by Sue Knott
I guessed that the US government was working on the Glyphs. Ditto the enemy nations and terrorists that had been visiting the site. But, I had no idea whether anyone else was making any serious attempts at deciphering.
I didn’t trust the government to do the right thing. And I worried what the bad guys might do. It seemed like my only option was to see the Glyphs through. I had to throw all my resources into an effort to crack the code.
I decided I’d launch a three-pronged approach. I’d continue to generate as much free publicity as I could by writing articles. (That’s what I had been doing, and I was still getting a steady stream of new visitors to the website, so it was effective.) I’d also create some sort of a contest with a big cash prize to encourage individuals to try their hand at deciphering the Glyphs. (A long shot, but you never know. And it would create a deadline that might motivate procrastinators.) And, I’d flat out hire the best people I could find to work on the deciphering full time.
When it came to hiring people, I didn’t have any connections in the scientific world and wasn’t even sure what field I should look at. Should I find a physicist? A chemist? A language expert? A cryptographer? And where would I find them? I figured I’d reach out to Amir on this one. Amir seemed to have connections everywhere and likely knew key people in the scientific world. If he didn’t have the answers, he could probably guide me to the people who would.
Even though I appeared to have successfully avoided any public connection between myself and CussedEmOuterwear.com, I still had to be cautious about contacting Amir. He still had a lot to lose. But, I thought I knew a way he could participate without putting himself at risk.
I sent a letter to the address I had returned the necklace to. Though, I thought about simply putting a sign that said “Hey Faris, I need you.” in my window. I had no idea if Faris was still keeping an eye on me. There really wasn’t any reason for him to be doing that. But it seemed Amir was even more cautious than me. Apparently smarter than me, too. He’d known everything about me since our first encounter. And I still knew virtually nothing about him. I wasn’t even sure if his name really was Amir Kezal. (I was still too worried about exposing his connection to me to even consider googling his name.)
Chapter 55 Gerry’s Story
Okay, like, this is the story of my life: First there was light and happiness and then there was darkness an’ hell. The only thing I can remember from the light and happiness was just that. I remember a sense of brightness. I remember a feelin’ of being safe an’ comfortable an’ happy. That’s it.
I can’t remember faces or colors. I try real hard to remember what my mother looked like. Or sounded like. But, there’s nothin’. The only memory I have a her is the sensation of my sticky hands and face being washed. The face part is not entirely pleasant. I have a remembered feelin’ of screwing up my face and tryin’ to turn away. The hands part is better. I remember the feelin’ of my hand being covered in a soft, warm, wet washcloth and rubbed from both sides – with each finger bein’ individually wiped down.
That’s about it as far as anything havin’ to do with my birth mother is concerned. And I only have a tiny bit more memory a the world at large. I have, like, this vague idea of what everyday things look like, but I think I’m mostly makin’ that up in my head. I think that because all I have is this sense of the shape of things. I have no sense of what color they are or what their texture looks like.
Anythin’ else I know from that time of light and happiness is what I been told. And that’s not much. Mostly, I been told about the day it all ended. The day the light and happiness turned to my dark hell.
My mother moved to New Jersey just a coupla months earlier. We were livin’ with her brother. The neighbors told police he was friendly, but, like, quiet. He had a thick accent that they thought was maybe Russian or some other “Eastern Block” country. He did odd jobs for people in the neighborhood for cash. Nobody knew where he worked or what kind of job he had. They only knew his first name: Yuri.
He was excited about his sister and us comin’ ta live with him. He talked about her an’ her twins. No one remembered the sister’s name or our names. Me and Terry were named by our first foster family. Their last name was Foster. Whatta big, cosmic joke. They named us Teresa an’ Geraldine Foster.
Anyways, no one knew our mother or much about us except that we were twins. Social services figured we were around two on the night everything changed. That night, a giant sinkhole opened up and swallowed the duplex we were living in. I must have gotten outta bed to see what the noise was all about. I can’t remember seeing the house swallowed up by. I sort of remember the blast. I opened the bedroom door and there was a big, white flash. The next thing I remember was wakin’ up in a hospital days later.
