Some of it was real, p.16
Some of It Was Real, page 16
“What was it, specifically, about foster care that called to you?” Thomas presses.
Heidi’s cheeks flush. He’s good at playing into her emotional needs.
“Children. They’re my life’s work, God’s work, truly, and it was always my heart’s desire to see every child loved and happy. My family wanted me married with offspring of my own. Those were the times when a woman’s place was definitely in the home, barefoot and pregnant, ha-ha. They didn’t understand that each child I helped was one of my own. That it took every free moment and iron-willed resolve, no time for marriage, honest-to-goodness, to make sure my kids weren’t let down by the system, that they were shepherded to a good life.”
Thomas asks, “How do you become a caseworker?”
“My parents didn’t support my career goals so I worked full time at DHS as an executive assistant while taking night classes for four years to earn my master’s degree in social work. The day I became a caseworker was the proudest of my life.”
I lean in. “Did anyone in your family support you?”
“Briella. Always. No questions asked.”
Thomas takes a bite of his cookie. “Isn’t it difficult work? Most kids in the foster system are there because their parents neglected or abused them, right?”
“Not necessarily,” Heidi says. “Some have been raised by a loving grandparent who can no longer care for them. Others were given to the system at birth by a mother who didn’t have the life skills to cope, or two loving parents too young to properly raise a child. Of course, there are cases of drug-dependent parents, and worse. Babies born with addictions because of their birth mother’s disease are heartbreaking. There are also cases of emotional and physical trauma . . .” She trails off, watches a robin feed at the wooden birdhouse hung outside her bay window.
“Can you tell us about some of your more difficult cases?” I push.
“Oh, dear. No, I really can’t do that,” Heidi says with a little frown. “They’re confidential.”
The prim way she tucks her lips at the end of confidential grates. I slide to the edge of the couch. “What if one of those cases, one of those children, came to you for information?”
Heidi reaches for her teacup, takes a neat swallow. “You’re too young to understand this,” she says. “But it’s best for those children to look forward, never back.”
Thomas gives me a warning look. “What if they want to know?” I press.
Heidi holds up one hand, palm out, and says, “ ‘For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.’ ” She finishes her cookie and darts a pointed tongue to remove a crumb on her upper lip. “I’m so glad we could have this chat, but it’s time for me to get back to cleaning. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
“I’m one of those children who was your life’s work; one of your own.”
Heidi’s brows rise. “My-oh-my! Really? What’s your name, dear?”
“Sylvie Peters.”
Her face transforms from confusion to shock, and finally fear, in a single second. She puts her cup down, misses the coaster, it clatters, and tea slops over the edge. Quickly, she wipes the spill off the polished wood, doesn’t even bother to look at me, says, “That name doesn’t ring a bell, dear, but then age has dimmed my memory.”
Frustration, fury, and the unfairness of it all rise like bile. “Let me help fill in the blanks. From age four-and-a-half to almost six, I was in foster care, but there’s no information in my file about that time. And I can’t recall a single thing about it or anything from my life before. In 2002, I went to live with Hana and Wess Young in High River. A month later my adoption went through and I became Sylvie Young.”
Heidi unfolds her skinny limbs like a praying mantis and stands. “I’d like you to leave. Now.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Thomas
I have to steer Sylvie through the living room and out Heidi’s front door. It closes firmly behind us. The bolt scrapes into place.
Furious, she shakes off my hands. “Fuck you!” She stalks toward the car. The guy trimming his hedges looks over.
“Fuck me?” I say, voice low. “You just blew us out of the water. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you did it on purpose!” She whirls. Moose growls, half his body now out the window. Great. Cerberus is going to attack me.
“Stay,” Sylvie tells her dog. “I did it on purpose? For the past forty-eight hours I’ve been picked at like I’m roadkill. I’ve had to defend what I do, who I am, while you and my parents sit on thrones like the arbiters of morality. Who are you to judge me?”
The man in the next yard has given up his work and now watches us. Pretty soon he’s going to call the cops. “Sylvie, calm down—”
“Calm down? I’ve had to beg for information at DHS about my life. MY life! Smile, cajole, and wheedle for the chance to find out who I was before my adoption—”
“I don’t—”
“That woman KNOWS. She knows what happened to me,” Sylvie says, jabbing her finger toward the house. “She knows what happened to my real parents. And she won’t tell me. That’s not fair! She has no right to keep my past from me! It’s MINE.”
The guy now has his phone out. I’m not sure if he’s taking a video or calling the police. “Sylvie, we need to get out of here,” I say with a nod at him.
She ignores me, face red, eyes wild. “How do you think it feels to want to know about my past and at the same time be terrified of what I’ll find?”
“I never—”
“That’s right! You’ve never put yourself in my shoes. Did you ever consider that something horrific might’ve happened to me? I could’ve been abused, molested, raped! Maybe I don’t recall it because remembering could seriously screw me up!”
Sylvie pants like she’s run a race, fists ready to hit something, someone. I close the distance between us. Blows rain against my chest. When they weaken, I pull her close. She struggles for a second then goes slack, her face pressed against me.
