September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series (12 page)

She instructed me, the
second I noticed a lapse, to make notes—what time it
is
versus what time
it
was
last time
I checked, or if anything was different in my surroundings: if
anything was moved or missing in my room, if I changed my
clothes—and bring the notes to my sessions for her to look at and
decide whether my meds needed adjusting.

That right there—her solution—created
another problem for me.

I didn’t like when they messed with my
meds. It always threw me for a loop when they changed-up the
cocktail or made me stop one pill to replace it with something else
that didn’t work, but with worse side-effects. Like standing on the
edge of the sidewalk, trying to cross the street, and feeling like
the four inch curb was a mile high. It’s a real shit situation not
being the captain of your own mind.

Another issue: it wasn’t so easy to
find the “blank spots” she mentioned. I mean, how was I supposed to
know I was missing time if the day didn’t disappear? How was I
supposed to know I needed to look for something out of place when
nothing appeared jumbled? It’s not like I ever woke up with a knife
in my hand or anything. My brain would just check out from time to
time. The only time I’d ever noticed anything was when I found
myself somewhere I didn’t remember going—which hardly ever
happened.

On my long walk home from my
appointment that day, I figured that Doctor Williams was probably
busying herself making phone calls. All the blatant lies involved
in my elaborate story probably had her in a tailspin.

Of course there was no group of
friends. No slumber party. No birthday shared with
anyone.

I did mention my foster brother,
Austen, but he was never a turd like I told Doctor Williams. When
he took the time to talk with me, he was usually very nice.
Austen’s mom, my Foster, her name was Deanna, not Chanel—Doctor
knew that, too. I made it up because her real name was so tough to
remember. It was unremarkable and never stuck with me the way her
soft face or generosity did. She always smelled really good,
though, so I called her a perfume.

The first day I came under
the care of that particular foster parent, the child services
worker assigned to drop me off introduced me to my
‘
new family
.’ She
actually said, ‘
meet your new
family!
’ and I was so blown by how she
casually tossed the word around, that when The Foster introduced
herself, I couldn’t retain. I just kept thinking: if she was
my
family
, she
wouldn’t be here.

At first, it made no difference
whether I knew her name or not. I didn’t care. I was sure she was
just like everybody else and would be done with me after a few
months. But she turned out to be different. She was a little
cooky—constantly locking away the kitchen knives and scissors since
before I got there because her son, Austen, was a sleepwalker or
some crazy shit like that—but she was genuinely nice to me. And I
couldn’t bring myself to keep asking her name.

I resorted to looking at the mail.
Even seeing it in print wouldn’t help, though. Whenever I needed to
remember her name, or anything else, I’d ask Avery. And Jake
sometimes, too. He already thought I was a weirdo and Avery never
cared. Avery used to do this funny thing, when I asked her to
remind me of someone’s name, she’d always give me a word—sometimes
one she made up—to rhyme with the sound of the Fosters
name.

“I can’t remember her name.” I’d
mutter, sulkily.

“What do you
mean-a
?” She’d grimace .
. . and then I’d remember.
Her name is
Deanna.

If no one was around to ask and the
mail was put away, I’d sarcastically, if not affectionately, call
my foster mother, Foster. She didn’t seem to mind. As far as
Fosters went, she was okay—more so, in some ways—maybe not the
best, but my best.

12

—Angel

My bladder feels stretched
beyond capacity. I’m squirming, trying to find relief. “I
have
to go to the
bathroom.”

It’s the third time I’ve mentioned it.
They always say they’ll take you the first time around, but they
just want to know one more thing. And before you know it, twenty
minutes have passed. They just keep on with their questions or ask
me to hold it until I get to a convenient stopping
point.

I suppose that’s kind of my fault,
though. My audience has a schedule to keep and I’ve been going
off-topic. My lawyer has cued me with not-so-subtle nods and looks,
trying to urge me back in one direction or another. What he fails
to understand is that I can’t tell just one part of the story. I
have to tell them everything. If I stick to just answering their
questions, or skip over anything, I might miss
something.

The quiet man that gives me the Diet
Cokes has been standing between the cameras almost the whole time,
just watching. Now, he slinks forward and snatches the remnants of
my second can of soda as the woman with the tight bun and squared
glasses leans to one side, edging toward the phone mounted on the
wall.

She presses a button. A moment later,
a crackly voice answers.

“Miss Patel needs a restroom
break.”

Finally.

Within seconds, the wide wooden door
swings open. In its’ frame stands two uniforms. One of them is a
woman named Jo. She’s very plain and has short brown hair with a
prominent jaw—too prominent to be feminine. The second one, I don’t
recognize. He might be new. He doesn’t have a name tag or
badge.

New Guy steps in first and opens one
cuff at a time, releasing me from my chair. He orders me onto my
feet and takes me by the elbow, leading me out into the corridor.
The walk to the restroom is quiet.

When I first got arrested, I used to
think I needed to fill the silences. They seemed awkward, but so
was the incessant talking. Now, I relish the quiet.

New Guy has to wait outside the
bathroom door while Jo sees me inside. She waits at the open stall
door, watching me pee. That used to make me nervous, too. It was
hard, at first, to summon the suddenly scared urine down from my
bladder. My first two weeks, I refused to poop. It’s normal now.
And damned depressing, too. As a kid, I never could have dreamed
that I would one day be so at ease dropping the deuce for an
audience. But today, it’s only number one.

I am mid-stream when the echo of
Avery’s voice carries through the thin partition of the bathroom
stall. A face slips into the small space where the front and side
panels meet. It’s only an inch or two wide, but it’s enough to see
the watery green of one eye, staring at me and the edge of her
frown.