The flash was a gas explosion set off when the sinkhole swallowed the house. The explosion knocked me clear across the room an’ against the wall. The heat from the explosion blinded me.
The blast didn’t hurt Terry. Our bedroom was an old concrete addition. I was told that a long, long time ago the original owner operated a pelt tannin’ business in that room. Since Terry wasn’t near the door, the concrete walls shielded her from the blast.
After the explosion, I was in the hospital for, like, months. I had burns on my face an’ hands an’ a cracked skull an’ broken bones. Terry says you can’t even see the scars ‘cept maybe a little bit on my forehead. That’s why I wear bangs.
No one could find out much about us after the blast. My mother an’ Uncle Yuri were dead. Our landlords, who lived in the other unit in the duplex, were dead. I heard they were old an’ stayed to themselves. Their son in California didn’t talk to ‘em much an’ didn’t know anything about their tenants. With the house completely destroyed, there were no papers or records. Everything was gone. They didn’t even find any bodies. That is, if they even bothered to look for ‘em. I don’t think they did. Millions of tons of World Trade Center debris they’ll sift through forever for tiny bits of DNA. A 50-ft. hole in New Jersey, they just fill in with a bulldozer.
Not that I begrudge the Trade Center families havin’ their loved ones searched for. If the state a New York or the Federal Government is willing ta devote that kinda effort ta finding body parts, like, good for them. You just think New Jersey could spend a fraction of that time and money recovering my mother, Uncle Yuri and the landlords. I mean, I wish I had a grave I could visit. Or, I dunno, something.
The police, post office an’ social services kept watchin’ for clues ‘bout who we might be. But, nothin’ came a it. No paychecks. No tax statements. No mail.
Far as anyone could tell, my mother an’ Uncle Yuri didn’t have bank accounts, cars or even a phone. The utilities were included in the rent, so Uncle Yuri didn’t even have an account with the electric company. Nobody knew our last name or if we had any family. They didn’t even know what country our mother was from or if we were born in the United States. We only said a few words, “mama’ being the main word.
Far as I know, they’re still looking for any mail that might come with a clue to our identity. But, after more than ten years, I’m not holding my breath. I don’t like it, but I’ve accepted the fact that I’m a ward a the state. An’ let me tell you, the state sucks at takin’ care a its wards.
Chapter 56 Gerry’s Story
Terry went ta live with the Fosters while I was in the hospital. The Fosters weren’t bad; I think they were just in over their heads. They didn’t have kids an’ Terry was the first kid they fostered. They brought Terry around to visit me at the hospital on weekends in the beginnin’, but after a few weeks, that dropped off.
The nurses at the hospital were really nice, but they were too busy to spend much time with me. I was alone most of the time. Like, totally and utterly alone for hours on end for days an’ days. Blind an’ alone.
When I got out of intensive care, I at least had roommates. Sometimes they were kids old enough to talk. Sometimes they had visitors that would
talk to me. Sometimes the roommate would watch TV an’ I could listen. I don’t remember if I knew English or some other language then. I just remember I liked ta hear people talk.
I went ta live with Terry an’ the Fosters when I got outta the hospital. I had dressings that needed changed every day an’ I had to go for therapy an’ doctor visits all the time. It was more than the Fosters could handle an’ they had ta give me back. They said it would be cruel ta separate me an’ Terry, so they put her back in the system, too. I think they just realized they didn’t really want a kid around ‘cuz me an’ Terry were, like, split up mosta the time. They coulda kept Terry an’ it wouldna made a difference.
It was hard to get a family that’d take two toddlers, especially when one was blind. Most people who took toddlers were “auditioning” the kid for adoption. But, since Terry had a blind twin, no one wanted to adopt her. I figure they had too much guilt over not adoptin’ me, too. Once Terry could talk, she asked for me all the time. An’ I asked for her. I heard it drove people nuts.
