Peas and Carrots (25 page)

“That's it?” Hope hisses, turning to me.

I shrug. “Yeah. What do you want?”

Hope rolls her eyes, then bends close, and pats Granny Doris's hand. Her voice is a whisper. “Hi, Mrs. Matthews. Um…nice to meet you. I'm Hope Carter. I hope you feel better. We're taking good care of your grandkids, and…um…everything's fine. Just get better and stuff. Everything's fine.” Hope pats her hand again.

Everything's fine.
I roll my eyes. Seriously? Does she have a magic wand now?
Jeez,
this girl. Granny Doris might never write me another letter. Trish might flake on Baby and me. Nothing is “fine.” But as I follow Hope out of the hospital room, for the first time in days it kind of feels like, eventually, things might be.

Foster parents, foster care, and foster families sometimes get a seriously bad rap. In some cases, it's totally deserved—I had myriad students with whom I worked in group homes who were justifiably bitter about the emotional and sometimes physical damage they sustained in some horrific foster-care circumstances. On the other end of the spectrum, I've also known multiple amazingly loving, supportive, and giving foster parents—my own mother included. Like anything else within the scope of human nature, foster kids and foster parents run the gamut from notable to notorious. When it works—when kind people can be there to help a young person get to that point in adulthood where he or she can navigate independently—it can change both the foster parent's and the foster child's world.