Authors: Regan Claire
Gathering Water
GATHERING
WATER
By
Regan Claire
Copyright © 2014 by Regan Claire
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental
.
Cover art: Gore Studios
First Printing: 2014
Nashville, TN 37209
www.reganclaire.com
To my daughters, Rowan and Kinsey.
Remember to follow your dreams, always.
And to my husband, Erik, for his endless patience and support.
Eighteen. We all expect our lives to change when that number finally hits us. It is, after all, the year you are finally an adult, finally in charge of your own life. Most people wake up on that monumental birthday and run to the mirror, convinced that they were magically transformed during their 8 hours of sleep into a
bona-fide
adult. Others just lie in bed, thinking about the momentous changes that are sure to be coming.
I’m sure there are some people
who just go about their day as if nothing were different and usually nothing really is. I like to think that those are the people who are most content with their lives... The people who have no unanswered questions, no haunting pasts, and no uncertainty about their futures.
When my 18
th
birthday arrived I didn’t rush to the mirror eager to see my grownup self. And being in the foster system since birth kept me from seeing that day as if it were any other.
I probably la
y in bed for 10 minutes before my alarm finally convinced me to get up. 18 was huge. It was a birthday I had waited impatiently and anxiously for. It meant I was legally an adult and for foster kids like myself that’s a big deal; it meant that I was no longer a ward of the state. Finally, it meant control. I didn’t have to worry about getting a new family if I made a mistake. No more psych evaluations, no more child services, no more any of that kind of stuff that made up my life. I was free!
It also meant that I was, suddenly, responsible for myself.
Just the day before I had a team of people to answer to; people that fed me, clothed me, told me what to do and when to do it. If I had felt like a prisoner to the system before, I felt as if I were adrift at sea now.
After getting out of bed I gingerly stepped over my two duffel bags’ worth of clothes
out into the hallway and made my way downstairs. Most of my room was already packed. I didn’t have many personal belongings, which would make moving that much easier since Margaret, my foster mother, was no longer responsible for providing me with a room.
Margaret was, as always, already up when I walked into the kitchen
. She was an early riser and was usually drinking her second cup of coffee by the time I rolled out of bed. The previous eight months had actually been pretty decent because of her. She was an elderly woman, with salt and pepper hair and a disapproving mouth; not exactly warm and cuddly, but she treated me well enough. She kept mostly to herself except at mealtimes, when she insisted that we be together. I’d had worse rules. I think she appreciated my company since her own children so rarely visited, only twice since I moved in.
Though my world already felt so different, that morning
’s routine continued as it usually did. Margaret finished making her oatmeal and started on the coffee while I poured milk into my Lucky Charms, then we both sat down to eat in companionable silence at the beige card table she kept in the kitchen. When the meal was finished I grabbed our mismatched dishes and brought them to the sink, before lathering them up with lemon scented dish soap and playing the part of dishwasher, as I always did. When I reached for the flamingo-decorated dishtowel to start drying, I was surprised to find that Margaret had already started on the job.
“I can finish this up, Margaret.”
“I don’t doubt your abilities Della, but I can at least dry the dishes on your birthday.” Not knowing what else to do I thanked her, then turned to go back down the hallway into my soon-to-be former room, but was stopped by a tentative touch on my arm.
“Della, the new kid isn’t supposed to be here for another couple of weeks
. You’re welcome to stay here until then,” Margaret said, surprising me completely. I knew that she was going to get another ward soon; she’d been fostering consistently for the past 10 years and was a way station of sorts, only holding on to a kid for a few months until a better place was found.
“Um, thanks Margaret, but I’m already packed and it won’t take that long to move my things into the apartment above the convenien
ce store.”
My job at that store
had been a lifeline. I mean, the pay wasn’t exactly great, but in a smaller town the job options were limited, especially since school was out. My boss Marv was letting me rent the small room above it for cheap in exchange for fixing it up and making the space livable, since it barely fit that bill.
After thanking
her for the offer I went on to my room. I was supposed to meet one last time with my social worker that morning, and even though she no longer had any say in my life, old habits die hard and I put on my nicest sundress and made sure my mousy brown hair was properly subdued.
The meeting really should have been before my
birthday, to see how I was preparing for the transition, but things kept getting held up. Sara was by far the best social worker I’d had, mostly because she hadn’t been doing the job long enough to become disenchanted with it; she still cared. She was the one who got me placed with Margaret instead of in another group home.
I didn’t hear her car pull up, but I knew when she arrived all the same. I always had good
, even uncanny instincts for that type of thing, uncanny even, and I was at the door by the time she was up the steps. This would be the last time I saw her, but I wasn’t expecting this particular visit to affect my life in any way—I thought that meeting represented the end of my old life, but really it marked the beginning of my new one.
We sat in the only café the town had to offer. Sara always insisted on meeting in a ‘neutral’ place so that I would feel comfortable. Usually Margaret would be at another table reading a newspaper until she was called over for her own part of our meeting, but I guess since I was now 18, Sara didn’t need t
o speak to my former guardian any more.