“Angel. For the millionth time, I’m
sorry. Please just listen to me. I need you.”

I take a deep breath, ignoring the way
her voice cracks as she whimpers, “you’re my only
friend.”

I usually take my time washing my
hands, singing the alphabet song as I go, but not with her in
here.

My hands are still damp when I’m back
inside the room. I wipe the remnants of water on the wooly arms of
my chair. Jo and New Guy take leave after making sure my restraints
are nice and tight.

I adjust myself in my seat, trying to
cross my legs beneath the table, but the chains at my ankles are
too short. Both my feet go back to the floor as I’m reminded of
where we left off.

And then, I continue . . . “When I
walked into Sunny Vista Trailer Park, where I was staying with
Deanna my Foster, I saw that Avery was there, waiting for
me.”

And even though my hatred for her is
more sure than tomorrow’s sunrise, I keep my voice flat and even,
recalling the blissful ignorance.

“She waived from a neighbors
porch.”

+++

I was always a little jealous of
Avery’s tall, thin frame and the way she could rock smudged
eyeliner. She was parked on a white plastic chair with her
waif-like legs elegantly folded into it. The way she stylishly
slouched reminded me of a casual Kate Moss—if she had black hair
and green eyes. Avery’s legs flew straight out as she jumped up to
greet me with a hug.

Mrs. Smith, whose eyesight was so bad
she probably hadn’t noticed us at all, was bent down, feeling for
weeds in her cactus garden.

“She’s baking.” Avery’s mossy gaze
sparkled. “I read her the recipe and made sure the sugar was
actually sugar.”

We both laughed, remembering the last
time we suffered Mrs. Smith confusing the tins of sugar and
salt.

“I’m helping her listen for the
timer.”

“What kind?”

“Oatmeal Raisin.” She wiggled her
eyebrows, singing the name of her favorite cookie.

“Yummy,” I sang back. “Share a
plate?”

“Bakers’ dozen.” She patted my arm and
walked back to her chair on the porch.

When I passed the grand ole’ neighbor
lady, I smiled and waved. Mrs. Smith responded by straightening her
hunched posture and giving me a questioning look. “Don’t you want
cookies?”

“Yeah, but I gotta check-in.” I
pointed at the dented door of the single wide mobile home next door
and made for it. She was a nice old lady and for some reason The
Foster didn’t like her. She said it wasn’t right that the woman
talked to pictures of her dead husband. I thought it was
sweet.

The aluminum door opened without a
sound, but the screen rattled. The sound reminded me that Jake
would be coming over later, and that made me think of the tour,
which always got me worked up. My lips locked together, trying to
hold in my mixed emotions—excitement with a smidge of dread. I had
to be quiet because the Foster was always asleep in the day time.
She worked the graveyard shift at a confection factory. And every
time I thought about watching Analog Controller play in front of a
crowd I wanted to jump up and down. It felt rare and
special.

In a mere month, heaven would swoop
down and touch earth. Me and everyone I loved would be on our way
to Analog Controller’s biggest gig so far, kicking off in
Tempe.

I made my way to the hall, gently
padding past the door to Foster’s room. I wasn’t counting on her
support when it came to attending. Local stuff, she usually
considered okay, but out of town over-nighters were a whole
different bag. Foster parents were not allowed to let their court
appointed burdens have fun. They were required to say no and make
up excuses about rules and unsupervised trips. And even though,
Deanna pretty much let me do what I wanted most of the time—as long
as I checked in often and kept my grades up—Deanna letting me take
any kind of road trip was a stretch. Knowing that it would involve
Jake sort of guaranteed a flat-out refusal.

My stomach knotted up every time I
thought about asking permission, because that meant giving her the
power to refuse me. I wasn’t sure how to proceed if she said no, so
I’d been doing extra chores, being extra sweet. The extra allowance
would come in handy either way.

Deanna the Foster was
always trying to protect me from whatever she deemed
corruption
. And she
didn’t like rock-n-roll. Well, it was more Jake, himself. She said
she liked him as a person and had heard good things about his
family, but two years was the age limit in teenage dating as far as
she was concerned and Jake exceeded that almost twice over. She
said I was lucky she was a reasonable foster parent. I thought I
was lucky Jake got knocked upside the head—or whatever it was that
happened to him—to make him want to give someone like me the time
of day. I was definitely dating up.

No matter the cost,
I
had
to see
Analog Controller play. Gigs were so much better than practice. For
every band, there’s a power that only comes with playing in front
of a crowd. Jake, who was always so full of energy, really came to
life when he got in front of an audience. He was almost always
nervous, but it was like something woke up of inside him the moment
he hit a stage. I loved seeing that spark, the way he kindled and
fed that fire. He became a pyre, burning for the crowd.

The poster hanging outside my bedroom
door showed Jake, Andrew, and Max greeting me. I had it printed at
the same shop where I got the t-shirt made. Jake said it was weird
to see a giant picture of himself on my bedroom door, but he liked
that I had it.

I stared at the picture, concentrating
on Jake’s face. His thick, brown lashes and hazel eyes set below
the beautiful mess that he called hair. He looked a little pale in
that picture because it was taken before he got his job at the
hardware store. He worked in the ‘Outdoor Living’ department.
Basically, he sold cactus and patio furniture when he wasn’t
stacking cinderblocks or boards. The work kept him tan and fit, but
I felt sorry for him, because Arizona could get hot as
hell.

I snatched my walkman from my dresser
and put on the headphones. A diatribe of notes swirled into my
ears, coercing my feet into their rhythm. My bleach stained red and
white Converse scraped over the carpet as I danced my backpack to
the bed, singing along.