Drenched in Light (31 page)

“Some,” I answered.

Looking wounded, Karen searched my face as if she might read Dell’s words there. “What does she say?”

I wanted to bridge the self-imposed gap between Dell and her foster mother, but I knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. “Give it time. There’s a lot she’s trying to work out in her head, but it wouldn’t be ethical for me to divulge things she has said in confidence.”

Karen sighed. “I understand.”

We hovered for a moment in uncomfortable silence, and I found myself wishing I hadn’t carried the salad bowl out to the little house. Things were easy when the whole family was laughing, talking, joking, and the room was filled with activity, but alone here with Karen, I felt a new kind of pressure.

Flipping on the kitchen light, she came back for the lasagna pan, but stopped instead, facing me. “Is Dell really doing all right in school? I notice that she’s been studying a lot lately, and now you’re tutoring her. But whenever we ask her about Harrington, she gives us glowing reports. Every day we get some glittering story about rehearsal, or her music for the symphonic, or the new friends she’s made in the lunchroom.” Karen’s brown eyes searched my face with a compelling need. “Is she making those things up?”

I winced, caught between loyalty to Dell, Karen’s need to know the truth, and some counseling ethics class I could barely remember. “I think you should talk to her about it. I know she’s having a hard time opening up, but that’s not a rejection of you. It’s a self-defense mechanism.”

“I know.” Threading her fingers together, she kneaded her hands in frustration. “We understand that—James and I. It’s just that we want to give Dell what she needs. We realize that she’s struggling with her past, and we want to help her. We love her so much.”

I had the overwhelming urge to comfort her, but the counselor voice inside me was saying,
Be professional; remain detached
. . . . “And she loves both of you too. Her deep investment in the relationship makes her desperate to protect you from anything ugly or unpleasant. It’s going to take time for her to believe that your love isn’t conditional upon her being perfect all the time.”

Karen’s lips trembled, and she pressed her fingers against them. “What do we do in the meantime? How hard do we push? How can we help?” Tears glittered in her eyes, and she wiped them impatiently. “James and I have never been parents. We don’t know exactly what’s normal with a girl her age, and on top of that, she’s not an ordinary thirteen-year-old. We thought Harrington would be great for her—that the chance to pursue her music would help her open up to the world. Dell really wanted to get into Harrington, and we wanted it for her, but now I have a sense that things aren’t right. Maybe we should have encouraged her to go to school out in Prairie Village, near our house. But the thing is, with Jumpkids being headquartered downtown and James gone overnight for work several days each week, she would be latchkey, and her opportunities to pursue music would be limited. . . .” She turned away, then back. “I feel like we’re failing her, but I don’t know what to change.”

I realized she was looking to me for solutions, suggestions, professional advice, and I was woefully underqualified to offer anything. “I think some of those answers are going to have to come with time,” I hedged. “But I can tell you that more quiet hours are needed for her studies. As much as she loves Jumpkids, she needs to spend more time on her schoolwork.”

Karen blinked at me in complete surprise. “I ask her every day if she has homework, and she either says no, or just a little—that she can do it on the drive home, after Jumpkids.”

I couldn’t help smiling at Karen’s naïve reaction. Obviously, she was farther past adolescence than I was.
A teenager, lie about homework?
“Many days it may be true that she doesn’t have actual homework, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t benefit from rereading some of the day’s lessons. Study time may be something you have to enforce. Her reading comprehension is low, but she is working on it, and the more she reads, the more she will improve. You might think about getting her a tutor a few days each week, maybe a student a few years older than she is.”

“I’ll talk to James about that. Could you help us find someone?” Karen seemed ready to take the situation in hand—perhaps a little too ready.

I felt the need to put on the brakes. “I’m sure I can help you find a student tutor, but keep in mind that Dell isn’t going to be happy about my telling you any of this, so it might be best to progress as naturally as possible into a homework schedule, closer monitoring of her assignments, talking to her teachers. She’s working very hard right now to pick up her averages before the nine-week grading period is over and report cards go home. If she feels like the cat’s out of the bag, she might give up. My advice is to see where she’s at when report cards come out, then slowly begin making adjustments as needed.”

Karen frowned at the wait-and-see approach. She seemed like the type who wanted to keep things under control, which was why she was so good at running the Jumpkids program. Chewing her bottom lip, she nodded slowly, then sighed and said, “Thank you for giving Dell special attention. Other than musically, no one at Harrington seems to have much interest in her needs.”

“School is a busy place,” I replied. At least a dozen other responses ran through my mind, none of which was appropriate to share with a parent.

