“Poor Allie,” I murmur, feeling helpless. “You sure I can’t come today? Maybe a music therapy session would help her if she’s feeling confused.”
“No. She’s in detention until five, then Salma and Rodney are grounding her. Besides, she doesn’t know yet about having to move, and I’ve asked them not to say anything for now. So she should be fine tonight. But I’ll let you know before I tell her, okay?”
“Thanks.”
“And hey, about your breakup.” He lets the fragment hang there for a minute, and I have the weirdest feeling he’s nervous.
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”
Twenty-Seven
For the rest of the day, I struggle to keep my mind on work, but by four thirty, the time I should be leaving to head out to Queens, all I can think about is Allie.
Well, Allie and Hannah, actually. I keep seeing snippets from my world with Patrick and Hannah, images of tucking Hannah in, of watching her across the breakfast table, of hearing her laughter as she spins around in Coney Island’s teacups. And the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that the purpose of seeing those things has been to lead me to Allie all along.
I’ve stopped trying to explain away the glimpses into the alternate world; there are just too many connections to real life. But since I have to admit that the existence of Hannah is impossible—despite the girl I saw through the bridal shop window—I have to wonder what the dreams were trying to tell me. Perhaps they were supposed to show me that I deserved to be happier than I ever would be with Dan, and if that’s the case, they worked. But I still have the feeling there’s something I’m not getting, something unfinished, and I’m beginning to think it’s all about motherhood.
I let myself wonder, just for a second, if Patrick is up there somehow, pulling the strings, showing me the way. But the world I experienced a mere handful of times seemed to be reality for him; it’s not like he was aware I was dreaming and was actively trying to tell me something. In fact, he’d looked confused and alarmed each time I acted like I didn’t belong.
I take a deep breath, push my client notes aside and log on to my computer. I spend a few minutes googling how to be a foster parent in New York until I land on a page at nyc.gov that tells me the basics of the process. I fill out the application and then print every form I can find from New York’s Office of Children and Family Services site too. I walk out the door without looking back.
It’s six thirty by the time I walk through the front entrance of St. Anne’s Services, and although the place is relatively empty, I’m not surprised to find Andrew in his office, a lone lamp illuminating the stack of papers on his desk.
“Hey,” I say from the doorway.
He looks up in surprise. “Kate! What are you doing here? I told you you didn’t need to come today.”
I take a deep breath and prepare to say the words that could change my life. “Andrew, I want to apply to be a foster parent. I don’t want Allie to go into a group home or to land in a house with strangers if her mom doesn’t get her back. If she needs a home, I want to be the one to give it to her.”
Andrew just looks at me. “Kate—” he says, raking his hand through his hair. He doesn’t say anything else, but he looks upset.
“What?” I ask when the silence grows uncomfortable. “I thought you’d be happy about this! It’s the perfect solution for Allie.”
He pauses before replying. “I’m just not sure the timing is right.”
I stare at him in disbelief. I’d expected him to jump up and hug me, or at the very least to thank me for helping provide a safety net for one of the kids he cares about. But instead, he’s looking at me with what resembles pity. “The timing?” I ask, trying unsuccessfully to keep the edge out of my voice.
He sighs. “You just broke up with your fiancé, right? I think it’s wonderful that you’re interested in becoming a foster parent, but this is a huge life decision, and not one you can make lightly.”
“This has nothing to do with my breakup!” I exclaim. “This has to do with me—and Allie.”
“But, Kate, there’s no guarantee you’d even get Allie,” he says gently. “I mean, if we decide this is a good idea, I can expedite your paperwork, get you a home visit right away, and get you enrolled in the parenting skills class you have to take before you’re certified. But even if we rush everything through—and even though you’ve already cleared the background checks, which will save us some time—it may not be soon enough. The process takes time, and Allie might need a home before you’ve been approved.”
“But—”
“Besides,” he says, cutting me off. “You need to remember that her mother is still very much in play. She’s not perfect, but she’s been trying. Allie might be returned to her, Kate. We don’t know what’s going to happen. And I don’t want you to get your hopes up and then wind up getting hurt.”
“I know it’s possible I won’t get her,” I say, although what I’m thinking is, I’m absolutely positive the dreams led me here. “But I have to take the chance. And if it’s not Allie, then I’ll be there for another child who needs a home.”
“I just don’t know if you’re ready,” he says after a minute. “I’m sure that you feel like there’s a hole in your life with your fiancé gone. That’s normal. I’m sure you’re feeling a little lonely. But, Kate, you can’t fill that hole with a child.”
I can feel my cheeks burning. “How could you think that’s what I’m doing?” I demand.
“I’m just saying it’s a possibility,” he says. “It’s possible you don’t even know you’re doing it.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying these things!” I cry, although deep down, part of me understands his trepidation. “I’ve been thinking about a child for months now, Andrew, and working with you—working with these kids—has made me sure. I know the timing isn’t ideal, and maybe on paper it looks like I’m not ready, but if there’s even a chance I could provide a home for Allie, I need to do this now, or I let her down. And isn’t that what being a parent is? Taking chances in your own life because you know it will make your child’s life better? I want this, Andrew, and it has nothing to do with having a hole in my life or feeling lonely or anything else. It has to do with me being ready to be a mother—and Allie being ready for a home.”
