Chapter 8 - The Eastside Foster Home
The station wagon's tires crunched on the gravel driveway, the sound sharp and final against the quiet hum of the suburban street. Sarah shifted the car into park, the dashboard lights casting a dull orange glow over her hands as she rested them on the steering wheel. Through the windshield, the split-level house looked ordinary, almost reassuring, with its trimmed emerald lawn and a warm porch light glowing behind a white screen door.
"We're here, sweetheart," Sarah said softly, turning her head to offer a gentle, encouraging smile that didn't quite reach her tired eyes.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, the metal tongue clicking into its housing with a hollow sound. My fingers smoothed down the fabric of my light pink short-sleeved dress, checking automatically to ensure there were no fresh wrinkles or stains from the long drive. We got out of the car, the evening air carrying the distinct scent of cut grass and distant woodsmoke. Sarah carried my small canvas duffel bag up the short flight of concrete steps, her sensible flats clicking rhythmically. Before she could even lift her hand to knock, the screen door swung outward.
A woman with silver-gray hair tied back in a neat bun and wearing a faded blue floral apron stood in the doorway. Her face crinkled into deep, welcoming lines around her eyes as she looked down at me.
"You must be little one," she said, her voice warm and steady, carrying the cadence of a grandmother who had seen too many children walk through her front door carrying too much weight. "I'm Martha. Come on inside before the evening chill gets in."
Martha stepped back, holding the door wide. The entryway smelled faintly of cinnamon tea and lemon furniture polish. Sarah stepped in first, trading a brief, quiet murmur with Martha near the coat rack—exchanging case notes, emergency contacts, and the invisible history that followed every displaced child in the system. I stood near the door, my white shoes planted firmly on the patterned hallway runner, feeling the strange, hollow stillness of a house that wasn't mine.
"I'll check in with you on Thursday morning before the docket opens," Sarah said, crouching down to my eye level and giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You rest up, okay? Martha takes very good care of everyone who stays here."
After Sarah left, the heavy wooden front door clicked shut, sealing out the hum of evening traffic. Martha led me down a short carpeted corridor to a small, clean guest room at the back of the house. A single twin bed with a knitted yellow quilt sat beneath a window looking out over a dark backyard. A scarred wooden dresser stood against the opposite wall, and a small brass lamp cast a soft amber glow across the tabletop.
"Your room for as long as you need it," Martha said, setting my canvas bag gently on the foot of the bed. "Take your time unpacking, sweetheart. Dinner won't be ready for another twenty minutes, so there's no rush."
She left the door cracked open, respecting the invisible boundary of privacy. I walked over to the bed and unzipped my duffel bag. Inside lay the few clothes I had been allowed to pack, folded neatly by Sarah's office staff. I lifted out my light pink short-sleeved dress, smoothing the cotton fabric between my palms before hanging it carefully in the small closet. Then I reached down to the bottom of the bag where my spare pair of shoes rested.
Kneeling on the braided rug beside the bed, I picked up my white shoes. The scuffs on the leather toes caught the lamplight—marks from the wooden courtroom floor and the hurried steps down courthouse corridors. I grabbed a small cloth napkin from my bag and a bottle of mild soap Martha had left on the dresser. Methodically, deliberately, I began to polish the white leather, rubbing away the dust and gray smudges until the surface gleamed under the yellow light. Every stroke of the cloth felt like an anchor, something concrete I could control while the rest of my life spun wildly out of orbit.
A soft knock sounded at the door frame. Martha stepped inside, holding a black rotary-dial landline phone attached to a long beige cord that stretched out from the hallway jack.
"Before dinner, I promised myself I'd let you make a call," Martha said quietly, holding the instrument out toward me like an offering of gold. "The group home on the west side cleared the line for evening check-ins. You have ten minutes."
My heart gave a sharp, painful leap against my ribs. I stood up quickly, setting my polished white shoes side by side on the floor, and took the heavy plastic receiver from her hands. My fingers trembled as I pressed the cold buttons, dialing the familiar eleven-digit sequence I knew by heart from staring at caseworker appointment cards.
The line hissed with static, clicking through distant switchboards. I held my breath, gripping the receiver so tightly my knuckles turned white.
A click, followed by a muffled voice in the background, and then a sharp, breathless intake of air on the other end.
"Hello?"
The voice was thin, small, and instantly recognizable across the miles of city pavement and legal boundaries.
"Leo?" I whispered, tears instantly blurring my vision as I pressed the plastic hard against my ear. "Leo, are you there?"
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"I'm here," his voice cracked through the static, sounding so young and impossibly far away. "I'm still here."
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