homes. But there are other stories, too. A lot of the people who take in kids like me are good, kind, loving people. They’re trying to help, not hurt. I’m sure there are some bad apples, but it’s like that everywhere with everything. So, no, I don’t mean to vilify the foster-care system. I’m only saying I was anxious to be out of it.”
He nodded. They continued walking side by side down the length of the exhibition hall taking in the work without really studying it.
She had this crazy idea that he might reach out and hold her hand. He didn’t.
“When you talk about it, you use the word homes, plural.”
“I had three. The first was a really nice woman. Her husband didn’t pay us much attention but she was always laughing and hugging us. She had two girls and a boy. They were older than me, closer to being teenagers. We were all fosters. At first I thought I had won some mom lottery. I didn’t remember much about my own, but I knew this mom was way better. She made cookies and tucked the blankets in around my shoulders at night. I was with her for three years, but then she got sick. Cancer, although I didn’t know it at the time. Eventually she was so sick she couldn’t take care of us anymore. We were reassigned.”
He made a sharp noise and she watched his jaw tighten. He was mad for her, but there was really no reason to be. It was simply how the system worked.
“Go on,” he said.
“The second family I didn’t like as much. There was an older boy, theirs, who was nasty. In hindsight probably not any nastier than any ten-year-old boy would be who had a nine-year-old girl foisted upon him out of the blue. I provoked him, too. I was mad at having to leave my last family, I guess. And I think it was then that I finally understood what my situation was and that I was different from other kids. I acted up a lot and he was an easy target for my anger. If I had left him alone...but I can’t change what happened.”
“What happened?”
“We would fight all the time. He would chase after me, pull my hair, sit on my chest. Stuff boys do to little sisters who annoy them and I was intentionally annoying. Only I think with real brothers and sisters there is more of an underlying affection. A sense that they are connected no matter what. Family. We never had that. We were two strangers living in this house and we didn’t like each other. One day our fight got out of hand. He was squeezing me from behind, because I had taken his prized signed baseball. I reached over my shoulder and scratched his face. Then he wigged out, pushed me down and started punching me.”
Anna stopped walking, remembering what it had felt like. Lying on the new carpet in the family room, the one that Mary had warned her not to spill anything on. Not able to get away as the pain grew while Howard—funny, she hadn’t thought about him in years—kneeled over her with his knee pressed into her stomach as he continued to hit her with the fist he’d recently learned how to make.
“He broke my nose. Blood spewed everywhere. It was so gross. Mary and Bill came running in. Mary was shouting that the carpet was ruined and Howard was being held back by his father. I remember he started crying. Scared himself I think. He probably didn’t know he had that much violence in him. Anyway they called my case worker and when she got a look at my face, she removed me from the home. But really I was to blame for part of it. I worked at making him hate me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Anna shook her head, purposefully avoiding looking at Ben. She didn’t want to see pity in his face. “You know how many brothers and sisters fight? You know how many end up with broken noses? That’s what I mean. Being in a foster home isn’t like prison or hell. It’s just a place.”
“And the last home?”
“Two nice people. Jan and Larry. They were older and their son had just graduated from college. They were suffering from empty nest syndrome I think but didn’t want someone too young. They were terrific people. I still send them cards at Christmas and they still send me a birthday card