He stares at me before nodding slowly. “Let me think about it.”
I stand there for another minute. I don’t know whether to feel angry, hurt, or hopeful. I don’t know if he’s really planning to consider what I’m saying or whether he’s just trying to get me out of his office. So finally I settle for a mumbled “Thank you,” and I leave without another word, feeling like I’ve just lost something I never had.
I spend all day Friday thinking about what Andrew said and waffling back and forth between doubting myself and feeling as if I’ve just made the best decision of my life. I even consider going around Andrew and contacting the Office of Children and Family Services myself, but what holds me back is the knowledge that if Andrew won’t give me his stamp of approval, I probably don’t deserve it. After all, he wants what’s best for Allie and the other kids he works with. And I know him well enough now to be able to say that his instincts are generally good. Perhaps that’s why it’s so hurtful that his first reaction was to doubt me.
Still, I’m holding out hope that he’ll see I’m right, that I am in a good place now. So I wake up early on Saturday morning and begin clearing out the guest room, which I’ve been using primarily as storage. I’m already imagining Allie here while I pack up bags to take to Goodwill and put aside things I want to keep. As I pull box after box from the closet, I can almost see the walls decorated with her posters and her poems. I can visualize her keyboard set up in the corner.
“Thank you, Patrick,” I whisper as I think about how all the dreams have led me here,
to this. “Now if you can just help Andrew see my point . . .” My eyes blur with tears, and as I cross the room again to put away a lamp I’ve never liked, I trip over one of the boxes from the closet, spilling its contents. I curse, my toe throbbing in pain, and as I bend to pick up the pieces of paper I’ve scattered across the floor, I freeze.
Inside the cardboard box, which has been tipped on its side, I see the hand-carved wooden chest Patrick gave to me when he proposed, filled with a hundred slips of paper, each of them inscribed with the reasons he loved me. I haven’t seen it in years. I sink slowly to the floor and pick up one of the slips.
I love how you go out of your way to help people, it says. I pick up another and read in his narrow, slanted handwriting, I love the tiny dimple in your right cheek when you smile really wide.
I read the rest one by one as I put them slowly back in the chest. There are big ones, such as, I love the way you always look for the good in people, and silly little ones, such as, I love the way that when you laugh really hard, you double over.
There are also specific ones: I love the fact that when your mom broke her arm, you moved home for two weeks to help out. I love that you refused to quit softball in eighth grade after you were hit by a pitch that broke your nose.
The last one I put away touches me the most. I love the idea of having children with you one day. You’re going to be an amazing mother.
Tears are streaming down my cheeks by the time the slips are all put away. I grab a stool, stand on my tiptoes, and push the box as far back on the top shelf of the closet as I can manage. It makes a dull clinking sound as it pushes something at the back of the shelf into the wall, and a second later, a silver dollar tumbles to the ground.
I stare at it for a moment before climbing down slowly and picking it up. With the exception of the one I wear around my neck, I had given all the remaining coins to Joan after Patrick had died, because after all, they were her father’s tradition. So I can’t imagine where this one came from. Regardless, the coins are meant to carry good luck, and having this one fall from the sky—almost literally—feels like a nudge in the right direction.
Any doubt that it’s a sign is erased a moment later when my phone rings. I tuck the silver dollar into my pocket, climb off the stool, and hurry out to the kitchen, where my cell is illuminated on the counter. The caller ID tells me it’s Andrew.
“I’m sorry,” he says before I can even say hello. It sounds like he’s rehearsed the words, and they pour out quickly. “I think you were right. I had a kneejerk reaction based on a typical situation, but you’re not typical, are you? And I believe you when you say you’re okay. I agree that you’d give Allie—or any child—a good home.”
“Really?” I whisper, my heart fluttering. I reach into my pocket and touch the silver dollar.
“Really,” Andrew says firmly. “I’ve already gotten your paperwork rolling. You need to officially fill out an application—which I’ll fax to you today, if you want—but I’ve signed you up for an accelerated parenting course and contacted a colleague of mine about getting you a home visit as soon as possible. It’ll still take five or six weeks, though, at the very minimum. And that’s only because I’ve pulled every string I can think of. Usually the approval process takes a few months, but I agree that we should make every effort to have you available to take Allie, just in case that becomes an option.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
He clears his throat. “I also put in a personal recommendation for you, but you’ll need two other references. Maybe your sister and your friend Gina, the ones I met at dinner? It just has to be two people who will recommend you and vouch for your character. So let’s get all that in order, and as long as you can commit to three-hour classes each Tuesday and Friday evening for the next five and a half weeks, we should be good to go.”
“Andrew,” I breathe, “I don’t even know how to begin to thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” he says. “In fact, I owe you an apology. You’re trying to do exactly what I’m trying to do—give these kids a better life—and I didn’t listen to you like I should have. You’re going to be an amazing foster mom. So if you can go into your office today, I’ll fax the paperwork right over, okay?”