She spent the first few mi
nutes sipping her black red-eye, which was just a fancy way of saying coffee with a shot of espresso; having a caffeine addiction must be part of the job description for social workers. I had my usual raspberry hot chocolate with extra whipped cream even though it was really just fancy chocolate milk, since I ordered it iced over the summer months.
As my entire
existence had been unpredictable, I liked the comfort of having something in my life being unchanged, even if that something was only a sugary drink.
I decided to jumpstart the conversation right when the silence was beginning to turn awkward.
“I’ve already packed everything, and Margaret said I could borrow her car to move my things and go shopping for the necessities later on. There’s an old pickup that’s been for sale for as long as I’ve been here and I think I have enough money to buy it, but I didn’t want to use all of my money right away. I mean, the store is right down the street from-”
“Della, I know. We’ve already talked about all of this. Really, I believe you. This i
sn’t really an official meeting. I took an early lunch break so I could see you today. You remember the promise I made you when we first met?”
Ah, the promise. I remembered it. It was the week after Thanksgiving and I had just been kicked out of another foster home and was staying in a group home, I thought until my birthday.
Group homes can be all right sometimes, but this one wasn’t. There were too many other teenagers, and those of us who’ve lived in the system our whole lives, well, we’re kinda hard to live with. I didn’t do so well with other people and I was an easy target for some of the other kids, and by kids I mean guys.
I had just spent another sleepless night guarding myself from the creeps in the house. Most of the other girls would help each other out and take turns keeping watch, but I didn’t make friends very easily, so I was on my own.
On this day, in walks Sara, yet another Social Worker who had been thrust upon me. I don’t know if they get to trade us kids like baseball cards or what, but I rarely had workers stay with me for more than a year or two before throwing their hands up. Maybe they all just quit after working with me, I don’t know. Anyway, you could tell Sara was new on the job because she carried a shiny new briefcase and there were no discernible grey hairs.
I grudgingly sat in the room they used for private meetings and listened to her drone on and on about how she was going to help me and how I should think of her as a friend, and how friends trust each other.
Well, after she hinted about the 10
th
time for me to open up, I did... big time!
I plea temporary insanity
. I just wanted her to be quiet- this was the only time I could sneak off to sleep without worrying too much about being… ahem…
bothered
, and I hated her for interrupting that. It was like an out-of-body experience and I could only sit there and watch myself blubber about how there was no place for me. That I never did anything wrong and people still couldn’t stand to be around me. That I didn’t even have a single living relative and how that must be proof of how innately
wrong
I was.
Basically, I told her about every foster kid
’s worst fears.
When I finally
got to the part about how sleep-deprived I was because I didn’t want to be woken in the middle of the night again by some creep sticking his hand up my shirt, I came to my senses, wiped my face, and refused to make eye contact for the rest of the meeting.
Right before she left, after unsuccessfully hugging me (I’m not a hugger), she took my hand and told me she’d help me. She promised to help me find my place.
The next day I was placed with Margaret, an ideal home for a kid like me; a place that had locks on the doors. As far as I was concerned she
had
kept her promise, even though she would have been the first person to do so in my entire life. So when she asked me if I remembered, I was kinda wondering if she wanted me to return the favor or something. I just nodded my head and stirred the now gross-looking whipped cream into my iced chocolate milk.
“Well, it’s taken me a little longer than I anticipated and when I did find it I had to wait until you were 18 to give you the details, which is why I had to cancel our last meeting. I mean, it was hard enough not telling you over the phone.”
She seemed to realize that she wasn’t making any sense, took a deep breath, and tried again. “I found it. Well, I found something.”
“You found what?” At this point I was pretty confused.
“I found your place! I mean, I found where you come from, and your family, and well, everything!”
Now I ju
st thought she was being cruel. “I don’t know what you mean. I was told my mother died giving birth to me, that she was a Jane Doe,” I pointed out.
“Well, s
he did and she was. But, I got hold of her personal effects and was going to give them to you for your birthday. Here.” She pulled out a manila folder and slid it across the table.
“It turns out that some detective a few years ago got into some trouble and
was put on desk duty, and one of his case files was finding out who your mother was! Her name was Gabriella Deare from North Carolina. There are some things that go to you,” she said as she tapped the folder. “So, take a look.”
Numbly, I opened the folder and tipped the contents out, barely registering the clink of metal that hit the table with all the paper. If I had ever had
a surreal moment, this was definitely one.
I didn’t look at the copy of the police report; in
the state of shock I was in I knew I wouldn’t be able to make any sense out of it. There was a cheap journal that had been a vibrant red at some point, but many years’ worth of fading turned it into a dull pink. Flipping through it I saw a looping scrawl of what must have been my mother’s handwriting, since her name was carefully written on the front cover. There were more papers there, but I couldn’t make my brain function enough to understand the writing that covered them, though I could tell that they were probably important documents by the multiple signatures that appeared at the bottom of most of them.
