too much noise.”

  Julian’s face is so red it looks like his head will fly to the ceiling. I’m breathing hard I’m so scared. What does Person want? Does she want a time machine so that she can go back to when we were three and four and have us stay with Margie and Vanessa? Now that she knows someone else loved us, does she not want to love us anymore?

  “Listen,” Person says. “There has to be someone to blame for what happened to Flora and Julian when—”

  At the sound of his name Julian erupts. A glass still full of water flies across the table and splashes me and Kelly. It explodes on the floor between us, glass everywhere.

  I morph back to my regular size and regular temperature as I stare at my tiny, red-hot brother. It’s like he had the tantrum for me.

  “I don’t want to live with Margie and Vanessa!” he shouts. “I want to live with MOM!”

  I nod at him. “Me too,” I say. “I want to live with Pers—Mom. I’m not . . . Julian and me need . . . no time machine.”

  “You said forever,” he yells at Person.

  Then he turns. He runs through the restaurant so fast he looks like nothing but a streak of colors. On the way to the door he bumps into tables, he knocks plates of strangers’ food onto the ground, he upends an empty high chair.

  He sort of makes these things look like an accident but I know better. The more he throws and shoves and knocks over, the harder it’ll be for Person to keep loving us. This is what happens when you’re faking all the reasons for her to love you.

  You show her how to change her mind in an instant.

  Person promised us that we will always live with her. She promised she’d be our mom forever, no matter what.

  But that doesn’t mean she always has to love us, right? No one can promise what they’re going to feel tomorrow, can they?

  Person looks at Kelly. “I didn’t realize what I was . . . ,” she says. But before she finishes her sentence, she gets up and goes after Julian.

  Julian was always my voice. When my words got stuck, he always found them. But he didn’t always say things at the right time or the right volume. Julian was getting better too, before we found out about the baby. All the fake-happy was a symptom of things going bad again.

  “He hasn’t done that in a long, long time,” I say to Kelly.

  Kelly shrugs. “Then maybe it won’t happen again for a long time. That’s how it goes. Things get better for a while, then tough for a while.”

  “Things for people like us?” I say. The not-real kids. The unreal kids. The foster kids.

  Kelly shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Things go up and down for everyone everywhere. That’s a way you guys are completely average.”

  I smile.

  “You know that your mom wants you guys more than anything, right?”

  I shrug.

  Not more than the new baby. The born baby.

  I want to ask a question but it’s full of so many important words I don’t think I can get them all out. Still, I don’t want to ask it the way Julian did: with an explosion.

  I want to use my words the way Person said I should. To express myself. To save myself.

  I put them together carefully. “But,” I say. I take a second. “But she’s going to have a baby.”

  “Oh,” Kelly says. “You’re worried about that?”

  I nod.

  “Well, it’s OK to be worried. Most kids would be. Biological or adopted or foster or whatever—most kids are worried when there’s a new baby.”

  “They are?” I say.

  Kelly nods. “Sometimes kids are upset once the new baby is born too. They might get jealous when it gets a lot of attention and all the adults around talk about how cute it is or something like that. They might get sad when the baby gets praise for stuff the big kids know how to do really well.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  Kelly smiles. “Like going on the toilet.”

  I laugh with her. I don’t need any praise for going to the bathroom, thank you. I don’t think I’ll get jealous of that. But I can see what she means.

  “But the good news is that I already know you’ll be great at it, Flora. You’ll be an above average big sister,” Kelly says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Well, think about right now. Are you upset your mom isn’t with you right now?”

  “No,” I say. “Julian needs her.”

  “Exactly,” Kelly says. “You’re already a great sister to Julian. And now there will be three of you. It’ll be hard sometimes but ultimately love grows if you try even a little bit.”

  Love divides. That’s what Elena said. Now we’ll be down to 33.3 percent of Person’s love, or less if you count Elena.

  But what if love grew instead? What if the baby made us more real instead of less real?

  I think about that for a second. I take a bite of my french fry.

  I look across the table and see that Julian only ate half of his food. At that moment, the waiter comes over to the table and says, “The other lady took care of you guys already. You’re good to go.”

  But I know Julian will want the rest of his food. And I also know this restaurant is not going to let him back in here after he messed up the whole place.

  “I’d like a doggy bag, please,” I say. My own plate only has three fries and the edge of my bagel. But I stare at the waiter until he shrugs and brings me the doggy bag.

  “I have a sister too, now,” I tell Kelly as I’m packing up Julian’s food. “I’m not as good to her as I am to Julian. It’s not . . . easy. Julian is my family.”

  “Hm,” Kelly says. “I’d say your sister is your family too,” she says.

