LJ Idol 8 - Yes, and...
The phone call came in the middle of the night. I knew it was important because of the ring tone I had set for Elizabeth from the agency, something called "Old Phone" that I downloaded off of Zedge. It wasn't one of those cute ringtones that blends into your dreams, it was a "I mean business" tone, and it was ringing right now at this precise minute.
I gently moved my sleep mask off my eyes and answered the call. As I knew it would be, I heard Elizabeth's voice on the other line.
"We have an emergency placement," she tells me in her honey-tinged accent. She grew up in the South and has never quite gotten the honey out of her voice. She says that people like talking to her because of the accent, and that it makes her more approachable. From my experience with her, I find that extremely true.
"What's the story?" I ask, rubbing my eyes a little bit.
"She was brought into the ER with a black eye and a broken wrist," Elizabeth says. Actually, she was dumped there. Basically they just tossed her out of a moving car and disappeared. Mother was nowhere in sight - the girl says she hasn't been around in weeks. The little girl says that the boyfriend did it. They just abandoned her, like she was a stray dog. The hospital called us and, well..."
Her voice trails off.
"Yes," I answer.
My husband is now awake. He's pulled on a pair of blue checked pajama pants and a faded Ralph Lauren t-shirt. This is now old hand with us. We've been taking in foster children for years now. Some are more broken than others, but they all have their issues and they all have their stories. We have a spare bedroom with two bunk beds; our daughter Soraya (adopted from foster care several years ago) is now a teenager and has her own bedroom down the hall.
We get dressed - I put on a pair of sweats from Cabelas and a t-shirt, pull my greying hair into a ponytail, and head into the front room to wait for Elizabeth to arrive. We have done this dance so many times before. Emergency placement is difficult, and each child has their own baggage, in addition to the precious few things they bring with them that remind them of that place called home.
I recognize Elizabeth's knock. Even at two in the morning, she has maintained her slightly offbeat sense of humor. THUMP thump-a thump-thump. I thump back, twice. "Shave and a Haircut". We've been doing this for years.
The little girl is delicately beautiful and small for her age. Her little face has a pointed chin, elfin ears, bangs cut crookedly just over her brows. Her eyes are the blue of an Tucson sky on a clear summer day, the big bruise ringing one notwithstanding. She wears a pajama top with a glittery kitten on it and a pair of flip-flops that look to be a size too big. I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms and hold her. I can see her sadness reflecting in those beautiful blue eyes.
"Gabrielle, this is Justine," Elizabeth tells the little girl, pointing at me. "And this is Scott. They're going to be your new foster parents.
"Hi," I say, crouching in front of her. There is so much I want to say, but I can't really come up with the words. I want to tell her that she'll be safe here, I want to tell her that no one here will ever shove her out of a moving car, that she'll never have to wonder where her next meal is coming from. I want so badly to tell her that our house is a place where she can just be a kid - where she can go out and play on the swings in the sunshine tomorrow, chase our dog around the yard, bake chocolate chip cookies with me (from scratch), and watch Soraya's old Veggie Tales DVDs from when she was little.
But I can't say it right now. I look at Gabrielle and see her pain. And I know it will be a long process to get her to trust me. To trust us. She's experienced more pain than any little girl should in a million lifetimes, and all of it in the nine years that she's been alive.
"I bet you need some sleep," I say. I hold out my hand to her. "Would you like to see your bedroom?"
I lead her down the hall to the lilac-painted room with the corner window, the bookshelves lined with children's books - Shel Silverstein, Beverly Cleary, Lois Lowry, Jack Prelutsky, a hammock full of stuffed animals hangs at an angle in a corner of the room. The bottom bunk is covered with a pink Barbie comforter; the bed is made with the blue lattice twin sheets with the rosebuds that we have had ever since Soraya's arrival.
I turn down the blankets for her, gently fluff the pillow. She looks at me with those beautiful, wary eyes. "Climb on in," I tell her gently. I don't want to raise my voice, because God only knows what this child has gone through. What little I know is bad enough.
She looks at me as she steps in, curls up onto her side, trying to accomodate her wrist, which is in a blue cotton sling and covered with a hot pink cast. "Can I ask you a question?" she asks. Her voice is as tiny as she is.
"Of course you can," I say, still kneeling next to the bed.
"Can I stay here?" she asks.
"Just for tonight?" I ask. "Or for longer? Because, Gabrielle, you can stay here as long as you need to."
"Really?" she whispers.
"Really really," I reply, doing my best impression of Donkey from "Shrek". She giggles a little. I am so relieved to see this childish aspect in her that I want to sing an aria.
She looks at me again as her eyes begin to close. "Yes, and..." she murmurs, barely audibly.
"Yes and what?" I ask her, smiling. I am still crouched next to the bed.
"Yes and I think I like it here," she says. "I might want this to be my new home."
I stay there for several more minutes, until her deep breathing and REM tell me that she is asleep. Scott comes into check on me; the sun is beginning to come up and I know from the smells coming from the kitchen that he's already started an extra-strong pot of coffee. His day is about to begin.
"Howaya doing, sug?" he asks me. "Is she asleep?"
"Yep," I tell him as I straighten up. "She's out. She said that she might want this to be her new home."
We have a vague idea of the baggage she has come with. We know she is little, defenseless, and has been broken. And we know that things may change drastically as she starts to get more comfortable here, either for better or for worse. But right now, Scott and I look down on the elfin little face, the hot pink cast, a whisker on the sparkly kitten nightshirt.
