I woke with a start.
I’d never had such a vivid dream about my time in foster care before.It caught me off guard, startling me with its clarity. Sure, I’d had vague memories of the boy who’d told me stories at night. But nothing had ever been that specific. It had felt so real – like I’d really been there, standing on that porch in the darkness.
I absently ran a finger over the jagged scar on my collarbone. It was barely noticeable anymore, just a faint line of lighter pigmentation. The slightly raised, permanent mark of my past was the only physical remnant I carried from that terrible day. Thankfully, my emotional scars weren’t nearly as visible.
I bunched my down comforter around me more securely as I stared up at my plain white ceiling, instead envisioning a swirling canvas of cyan and cobalt, dotted with brilliant yellow stars and a luminescent jade dragon. I’d nearly allowed myself to forget the fairytale world my mother had created within the four walls of my tiny childhood bedroom. The dream had brought it all back.
Suddenly, the walls of my room seemed too bare. I had no pictures, no posters, not a single work of art – just plain white walls as unadorned as the day I’d signed my lease.They’d never bothered me before, or maybe I just hadn’t noticed the bleak, impersonal nature of my living space. My clothes hung neatly in my closet, meticulously arranged by color and season. My laptop sat on a clutter-free desk. My carpet was vacuumed and there were no piles of clothes or discarded papers anywhere. It looked like a ghost lived here, leaving no footprint as she moved through life.
And after all, wasn’t that who I’d become? A girl with no family, no true friends, no emotions to speak of. Had I let myself disappear? Had I forsaken that little girl who’d believed in fairytales and happily ever afters?
Yes. Because it had been easier.
But I wouldn’t do it anymore. I would find that little girl again, somehow. I would take back my life from the apparition I’d become.
For the first time in years, Iwas thankful for one of my nightmares. And as I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep, I smiled.
***
I awoke the next morning near dawn, feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks. After making coffee, I sat on the roof and studied for a few hours. I had several exams coming up, and between Finn, therapy, and mysterious flower deliveries, I hadn’t had much time to focus on my classes.
When ten o’clock rolled around, I walked into Lexi’s room and grabbed thepicture frame I was looking for from her desk. One pedicured foot dangled over the side of her mattress and a fuzzy halo of red waves quickly disappeared as she yanked her fuchsia comforter up to block the light I’d let in. Growling, she blindly threw a pillow across the room at me, evidently pissed I’d woken her up. I laughed and closed the door gently on my way out.
Looking down at the picture in my hands, I smiled. It had been taken last year at a Halloween party. Lex and I had dressed up as Mario and Luigi, and we looked carefree and happy in the photo – smiling so hard our lopsided black stick-on mustaches threatened to fall off our faces.
Returning to my room, I opened a drawer in my desk and moved aside severalneatly stacked spiral notebooks. At the bottom of the drawer, I finally found what I was looking for. Two small, faded photos of my mother were all I had left. They were timeworn and tattered, but they were precious to me. She looked beautiful in them – young and incandescently happy as she grinned at whoever had taken the photos.
One was a portrait of her alone, leaning into the wind on a pier in California. Her arms were thrown up as she racedthrough the salty ocean spray toward the photographer. The second was a photo of the two of us. I was young, probably three or four, and she held me suspended in her arms. She was looking at me with the pure, unadulterated love only a mother can give, and I was looking back at her like she was my whole universe. Because she had been.
Tears filled my eyes, butthey were happy. I’d been loved – I had the proof right here in my hands. And it had been neglected that drawer, gathering dust, for far too long. Dashing the moisture from my eyes, I grabbed the three photos I’d collected and made my way to the driveway. I hopped into Lexi’s car and drove straight to the closest photography store, where I knew I could have the prints enlarged and enhanced.
After explaining exactly what I wanted, I left the photos in the capable hands of the shop owner and headed across town to Andler’s, the only local mom-and-pop hardware store that was still in business. Most of the others had crumbled under financial strains in the recent recession, unable to compete when a national chain home improvement superstore had opened just outside of town. I wasn’t much for DIY, but whenever I needed to buy replacement light bulbs or duct tape, I’d head to Andler’s. I liked to think I was supporting the little guy.