Sara quietly observed me through all of it,
tactfully not commenting on the amount of shaking my hands did as I very nervously organized the papers so that all the sides lined up perfectly and slipped them back into the folder. Left on the table was an ornate key, nearly black, and when I picked it up I saw the top of it was worked into one of those interlooping knots. It looked familiar to me and I realized it was the same as the power of three symbol from a show that one of my foster mothers used to watch. There was a long chain looped through the top, which I started wrapping and unwrapping around my fist as I looked up at Sara, too overwhelmed to talk.
“There’s a lot to take in there, I know. And I’m sure someone woul
d have notified you soon anyway about all of this, now that you’re of age. I just wanted you to have it today. I wanted to be able to hand it to you and offer my help, as a friend.” She paused for two whole seconds, and her exuberance made me see her for the first time as someone more than my jailer; she was a person and probably only a few years older than I.
“
Are you going to go there? I mean, it’s quite a long way away - North Carolina is literally on the other side of the country, but you still have family there. And a house!” She picked up the folder that was laying on the table and waved it, as if there were a house inside. “Your grandmother left you a house too. I’m not really sure how that works since you weren’t even born when she died, but it’s been held in trust for your mother’s daughter all these years; there’s a lawyer who’s been in charge of keeping up with the taxes and insurance, so all you need to do is prove who your mother is and you’re all set,” she took a big gulp of her coffee, then continued.
“
Also, there are a couple of bonds that were your mother’s. They were easy to track down once I had her name and social security number. They are being held in a safety-deposit box close to where she lived, and they go to you now as well. About six thousand dollars in all, and they’re fully matured.” She took a deep breath, since she’d been talking so fast, then went on destroying my world-view.
“
They wouldn’t mail them to me, said they had to be picked up by the deposit owner, which is you, in person. There might be some other things in there as well; they couldn’t tell me. You’ll need to update your birth certificate so that it has your mother’s name on it, and just bring that and her death certificate, which is in the police file, to prove that you are who you say you are. I have all the necessary paperwork in the folder for you. They were really friendly on the phone. I’m sure they won’t make it difficult for you once you get there.”
I had no idea what to say, or what to do.
All I could do was stare at her, too dumbstruck to say anything. How was I even supposed to feel in this type of situation? Actually, I started feeling a little angry. That anger helped me find my voice.
“You mentioned family? I have living, breathing family there?”
“Yes, I can’t believe I was going on and on about a house when I should’ve been telling you about your family! Your mother’s father still lives there, and I believe she had a brother, and there’s probably some extended family.” She sounded really excited at the prospect and completely unaware that I wasn’t.
“The police had to contact them about my mom right? To identify her or something? Do they kn
ow about me?” I knew the answer: of course they did.
“Well, I’m sure they know about you.” I could tell the exact moment that it dawned on her what it meant that they must have known about me for years now,
if the police report was correct, and that I was just learning about them. We orphans are usually shipped off and adopted by any living relatives, or at least fostered by them. The only exceptions are if they’re unfit or unwilling to take us on. Even if they hadn’t learned of my existence until a few years ago, they still would have been notified and asked to take me in.
I could see the pity seep into her face
. Since I wasn’t in the mood for the pep talk she was probably about to give me, I gathered the folder and stood up. I was already clutching the key in my hand so hard that my fingers were tingling from lack of blood flow.
“Yeah, well. Thanks for giving me all this. I’ve got to go though, still got a lot of stuff I need to do and well, I think Margaret wanted me to eat lunch with her today before I left
.”
As far as excuses went, mine was pretty lame. I just had to get away from her, get away from other people for a few minutes. I walked off with my hands full before Sara could really react
. I heard her stand up and call my name, but I didn’t look back and she didn’t come after me; I think she knew I needed some time alone.
I walked
the two miles back to Margaret’s, going back and forth between mad, hurt, and excited to learn all these new things about myself. Mad and hurt seemed to win over excited, and after I let myself into the house, I went to my room and shoved the folder into one of my still open bags, then told myself that nothing in my life was different because of it; I was determined to forget all about it.
Margaret, with her perfect timing, was just finishing up my favorite lunch when I walked in: grilled cheese and tomato soup. We were going to eat on the patio, and I was instructed to wait at the two-person table while she brought out our plates.
I didn’t realize that I still had the key and chain wrapped in my fist until I went in for my first bite. I put it down and tried to ignore it, but every few moments I’d realize that I’d stopped eating and was tracing the imprint left in my palm and staring idly at the offending key.
“Is everything
okay, Della? How was your talk with Sara?” As a rule, Margaret and I didn’t talk about things, not real things anyway, but she must have noticed that something was up with me and was trying out her very rusty maternal instincts.
“It was good I guess. Very informative.” I muttered the last bit, but not really softly enough to not be heard.
“That’s a pretty necklace. I don’t remember seeing it before. Did Sara give that to you for your birthday?” She gestured towards the key sitting innocently next to my bowl.
“Well, kind of. Apparently it belonged to my mother. They found out who she was. I guess she left me some stuff back where she lived. Not like I’ll go and get it or anything. Her stupid family can just keep it.” I rarely acted the part of a surly teenager, but exceptional circumstances are cause for exceptional behavior, or something like that.
“Della, they know who your mother was? She has family? Child, that means that you have family! That’s something to be happy about!”