Voice muffled by my down jacket, she says, “Mom thinks I’m literally going to hell. Dad is ashamed. I loved them, still do, but I’m not allowed to exist, be their daughter, unless I choose their world. But their world isn’t right for me. I don’t fit.”
I hold her tight as her body shudders and wonder how she’s kept it together this long.
“And you’ve spent the past year working to destroy my reputation and career!”
“Sylvie—”
“You think I’m scum—”
“I don’t,” I murmur into her hair. Sylvie leans back, face tear-streaked. I don’t let go, can’t help it. On impulse, I lean down and kiss her and she kisses me back. Electricity surges, mouths hungry, bodies pressed tight. If we were back in the hotel room . . . “Let’s go,” I say, voice rough.
The man next door watches us get into the car. So does Heidi, by the twitch of her living room’s curtains. She does know the truth, but we won’t get it from her.
Sylvie shifts on her seat to face me. “You just kissed me.”
I focus on the road. “I shouldn’t have.”
She’s quiet for a few minutes then says, “I’ve screwed up my chance. Heidi will never tell me the truth now.”
I tamp down the heat from our kiss. “There’s always another avenue. Let’s go back to Clementine.”
“She doesn’t know anything.”
“I agree. But the names of families who foster kids have to be on file, right?” Sylvie sniffles. I ignore the desire to put an arm around her, pull her close.
She says, “Maybe. Probably.”
“So we’ll ask for a list from 2000 to 2002. Call every single one of them and see if any remember you. They might know your story.” I glance over. Sylvie is wrecked—smudges of gray beneath red eyes, face drawn. “Get some sleep while I drive back?”
Sylvie finds a paper napkin, blows her nose. “Are you just being nice to me because I cried like a big baby?”
No. “Maybe.”
Eyes closed, she asks, “Why did you kiss me?”
Heat courses through my body. I have to concentrate to stop its downward path before I get hard. “Why’d you kiss me back?” I’m relieved when, a few minutes later, Sylvie’s breath steadies. The kiss was a mistake. Any good journalist knows when they’re on to a bigger story than the original one. It’s like a wolf scenting blood. The evidence I already had about Sylvie and her shows, added to the information from time with her parents is good, but this deeper layer plus bombing at her show without research will knock the ball out of the park. I promised all of it was off the record unless Sylvie agreed I could use it. Will I keep that promise? I’m even less sure now.
What about Madison’s brother? Everything has an explanation. I just haven’t found that one yet. Maybe it’s as simple as people winning the lottery despite a billion-to-one odds. I glance at Sylvie, now slumped against the window. Asleep, she looks fragile. I can’t let myself get distracted. In a few days, I’ll be back in LA and on to the next story.
Why did you kiss me?
If I’m honest, I’ve wanted to kiss Sylvie ever since she walked out on that LA stage. Again, each time we fought. I’ve wanted to since she got Chris to eat and was so sweet with her; as I watched her twist, braid, and knot her hair; when her parents were cruel; after her panic attack; during our fight on the train, her face inches from mine; I wanted to kiss her and more when we shared her childhood bed, the moon’s reflection a silver streak along her shoulder’s curve. I had to move to the window seat to stop myself.
Why did you kiss me?
Sylvie is intelligent, beautiful, and ferocious. I get how it feels never to be enough for family. I see the way her eyes gleam when she thinks she’s helping someone, flash in resentment, or fill with tears. Despite the fact that I hate what she does, that’s not who she is . . . Yes it is. Fuck.
But who am I to cast stones? I’ve planted traps in the audiences of each of these frauds. I’ve bribed a janitor at ODHS, used good folks, and been unnecessarily harsh, told countless lies to get this story off the ground.
Did you ever consider that you’re the one using people? That you’re the vampire?
Sylvie is right. We both feed off other people for our own benefit. But she is conning people to make money and that’s a crime. And what I did on Facebook, lying about a dying wife so I can write an exposé, further my career, garner awards, and bump up my salary? In the rearview mirror, Moose sits in the center of the back seat like an overgrown child. Chris sleeps beside him. Curled, she’s the size of a kitten. The dog studies me with eyes that shine with accusation. I look away.
TWENTY-NINE
Sylvie
It’s the same dream—the sand castle behind me, wave rising in the distance. Time has almost run out. When the wave hits, the treasure will be lost. I’ll be lost. A sharp wind sends a shower of crystals that burn. The wave growls my name. My fingers glance off something hard, smooth, and I wrestle the treasure free . . . The wave strikes. Greedy fingers rip my prize away. “NO!”
One of my hands smacks the window hard, the other Thomas. He swerves and the car in the left lane honks. Thomas jerks the wheel, swerves again, and we skid on the wet asphalt.
“Hold tight,” Thomas mutters.
A split second later we’re safely back in our lane. In the rearview mirror, Thomas checks to make sure Chris and Moose haven’t been hurt.
“What the hell was that?”