"I think I might like that." he says.
"You know what?" I tell Scott, as he links his arm around my waist and we walk to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a sesame bagel. "I think I might like that too."
I gently moved my sleep mask off my eyes and answered the call. As I knew it would be, I heard Elizabeth's voice on the other line.
"We have an emergency placement," she tells me in her honey-tinged accent. She grew up in the South and has never quite gotten the honey out of her voice. She says that people like talking to her because of the accent, and that it makes her more approachable. From my experience with her, I find that extremely true.
"What's the story?" I ask, rubbing my eyes a little bit.
"She was brought into the ER with a black eye and a broken wrist," Elizabeth says. Actually, she was dumped there. Basically they just tossed her out of a moving car and disappeared. Mother was nowhere in sight - the girl says she hasn't been around in weeks. The little girl says that the boyfriend did it. They just abandoned her, like she was a stray dog. The hospital called us and, well..."
Her voice trails off.
"Yes," I answer.
My husband is now awake. He's pulled on a pair of blue checked pajama pants and a faded Ralph Lauren t-shirt. This is now old hand with us. We've been taking in foster children for years now. Some are more broken than others, but they all have their issues and they all have their stories. We have a spare bedroom with two bunk beds; our daughter Soraya (adopted from foster care several years ago) is now a teenager and has her own bedroom down the hall.
We get dressed - I put on a pair of sweats from Cabelas and a t-shirt, pull my greying hair into a ponytail, and head into the front room to wait for Elizabeth to arrive. We have done this dance so many times before. Emergency placement is difficult, and each child has their own baggage, in addition to the precious few things they bring with them that remind them of that place called home.
I recognize Elizabeth's knock. Even at two in the morning, she has maintained her slightly offbeat sense of humor. THUMP thump-a thump-thump. I thump back, twice. "Shave and a Haircut". We've been doing this for years.
The little girl is delicately beautiful and small for her age. Her little face has a pointed chin, elfin ears, bangs cut crookedly just over her brows. Her eyes are the blue of an Tucson sky on a clear summer day, the big bruise ringing one notwithstanding. She wears a pajama top with a glittery kitten on it and a pair of flip-flops that look to be a size too big. I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms and hold her. I can see her sadness reflecting in those beautiful blue eyes.
"Gabrielle, this is Justine," Elizabeth tells the little girl, pointing at me. "And this is Scott. They're going to be your new foster parents.
"Hi," I say, crouching in front of her. There is so much I want to say, but I can't really come up with the words. I want to tell her that she'll be safe here, I want to tell her that no one here will ever shove her out of a moving car, that she'll never have to wonder where her next meal is coming from. I want so badly to tell her that our house is a place where she can just be a kid - where she can go out and play on the swings in the sunshine tomorrow, chase our dog around the yard, bake chocolate chip cookies with me (from scratch), and watch Soraya's old Veggie Tales DVDs from when she was little.
But I can't say it right now. I look at Gabrielle and see her pain. And I know it will be a long process to get her to trust me. To trust us. She's experienced more pain than any little girl should in a million lifetimes, and all of it in the nine years that she's been alive.
"I bet you need some sleep," I say. I hold out my hand to her. "Would you like to see your bedroom?"
I lead her down the hall to the lilac-painted room with the corner window, the bookshelves lined with children's books - Shel Silverstein, Beverly Cleary, Lois Lowry, Jack Prelutsky, a hammock full of stuffed animals hangs at an angle in a corner of the room. The bottom bunk is covered with a pink Barbie comforter; the bed is made with the blue lattice twin sheets with the rosebuds that we have had ever since Soraya's arrival.
I turn down the blankets for her, gently fluff the pillow. She looks at me with those beautiful, wary eyes. "Climb on in," I tell her gently. I don't want to raise my voice, because God only knows what this child has gone through. What little I know is bad enough.
She looks at me as she steps in, curls up onto her side, trying to accomodate her wrist, which is in a blue cotton sling and covered with a hot pink cast. "Can I ask you a question?" she asks. Her voice is as tiny as she is.
"Of course you can," I say, still kneeling next to the bed.
"Can I stay here?" she asks.
"Just for tonight?" I ask. "Or for longer? Because, Gabrielle, you can stay here as long as you need to."
"Really?" she whispers.
"Really really," I reply, doing my best impression of Donkey from "Shrek". She giggles a little. I am so relieved to see this childish aspect in her that I want to sing an aria.
She looks at me again as her eyes begin to close. "Yes, and..." she murmurs, barely audibly.
"Yes and what?" I ask her, smiling. I am still crouched next to the bed.
"Yes and I think I like it here," she says. "I might want this to be my new home."
I stay there for several more minutes, until her deep breathing and REM tell me that she is asleep. Scott comes into check on me; the sun is beginning to come up and I know from the smells coming from the kitchen that he's already started an extra-strong pot of coffee. His day is about to begin.
"Howaya doing, sug?" he asks me. "Is she asleep?"
"Yep," I tell him as I straighten up. "She's out. She said that she might want this to be her new home."
We have a vague idea of the baggage she has come with. We know she is little, defenseless, and has been broken. And we know that things may change drastically as she starts to get more comfortable here, either for better or for worse. But right now, Scott and I look down on the elfin little face, the hot pink cast, a whisker on the sparkly kitten nightshirt.
"I think I might like that." he says.
"You know what?" I tell Scott, as he links his arm around my waist and we walk to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a sesame bagel. "I think I might like that too."