My second foster family, the Austins, was pretty good. I was there a long time. They had a lotta foster kids. All a them were handicapped in some way. They were like the saint family that social services relied on ta take the hardest cases. I liked it there. With so many brothers and sisters, I was never alone.
At the Austins, every kid was paired with another kid so we could help each other. I helped Elise. She was paralyzed an’ couldn’t use her arms or legs. It was my job to feed her an’ push her wheelchair around.
Elise was older, maybe 9, when I started livin’ at the Austins. She was good at makin’ people laugh, especially me. Her job was to be my eyes. She’d tell me where things were an’ how to steer the wheelchair when I was pushin’ her.
I learned ta, like, take care a myself at the Austins. I was making breakfast before I could speak full sentences. At least, that’s what Elise told me. She said I was the best breakfast maker in the family. Course, I always made what she wanted because she was the one who guided me through it.
It’s not like the Austins were slave drivers. Everybody just had to do whatever they could ta keep the family functioning. There were 12 kids living at home, all with bodies that were defective in some way.
The Austins were, like, super religious. They carted all 12 a us ta church every Sunday an’ we had family prayers every night. Elise said people stared at us when we walked inta church. She said they didn’t stare in a bad way, but she didn’t like ta be stared at just the same.
When I found out Elise an’ the other kids didn’t have visions like I did, I told Mama Austin about ‘em. I didn’t just see the symbols. I saw terrible things. Fires an’ floods. An’ famine. Horrible famine. Mama thought the visions sounded biblical an’ asked if Jesus was in the visions. I told her no, but she thought they still might be comin’ from Jesus. She had me talk ta Pastor about ‘em.
Pastor told me my visions were the devil’s work and I should block ‘em from my mind an’ never speak a them again. He said they would come ta no good. Mama thought Pastor was being rash, so she prayed ta Jesus ta show a sign. She said she never did see a sign either way. She said the visions probably weren’t bad if they didn’t tell me ta do bad things. Still, she said it might be best not ta speak about the visions ta anyone outside the family.
I lived with the Austins until right before I started kindergarten. That summer Mama Austin was in a terrible car accident. She was in a coma for a month an’ then she died. Some ladies from church came ta the house ta help out while Mama was in the hospital. They came two atta time in shifts. But, after Mama died, they came less an’ less.
Papa Austin tried to take care a us by himself, but it wasn’t workin’ out. I heard him cryin’ at night when he thought everyone was sleepin’. I think he was cryin’ partly because he missed Mama an’ partly because he, like, couldn’t cope. When he told us he wasn’t gonna be able ta take care a us anymore, he was bawling his eyes out.
I heard a lotta the Austin kids ended up at the County Home. People talked about the County Home like it was a bad thing. But, after being in a few foster homes, I wonder if, like, the County Home wasn’t a better place ta be.
The foster home after the Austins started out okay. Mama Papadik was a real good cook an’ Papa Papadik read me bedtime stories every night. But, after awhile, Papa Papadik started getting closer an’ closer ta me when he read me the stories. He stroked my hair an’ patted my leg in a way that, like, was totally skeevy. Then, one night he stopped strokin’ my hair an’ put his hand over my mouth. An’ his other hand slid up my leg. He told me that if I ever told anyone, he’d hurt me real bad.
Soon, Papa Papadik was doin’ even more horrible things ta me. Sometimes when he was heavin’ on toppa me, I couldn’t breathe. I thought maybe I’d die an’ it would all be over. But, I didn’t die. So, I ran away.
Runnin’ away was easy. I just lived at school. I was on the program where I got breakfast an’ lunch for free. For dinner, I snuck inta the kitchen an’ took whatever food I needed from the school’s refrigerator. There were plenty a places ta hide from the janitor.
I coulda lived at school all year. But, after about two weeks, my teacher called Mama Papadik ta say that I was smelly an’ dirty. Mama Papadik told my teacher what Papa Papadik told her: that social services found my real mother an’ took me away. I heard that turned out ta be, like, the end for Papa Papadik. The police an’ social services an’ everyone got involved.
