He used to help me pick the chewing gum out of my hair in time for parent meetings. He’d do it slowly, his nose scrunched up as he slowly detangled, clipped, detangled. I was always being bullied in group homes. I must have smelled vulnerable. Weak. Pathetic.
Tom said that made me foster parent material.
He had smiled, pulling the last of the gum out. I had watched him in the mirror. The way his hands deftly hid the cut strands in a French braid.
“This one’s it Vi,” he had told me. “This is the family, I’m sure of it!”
I had shrugged, burying myself deeper into my hoody. “What if I don’t want to go? What if –”
“Listen to me girl!” He’d said, turning me around, “you’re fourteen. Teenagers don’t get many chances – but you’re pretty and smart. You’ve gotta get out there and prove us foster kids have brains and hearts.”
I remember that feeling. That warm smile that began in my feet and traveled up all the way to bloom pink on my cheeks. I remembered how his serious brown eyes made me feel important and needed. I was his hero he was sending out.
And then that question I never asked. “What about you Tom?”
But I don’t remember the answer. It mustn’t have been a very good one.
But I was Tom’s first choice! His scout, his hero. I got picked and that was that.
And we grew up.
Apart.
I remember begging my case manager to tell me what had happened to him – but he couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t.
I got older. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Each year I waited for Wendy and Jack to throw me out, but each year they smiled warm smiles and patted my head. They offered to adopt me. I remembered Tom’s words, “prove us foster kids have brains and hearts.” And accepted.
Jack got me a job at a local corner store, a mere block from our house. I saved up to go back to the big city and look for Tom.
Turns out I didn’t have to go far. Because Tom found me.
He was right here. Shouldering his way to the front counter.
Looking at me with wild eyes through a balaclava. 291Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmL69nDGSwb
I knew it was him. The way bird watchers can tell the difference between two identical bird species. I knew the way he stood. I knew his long graceful fingers now crusted in dirt and curled around a gun. I knew from his voice as he growled, “cash in the bag.”
And I knew he didn’t recognize me.
“Tom,” I breathed. His wild eyes narrowed, pointing at my cash register with the gun.
“What happened Tom?” I pleaded, “this isn’t okay. It’s me, Violet.”
He went perfectly still. His shaking breathing came out in quick bursts.
“Do you need money?” I asked, “I have a little saved-”
“I’m not Tom.” He said in a gravelly voice, “cash in the bag… please.”
I shook my head, reaching out to him. He closed his eyes, silent tears leaving dirt tracks down his face. “Give me the gun Tom,” I said, reaching out and slowly taking it. He let me, coming closer to me. I quickly came around the counter, wrapping my arms around him.
He smelt like cigarettes, sweat and gutter mud. “What’s happened to you Tom?” I asked, gently reaching up and pulling the balaclava off. He ran his hands gently down my face, across my shoulders as though he didn’t believe me to be real.
I looked up into his eyes, seeing behind him a row of policemen quietly taking position outside the store. Suddenly I remembered my boss had been in the back office.
Tom saw my look of horror, turning to see why. I saw his expression harden and then soften in a moment. He reached for me.
Before I could scream someone took the shot.
Blood coated my fingers as Tom kissed me, feeling him grunt against my mouth. I twined my arms around his neck, he tangled his hands in my hair.
“You are the best of me,” he murmured as he smiled and collapsed at my feet.
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