Considering the earlyhour and the fact that it was Saturday morning, I was unsurprised to find that I was the youngest customer in the shop by at least three decades. I was also the only female.
As I walked in, six male heads swiveled around and performed afrank assessment of me. Equally quickly, they dismissed me and returned their attention to the items they were purchasing, undoubtedly assuming I was a lost sorority girl who’d wandered in by accident. I typically would’ve been peeved, but a glance down at my attire had me swallowing my indignation; my candy-apple red, plunging v-neck, emblazed with the wordsSurrender Dorothyin black script across my chest, was a far cry from the plaid lumberjack look most of these men were sporting. The wedged strappy red sandals and slim black capris I was wearing probably weren’t helping my credibility as a DYI’er either.
I obviously hadn’t given much thought to appropriate outfit selection when I rushed out this morning.
Head held high, I wandered further into thequiet store, looking for the paint section. It took me a few minutes, but I eventually found the colors I’d been searching for amidst what seemed like thousands of cardstock sample palettes. I grabbed the two I needed and made my way to the front counter, where a thin, balding, taciturn man of middle years was mixing paint.
“Can you mix me a gallon of each of these, please?” I asked, handing over the two paint samples and attempting tosubtly shift my shirt higher to hide the cleavage he’d begun to eye rather enthusiastically. His fingers lingered on mine as he took the cardstock from me, and I suppressed a shudder. The man, whose nametag read Hank, leered at me with a suggestive smile that was missing more than a few teeth before disappearing into the back room. Presumably to mix my paint. Or to grab some zip ties and rope that he could use to restrain and abduct me. It was pretty much a toss up, at this point.
I was mentally calculating the probability of my being able tooutsprint Hank in my flimsy – but oh so cute – wedges when he reappeared, a can of paint in each hand. When he told me the total, I tossed a few bills down on the countertop and hurriedly grabbed the paint can handles. I headed for the door, not even waiting for my change in my hurry to get away from Hank’s ogling, the less than friendly customers, and the uncomfortable store atmosphere.
“Come back again real soon, sweetheart!” Hank called after me as I used one hip to prop open the door.
“Not on your life,” I muttered under my breath. So much for my plan to support local small businesses. Next time, I was totally going to Home Depot, with its brightly lit aisles and plethora of cute employed college boys in orange aprons, eager to fill my every need. Okay, maybe noteveryneed. But at least those that involved paint and hardware.
I finally managed to swing the door open, elbowing my way outside and struggling to balance both the paint and my purse while extracting my car keys.I was looking down, cursing under my breath, when a large hand closed over mine and grabbed both cans of paint before I could even react. Startled, I jumped about a foot in the air and my purse dropped to the pavement, exploding on impact and sending everything, from tampons to my cellphone, flying in different directions. I watched forlornly as my favorite lip gloss rolled under my car and out of sight. The puddles riddling the parking lot all contained various forms of indistinguishable goo and piles of trash, insuring that I would never again be putting that tube anywhere near my lips.
“Well, at least you didn’t scream this time,” a familiar husky voice chuckled from behind me. Every muscle in my body tensed with anger and I froze, still facing the car. “But seriously, Bee, we need to work on your reflexes if you’re going to pee your pants in fear every time I approach you. It’s either that or you start wearing adult diapers, and I don’t think that’s going to work for me.” His voice was threaded with amusement.
I turned, exceedingly slowly, to face him. Or, more accurately, to glare at him. I unleashed my iciest look, the one typically reserved for ass-grabbers and would-be rapists who got a bit too friendly on the dance floor.
Of course it had no effect on him.
He stood there, grinning like an idiot at me, looking more gorgeous than ever. His eyes crinkled, alight with humor and something less-easily defined. His toned arm muscles were on display as he held the paint cans aloft, the tattooed skin of his right bicep standing out prominently. I remembered the first time I’d seen the inky whorls that encased his upper arm – how I’d wanted to trace my fingers along the swirling patterns. Followed by my tongue.