  “I know,” I say. But I think she knows what I mean. She knew me when Julian was all I had. It’s hard to give that up. It’s hard to give other people like Person and Dad and Elena the same title I give Julian. It’s hard to trust them the way I trust him.

  We gather our things and walk outside. Person and Julian are leaning on the car, watching the clouds. I remember now that this was her trick to calm him down when he used to freak out like that when we first moved into her
house. On the day he killed Person’s goldfish, I think we spent four straight hours in the park watching the clouds, even though it was November and chilly.

  “We watch the clouds, we all calm down. And we do it together, because we’re a family.” That’s what Person said.

  It always amazed me that she wanted to spend time by our sides, even when we’d just messed up. Will that keep going? Even with a baby crying?

  Now they lean against Person’s car with their noses in the sky. I see where the tears made dark lines on Julian’s cheeks but he’s not crying anymore.

  I walk up to them. “I brought you the rest of your lunch,” I say.

  He lets out a breath so long it’s like he wasn’t breathing the whole time he was looking at the clouds. “Thank you,” he says.

  Then he drops to the parking lot, crisscross-applesauce, and starts eating the food from the bag. And I realize that we’re sharing a suitcase and I haven’t found any sandwich crusts or leftover french fries or even so much as a ketchup packet. He hasn’t been hiding food in his clothes here. He’s been putting it all in his stomach.

  He’s been keeping that promise to Person.

  He must have been so scared when he realized he left without his lunch.

  “Seems like things are better out here,” Kelly says. “You OK, Julian?”

  Julian looks up but his mouth is stuffed so he just nods.

  “Things always get better once they get worse again, right, J?” Person says. “But no matter what, we stay together. No matter what, I’m your mom.”

  Person is acting like she’s talking to Julian. She rubs the top of his head. But she’s looking right at me.

  “We love Margie and Vanessa but I’m your mom. That’s the way it is forever now. And if that gets confusing, it’s OK. But you just come and talk to me about it.”

  I nod. Julian keeps eating.

  He seems to be thinking only about his bacon but I know it’s more than that. Food is what reminds him he’s alive. It’s what reminds him he’ll be here tomorrow. It’s what makes him know he counts.

  “So, tomorrow . . . ,” Kelly says to Person. “It’s going to be rough. I became the caseworker when the kids were at this placement . . . and . . . there’s a reason I moved them from her. Remember . . . just because remembering something is painful doesn’t mean it’s damaging.”

  Person nods.

  “Trauma is weird like that. It’s worse for your brain and your future if you don’t remember it.”

  “I think I’ve proven that I understand that,” Person says. Then she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m having so much trouble not being mad at you even though I know you’re just . . . part of it.”

  “Part of what?” Kelly asks.

  “The system,” Person says. “Part of the system that screwed over my kids.”

  Kelly shakes her head. “The system hurt me too,” she says. “I loved these kids. I tried to do any small thing for them. I thought I did one. One thing. And they didn’t even get their Lifebooks, they didn’t even let me do that one thing . . . but look, Emily. You got them. They’re your kids now. No more system.” Then Kelly leans in so close to Person I’m sure I’m not supposed to hear the last part. “Don’t forget to tell them how happy you are about that.”

  Person looks startled. Kelly turns to leave and I almost expect Julian to call out and ask her to come to his birthday party, but he’s worn-out and focused on his food.

  So instead it’s me. I’m my own voice. “Kelly?” I say. She turns back to face me. “Did you know us since the beginning?”

  I didn’t put my words together. I’m not sure she’s going to understand. But she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Flora. I met you when you were three and Julian was two. I don’t know what happened before that. I don’t know anything about your bios. Maybe Jeannie can help with that? I hope so.”

  We don’t have bios.

  “Jeannie?” I say.

  Kelly nods. “That’s who you’re going to see tomorrow.”

  “Jeannie,” I say again. There’s something familiar about the word on my tongue. Even just the name scares me.

  “That’s another point for us,” I say on the ride back to the hotel. “Even Kelly doesn’t know that we were babies.”

  “Yes,” Person says. “She knows you were babies because you’re people. All people were babies.”

  “Not us,” Julian says.

  Person turns to look at us. She’s at a stoplight.

  “Well, I don’t mind,” she says. “You can have all the points you want because I already won.”

  “Huh?” I say. “No you didn’t. We didn’t see one baby picture. We didn’t meet one person who knew us when we were born, which is because we weren’t.”

  Person smiles. “Look, guys, I’m sorry. I owe you an apology.”

  “No you don’t,” I say. Because I feel like we’re the ones who owe Person the apology. We’re the ones who dragged her on this trip.