My heart slams against my chest. “Just a dream.”
“Seriously?”
I rest my sweaty forehead against the cold window. “It’s . . . I’ve had the same one before.”
“When?”
“It first came as a vision two days ago, onstage at the start of my show. I saw a sand castle with a moat, tiny sailboats. And I was there, too, on the beach. A massive wave rose in the distance. I knew that when it reached the shore, it would destroy the castle and what was inside.”
Thomas glances at me. “What was inside?”
“A treasure. The next time, everything was the same but I was digging for the treasure and the wave was coming to destroy me, too.”
“And today?”
I press my index fingers against throbbing temples. “I finally dug the treasure free.”
“What was it?”
I hesitate, twist my hair into a knot, and consider whether this information could hurt me. “An old snow globe.”
“What was inside?”
There’s a hacking sound behind us. Chris vomits onto the seat. I look back at the chunky mess. It’s bright red. “Thomas, it’s mostly blood,” I say. The stricken look on his face tells me everything. Chris coughs again then vomits more blood. “Give me your phone.” I Google “Veterinarians.” “There’s a vet ICU fifteen minutes away.” I call and tell a receptionist our situation while Thomas grips the wheel. “They said to bring her in, they’ll be waiting.” I set the phone on the dash and Google Maps says: “Follow Route 26 South for twelve miles . . .”
I climb into the back seat, wipe the mess up with leftover Starbucks napkins, then hold Chris on my lap. The old cat’s eyes are squished shut. Moose rests his muzzle on Thomas’s shoulder. Good boy.
When we arrive at the vet’s, Thomas carries Chris like a baby through the clinic’s doors. She’s whisked away by a vet tech while Thomas is given forms to fill out, one of which is a list of costs for the tests Chris might need. When he’s done, we’re ushered into a tiny exam room. Thomas paces the white box, peers outside. Moose’s head hangs out the open window, his expression morose. Animals can sense things we choose to ignore. It starts to rain again and Moose retreats into the car.
Thomas agonizes, “She’s old. I know she’s old. But we’ve been together most of my life. She was there through Dad’s death. I don’t have . . . My mom didn’t cope well after she was widowed. Chris is my family. I didn’t . . . I should’ve . . .”
His shoulders hitch. There’s nothing right to say so I stand behind him, wrapping my arms around his torso. His hands find mine and hold tight. There’s a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” I say while Thomas pulls himself together.
“Hi, I’m Dr. VanVoorhies.”
The vet wears a white coat over green scrubs and her sandy hair is cut short; brown eyes in a gently lined face devoid of makeup focus on Thomas. “So. Christopher Robin.” She motions us to sit, pulls up a stool, glances at her clipboard. “You said she’s twenty.”
“Chris’s almost twenty-one,” Thomas says. “In a month.”
“That’s a long life for a cat. And I can tell she’s been loved.”
Thomas’s jaw muscles clench. “She’s . . . yes.”
“Right now we have her on an IV—mostly to hydrate but also to deliver pain meds.”
“She drank a lot of water a few hours ago,” I say.
Dr. VanVoorhies nods. “That makes sense. We took some blood to check her creatinine levels and a few other things. I’m sorry to say that Chris has chronic renal failure.”
“What does that mean exactly?” I ask.
“That Chris’s kidneys have failed. Probably have been failing her for a while.”
Thomas clears his throat. “Any options?”
“I’m afraid not,” the vet says. “We can put her on a low-protein diet, atenolol for hypertension, but Thomas? There is no way to fix renal failure, just support life.”
Thomas twists the hem of his shirt. “Is she in a lot of pain?”
“Not anymore, and we can ensure she’s comfortable with the right medications, but—”
“I’m not ready,” Thomas admits.
The doctor nods. “I understand. We’ll fill Chris’s prescriptions here. When you are ready? We can come to you, if you’d like. A favorite place . . .”
“I kept her indoors,” Thomas says, his voice breaking.
“Her favorite place is a person,” I say. A tear dribbles down Thomas’s cheek, and the urge to wipe it away is hard to suppress.
“She’ll feel much better with meds on board,” the vet says and stands. “But just to be clear, she is living on borrowed time.”
The vet shakes my hand. I hold hers for an extra moment. She was a single mother . . . is about to become a grandmother. Her son will name the baby after her. I don’t know if any of that is true, or if it’s an attempt to find light in this dismal moment, but my mind, without the pressure of shows or the crutch of research feels more . . . facile, receptive.
It’s dusk by the time we drive back to Portland. The monochromatic day darkens without ever releasing a single ray of sunshine. I drive and Thomas holds Chris on his lap. She does seem better, more alert, and bats Moose’s nose when he drops his head over the seat to check on her.
Thomas sighs. “I can’t recall the last time I cried.”
What about when your dad and Deacan died? I hesitate then opt to help him regain his composure. “Not even when your last girlfriend broke up with you?”
He gives me a side-eye. “How do you know that I didn’t break up with her?”
“Just a guess.”
“Why do you think she dumped me?”
