Peas and Carrots
Page 21
For the next several hours, that’s all I can get out of her: “Trish.” She thinks I’m my mother, which tells me she hit her head a lot harder than I thought.
Trish. Man, I wish she was here to do this instead of me.
Even though Granny Doris doesn’t answer me, I talk to her. I tell her about the Anguianos’ house, Rob, air hockey, Stella, the souvlaki that Kalista shares with me at lunch, and how much Jeopardy! I watch. When the volunteers come and bring us magazines and cookies, I sanitize my hands again and tell her about the snack cabinet and all the celebrities I read about, and how Ms. Aiello works my nerves.
I talk until I get hoarse, till I get sick of the sound of my own voice.
I’m gulping water when I hear the curtain swish back from the first bed. Twisting in my chair, I see a small Asian woman in a patterned blue smock over her scrubs and sensible shoes.
“Hi there. It’s time to do vitals on Mrs. Matthews. Can I have you step out for just a minute?”
I blink. “Oh, yeah. Sure. No problem.”
I check the clock in the nurses’ station and stretch. It’s almost six. I should probably go down to the cafeteria and see if there’s anything decent to eat, but I can’t bring myself to go anywhere farther than the bathroom, where I wash my face and hands again and press my cool, wet fingers to my skin. As I think about how hot Jamaira was, my stomach lurches. I guess she’s all right—Foster Lady got up and took care of her. But it’s stupid how bad I want to pick up the phone—the phone I don’t even have—and ask.
The nurse is out of the way when I step back into the room. Behind me, I hear the chime, and the elevator doors open. And then I hear a voice.
“Hi, excuse me. I’m looking for Doris Matthews’s room.”
The nurse’s voice is quizzical. “I’m sorry. They should have asked at reception—are you family?”
I dart into the hallway. “Yes! She’s family,” I insist, skidding to a stop next to Hope. I’m blinking fast. “She’s my sister.”
“Yeah.” Hope shifts so that her arm is touching mine. My throat tightens up, but we stand shoulder to shoulder, daring the nurse to say something.
She looks us over and clears her throat, eyebrows raised. “Ah, okay, then. Great. Well, no more than two visitors for our CCU patients at a time, and visiting hours are over at eight,” she begins, but Hope shakes her head.
“I’m not going to stay,” she says, eyes on mine. Her sunglasses are perched on her head, and her ponytail is a little more subdued than usual—like she’s been leaning against the car window or hasn’t brushed out her hair since I flat-ironed it. “I just came to bring you your phone,” she continues, putting the familiar sleek rectangle in my hand. “Dad got a hotel—when you’re ready for bed or to get something to eat, just text, and we’ll come pick you up.”
“We?”
“Me and Dad and Austin.” Hope smiles a little at my expression. “Mom and Jamaira were still at Children’s when we left, so it’s just us.”
“Come here.” I haul on Hope’s arm and drag her toward Granny Doris’s room. When the nurse is out of earshot, I turn to Hope, eyes wide. “What the hell are you guys doing?”
Hope shrugs, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Giving you a ride home?”
“Seriously? I—I can come back?”
Hope scowls. “You do remember we have a Constitution test Monday.”
“But—” I can’t find the words. Isn’t anybody going to blame me? Isn’t anybody mad? “Is Maira okay?”
“Maira?” Hope’s expression saddens. “She’s…Well, Mom says they’re helping her eat, and she’s comfortable. She…Mom says she smiled for her a couple of times.”
Without meaning to, I look toward my grandmother’s bed and swallow hard.
Comfortable. Is Granny Doris comfortable? She might not even wake up. She might still think I’m Trish.
Hope leans half against my shoulder, half against the wall, and yawns. Her breath smells like fruity purple gum. “Sorry. Long drive. Look, Dad’s going to yell at you, all right? And then Mom will. Then probably Mrs. Farris and Mr. Bradbrook and probably Austin. But what else is new? Let’s see your grandma and then go home, all right?”
Home. I thought home was where I was—with Granny Doris, doing what Trish would maybe want me to. I thought that since Granny Doris needed me, I was in the right place. Family is important, right? Me and Baby aren’t going to stay with the Carters forever. Trish—eventually—and Baby and me are going to try and make some kind of life. Maybe.
But if Trish can’t make it? If Granny Doris kicks off? What then?
“Dess?” Hope straightens. She flails a self-conscious hand. “If you’re not ready, we can wait for you or whatever. Just don’t rush, okay? I know she’s part of your birth family. The rest of us can wait.”
The words loop like a rope around me, pulling me into the herd. Mom. Dad. Home. The rest of us. Hope talks like I’m supposed to be with her—like “home” is real, not foster care. No wonder I got soft. Foster Lady and Mr. Carter got Baby and me believing it, too.
“No, don’t wait. I’m coming.” My throat is achy and sore, but my shoulders are straight, like a weight has been lifted off my back. I move to the bed and bend over Granny Doris.
“Granny Doris, it’s Dessa. I’m back,” I announce. “This is Hope. She just…showed up. So I’m going to go now and let you rest, okay? I’ll come back and check on you later.”
“That’s it?” Hope hisses, turning to me.
I shrug. “Yeah. What do you want?”
Hope rolls her eyes, then bends close, and pats Granny Doris’s hand. Her voice is a whisper. “Hi, Mrs. Matthews. Um…nice to meet you. I’m Hope Carter. I hope you feel better. We’re taking good care of your grandkids, and…um…everything’s fine. Just get better and stuff. Everything’s fine.” Hope pats her hand again.
Everything’s fine. I roll my eyes. Seriously? Does she have a magic wand now? Jeez, this girl. Granny Doris might never write me another letter. Trish might flake on Baby and me. Nothing is “fine.” But as I follow Hope out of the hospital room, for the first time in days it kind of feels like, eventually, things might be.
Foster parents, foster care, and foster families sometimes get a seriously bad rap. In some cases, it’s totally deserved—I had myriad students with whom I worked in group homes who were justifiably bitter about the emotional and sometimes physical damage they sustained in some horrific foster-care circumstances. On the other end of the spectrum, I’ve also known multiple amazingly loving, supportive, and giving foster parents—my own mother included. Like anything else within the scope of human nature, foster kids and foster parents run the gamut from notable to notorious. When it works—when kind people can be there to help a young person get to that point in adulthood where he or she can navigate independently—it can change both the foster parent’s and the foster child’s world.
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