“I’ll head there now.”
“Great. I have a really good feeling about this, Kate.”
I close my eyes and smile. “I do too.”
An hour and a half later, on my way home from my office after faxing all the initial paperwork back to Andrew, I make a detour by the East River and throw the silver dollar from the closet in, returning my good luck to the universe, just like Patrick always did.
The next day, I drop by Susan’s to tell her about Allie and my decision to become a foster parent, as well as to let her know I put her down as a personal reference on my application. As I talk, her eyebrows shoot up, and she gapes at me.
“What is it?” I finally ask, sighing.
“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” she asks. “Being a parent isn’t as easy as it looks.”
I bristle immediately. “I never said it was easy. You know I work with kids every day. I understand what a challenge it is.”
“Do you, though?” she persists. “You see these kids for an hour. But you’re not the one worrying about putting food on the table for them, or disciplining them, or making sure they do their homework or grow up right.”
I can feel my blood boiling. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t be a mother? Because it’s hard? And I’m somehow not equipped?”
“It’s just that these foster kids have so many problems,” Susan says.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t work through those issues,” I shoot back. “They’ve just had fewer advantages and fewer people looking out for them. Not everyone’s as lucky as Sammie and Calvin.”
“It’s not luck,” Susan says stiffly. “Robert and I have worked hard to give them a safe, secure home and a good upbringing.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m just saying that they’re fortunate to have gotten you two as a mom and dad. Not all kids get to have parents like that.”
“Exactly my point. And what do you think happens when a child grows up without any of the good values we’ve instilled in our kids?”
“Just because these kids haven’t had traditional upbringings doesn’t mean they don’t have good values,” I argue. “You sound like an elitist.”
“No. I sound like a realist. And you sound like you have your head in the clouds.”
“Not everyone gets handed the perfect life on a silver platter,” I snap. “I know you did, so maybe that’s hard for you to understand. But you have everything, Susan. I lost everything. And I’m doing my best to build a life for myself now.”
“Yeah, you had a tragedy, and it’s terrible,” Susan shoots back. “But you’re forty. You’ve got to stop mooning over your dead husband and agonizing over what was or wasn’t meant to be. Besides, how are you ever going to wind up in another relationship when you’re all of a sudden a foster mom? Do you think you’re going to have time to date? Or that any guy in his right mind is going to want to accept this lifestyle choice you’re making?”
And suddenly, I understand. “So that’s what this is about. You think I’ll never find a boyfriend if I have a child.”
“A foster child, anyhow.” She shrugs. “Fine, so Dan wasn’t right for you. But I’m sure there’s someone out there who is. If you go ahead with this fostering thing, though, you’re just shooting yourself in the foot. Besides, do you really think you can do this alone? Be a single mom?”
“Yeah, I can,” I say softly. “I know it’ll be hard. But I have a good job, I can easily afford a few hours of after-school care each day, and I have the space in my life for this. I’ve never been so sure of anything, Susan. Besides, I’m not talking about fostering an infant and raising that c
hild for the rest of his or her life. I’m talking about shorter-term situations with older kids, and if one of those situations turns permanent, it’s still only another five or six years until that child is off to college.”
“If they get in to college,” she mutters. “And it’s not like your responsibilities as a parent end there.”
I open my mouth to reply, but she cuts me off.
“Maybe I’m not being fair to you. And yes, if you’re asking me to be a personal reference for you, of course I will. You’re the best person I know, Kate. But do I think you’re doing the right thing? No. I think you’re making a mistake. I think you’re giving away your chance to find your happily ever after.”
“The thing is, not every happily ever after needs to end with a Prince Charming,” I say after a pause. “I already had my prince, and if there’s another one out there, great. But I’m not sitting around waiting to get rescued. It’s time that I’m the one doing the saving.”
Twenty-Eight
Over the next few weeks, I throw myself into preparing to be a foster parent. I talk to Gina—who’s more supportive than Susan—and after attending an orientation, I jump right in to the twice-a-week Model Approach to Parenting Preparation courses, the required ones Andrew signed me up for. Much of what is taught is information I already know—some of it instinctually, some of it from my therapeutic background. But the class also teaches me things that are new to me, such as how to help a foster child integrate into a new home, and what my legal responsibilities as a foster parent will be. I find myself imagining Allie in every sample scenario the instructor mentions, and I have to keep reminding myself that she may very well not be mine. But the dreams don’t return, and I’m beginning to feel more and more strongly that they were leading me here all along.
I have weekly meetings at my apartment with a social worker named Karen Davidson who has been assigned to my case. Typically, she tells me, a home study could take months, but I come highly recommended by Andrew, and he has stressed the emergency nature of the potential situation with Allie, so she’s trying to move things along. “Plus, I understand you’re learning sign language and that you have experience working with both hard-of-hearing and developmentally challenged children. That’ll make you a real asset to us, and I’d love to get you into our program as quickly as possible. The fact that you’re already a volunteer with St. Anne’s helps.”
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