After that, I lived atta string a foster homes. Some were okay. Most were bad. There was the shithole. That was a slobby family that smelled bad. They had cats an’ dogs that peed all over the carpet an’ no one ever cleaned it up. I slept in a closet, which was probably the best place in the house because nothing ever peed in it.
My foster families were mostly just interested in the money they got for taking care a me. One family hardly fed me. They, like, flat out said things like “the county don’t give us enough money ta feed you meat.” After the Papadiks, I was afraid to complain about my foster families. I mean, like, who knew how bad the next one might be? But when I was at the starvers’ house, I lost a lotta weight fast. My case worker noticed an’ pulled me outta there.
Terry had it worse. Being able-bodied an’ all, she was always in demand. People wanted healthy foster kids ta help with the housework along with bringin’ in a side income. Some families worked her ta the bone. She didn’t have time ta do her homework or play or nothin’.
Chapter 57 Gerry’s Story
Every now an’ then, Terry an’ I would be in a foster home together. That was the best, even when the families, like, sucked. With Terry around, my random life didn’t seem so random. I didn’t have ta worry about how she was doing. An’ she could help me with things I needed ta do.
One a the things I needed Terry for was findin’ hiding places for food. I was worried about the famine. I figured someone would be able to take us someplace safe if the fires or the floods came, but no one would be able ta get food if there was a famine. An’ after livin’ at the starvers’ house, I was scareda famine more than anything.
Terry could, like, keep an eye out ta see if anyone ever went near the spots I picked out as hiding places. Once she said they were okay, I’d start squirrelin’ away jars a peanut butter, cans a baked beans an’ stuff like that. I figured there was nothin’ worse than slowly starvin’ ta death. Knowin’ me an’ Terry hadda food stash made me feel better.
Terry an’ I were livin’ in separate foster homes for almost two years before we got ta Brandi’s house. Brandi was different than your typical foster mom. For one thing, she didn’t have any other children. For another, she didn’t seem ta want us for the free labor or the money. I think Brandi wanted us as sorta, like, fashion accessories.
Be Randy (that’s what me an’ Terry called her behind her back), was, like, a serial dater. She would go directly from one man ta the next. It’s like she didn’t exist if she wasn’t being adored by
some guy. She would date a guy ‘til they got ta know each other, then they’d break up. I think Be Randy would drop the guy if he stopped givin’ her, like, jewelry an’ stuff. Or, the guy would drop Be Randy if he figured out what she was really like.
Be Randy thought she wanted a husband. I think that’s why she wanted us. We made her look all respectable an’, like, human. I think she thought she’d attract a better class of guy that way. But, I don’t think Be Randy would ever be happy as a wife, no matter how classy her husband was. What she really wanted was the thrill an’ the gifts from a new relationship. But, I sure as hell wasn’t gonna tell her that.
Me an’ Terry had it good at Be Randy’s. As parta being her perfect accessories, she bought us nice clothes for, like, the first time ever in our lives. She got ‘em from the Goodwill, but she knew how ta pick ‘em out. One thing you had ta say for Be Randy, she knew about style.
The clothes Be Randy got us were always the latest fashions from the top brands. She wouldn’t let us wear sexy clothes like she wore. But, it wasn’t like she picked out convent clothes for us. They were exactly like the fashion magazines showed nice kids from good families wearin’.
It was a good thing Be Randy dressed us good, too. She lived at the edge of an okay neighborhood next ta the rich section of town. You hadta have good clothes in that school if ya wanted anyone ta talk ta ya.
It was nice ta go to a school an’ live ina neighborhood where ya didn’t have ta fear for your life all the time. It was nice ta finally be able ta make friends an’ go ta their houses an’ listen ta music in their fancy bedrooms. We didn’t bring friends ta Be Randy’s house much. It was dinky an’ worn out compared ta everyone else’s. Plus, Be Randy, was kinda embarrassing with her tarty clothes an’ all her jewels an’ troweled-on makeup. I don’t think Be Randy would want ta put up with havin’ other kids around, anyway.