  “I do,” she says. “I’ve been messing up a big thing.”

  “No you haven’t,” I say quickly. Because Person doesn’t mess up.

  “I have,” Person says. “I’ve been trying to be your mother so well that I mother you right out of everything else that happened to you. I’ve been trying to erase everything that happened before you had a mother. And I realize now that was never going to work, and it wasn’t fair to you. It’s just, I love you so much. I didn’t want to have to share it.”

  “Share it?” Julian says.

  “I’ve been so confused about Margie and Vanessa because they loved you so much too. It seems like they loved you like I did. And most moms don’t have to share that bond.” Person takes a breath. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about me loving you exactly the way you are, all of your days before and all of your days in the future.”

  We don’t say anything for a minute. Person looks at the windshield, then turns back and looks at us again. “It doesn’t matter how many points you get about any of your theories because I already won. I get to be your mom. That’s the best kind of winning.”

  Julian looks at me with his eyebrows raised. And I know what he’s thinking because I’m thinking it too.

  The best kind of winning is when you get to be a mom to a little boy who throws water glasses across a restaurant? To a little girl whose words get stuck all the time? Who punches her sister? Who hides all the food in his closet? Who barely passes fourth grade and is sad when she does? Who kills your goldfish?

  But Person looks like she means it.

  “You’re a weird mom,” Julian says.

  “The weirdest,” I agree.

  And Person laughs.

  Then I remember what’s about to happen. If she loves us when we’re not talking and throwing things and punching people, she is definitely going to love us when we get back to the hotel.

  Person stands frozen in the doorway. Dad and Elena are already in there, smiling like they have the most delicious secret in the world.

  “Surprise,” Elena says simply.

  “How did you . . . what did . . . what?” I’ve never heard Person’s words get stuck before. I pat her on the back and it’s enough to wake her up. She goes rushing at Dad and Julian and I rush in right behind her. We’re all hugging Dad.

  Elena stands a few feet away, watching. Then Julian breaks the hug to wave her over. “Come on, Elena,” he says.

  “What happened?” Person asks. Her voice is almost stuck in the hug with her mouth pressed into Dad’s chest. But her words aren’t stuck anymore.

  Dad says, “Flora. She called us.”

  Person pulls out of the hug and puts a hand on my right shoulder and Elena’s left shoulder.

  “Flora?” she says. “You apologized?”

  My face turns pink as soon as she asks. I realize that no, I didn’t.

  I should do it now, I know. I punched Elena and no matter what you have to apologize when you hit someone unless that someone also
hit you and then it was self-defense. I know I need to apologize. But that word, sorry, is so huge and sticky it’ll never get out of my lungs.

  And maybe I’m still not exactly sorry. Maybe punching Elena felt a little like self-defense because at that moment she was hurting Julian with all that laughing and laughing sometimes hurts worse than hitting.

  And I sometimes forget where Julian ends and where I begin.

  And maybe that’s why it’s so scary when I can’t tell whether Julian is happy or whether he’s faking happy. Maybe it’s not because faking happy always ends in explosions. I can handle the explosions. I’ve been living with them my whole life. Maybe the fake-happy is scary because I can’t tell. Because that means we’re separate.

  But we are separate. I want to grow up and be like Person with my own family where Julian is just an uncle. I want to go to high school in a few years and leave Julian back at St. Peter’s. I want to be my own person with a brother instead of someone who can’t find her edges.

  And all of these reasons are why sorry gets stuck in my throat. Or maybe somewhere far away. All of these reasons are why sorry gets stuck and I can’t find it.

  But Elena says, “She did better.”

  Person smiles at her. “What does that mean?” Person asks.

  “She didn’t say I’m sorry,” Elena says. “She . . . She said ‘divorce stinks.’”

  And then Elena is in Person’s arms, folded over her belly so that she can be squeezed in the tightest hug ever. And I’m not even jealous because that’s my sister. If my mother can share me with Margie and Vanessa and Gloria and Ms. K and Dad and Kelly, I should be able to share my mother with my sister. And the new baby.

  Twenty-Three

  FAMILIES TEACH THE MOST IMPORTANT LESSONS

  WE QUICK-QUICK CHANGE INTO OUR BATHING suits and slather on the sunblock that Person always makes us wear even though she’s the only one who gets sunburned. Then we all spend the day on the beach. Julian and I build a sandcastle. Elena and I jump waves. Person and Elena and I go for a walk. Dad and Julian and Elena play catch. We all go swimming.

  I let it happen in all the groups. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Sometimes Julian and I are together, and sometimes we’re not. But we’re still family even with all these other people between us.