Karen seemed to sense that there were things I wasn’t saying. She waited to see if I would offer anything else, then finally said, “I want you to know we really appreciate it. Dell has needed someone to talk to—someone with counseling experience, I mean. She sees her caseworker, Twana Stevens, here in Hindsville every two weeks, but it hasn’t been very productive. Dell associates Twana with the trauma of being placed in emergency foster care last summer when her grandmother died. I don’t know if Dell will ever move beyond that issue with Twana. She needs someone else, and we’re very grateful she has you. I know you’ve got a lot of kids to look after.” Glancing at her watch, she winced guiltily. “And speaking of that, Dell was counting on some more time with you before you left tonight. I hope we’re not keeping you too late.” Grabbing the lasagna, she put it in the refrigerator, then came back for the salad bowl.

“No, it’s fine.” I thought of my cell phone in the car with, no doubt, a dozen voice-mail messages from my mother. “It’s a beautiful night for a drive. No rush, but I’d probably better call home, so no one worries.”

“Why don’t you use the phone out here? There’s a lot less racket,” she suggested. Flipping off the kitchen light, she crossed the living room and opened the door, letting in a rush of cold air. After our conversation, she looked as pensive as Dell had earlier. I felt sorry for both of them, trying to feel their way through building a family. “Just leave the lights on when you’re done. Dell and I are staying out here tonight.”

“All right,” I replied. “It’ll only take a minute.” I waited until she descended the porch steps before I called home. To my surprise, Mom still hadn’t returned from Bett’s, and Dad was in the middle of his online fantasy baseball meeting, so I was off the hook with a, “Drive carefully, sweetheart.”

Hanging up, I stared at the receiver in amazement. I felt almost like a grown-up, an independent, responsible adult. I’d called home and there wasn’t one question about food, or when I’d be back.

A light knock sounded on the door as I sat there marveling at the phone.

Dell came in carrying her English books. “Am I bugging you?”

“No, you’re not.” I patted the sofa beside me. “How’s the studying going?”

Opening the book, she handed me her English papers, some of which she must have worked on while the rest of us were chatting after supper and cleaning up the kitchen. “I think I’ve got the study sheet done, but can you check it? I know some of the literary terms, too.” She measured the amount with a narrow eye. “Maybe about half.”

I turned the study sheet around so that I could read it. “You have been working hard.” An unexpected burst of pride made me smile. Suddenly all the lunches in the storage room seemed worth it. “Now let’s see what we can do about getting you ready for this English test.”

T
here are occasional Mondays when you awaken with a sense that more than just two days must have passed since Friday—when the world appears new and fresh, and you have a feeling that this week, everything will be different.

Monday morning, I couldn’t sleep past five o’clock. I awoke with my thoughts racing through grant ideas, a plan for a community outreach program that would encourage Harrington kids to volunteer with Jumpkids and other organizations serving the neighborhood. Beyond that, there was the thought that, when I arrived at work, Keiler would be there. His application packet had already been filled out online, forwarded for a background check, and sent to Mr. Stafford, who was thrilled with the prospect of fresh meat in the substitute-teaching arena.

All in all, things were coming out rosy, and I looked like a hero. I’d even managed to complete an entire section of the grant proposal on Sunday. When I e-mailed it to Stafford, he responded by saying I was a wonder. The comment smacked of
“Good girl, Costell,”
but I chose to ignore that and just be happy that everyone was . . . well . . . happy.

I dressed and gathered my grant-writing materials with a renewed sense of enthusiasm for my job—for life, actually—then I headed downstairs, beating Mom to the kitchen again. Dad was just making coffee, and Joujou was by the door waiting to be let out. Releasing her into her outdoor playpen, I quickly fried some bacon and made French toast, so Mom wouldn’t have to cook. She needed a break, after hovering over Bett all weekend.

When the first batch was off the griddle, I stood at the counter, eating dry French toast while cooking the remainder of breakfast. Surprisingly, Mom didn’t come in to see what I was doing. Dad said she was exhausted, and he’d turned off the alarm to let her sleep.

“Breakfast is here when you’re ready,” I said, then grabbed my purse, briefcase, and the box of grant-writing materials. “I’m heading into work early. I want to swing by the cleaner’s and check on Bett’s dress, and I have a new substitute teacher coming today, so I can’t be late.”

“All right, honey.” Kissing me on the cheek, Dad returned to his latest listing of fantasy baseball statistics. “Have a good day.”

I paused in the doorway, amazed. No
Be careful driving?
No
Did you eat?
No
What time will you be home tonight?
Just a perfectly normal
, Have a good day
. “You too, Dad,” I said. “See you tonight.”

“Julia?”

Stopping with my back to him, I steeled myself. Now would come the wellmeaning questions. “Hmmm?” I turned halfway, and his lips were curved slightly, making his eyes smile also.

“You look very pretty this morning—like your old self.” His jaw trembled with emotion, and I realized again how much this man, who was my dad but not my father, really loved me. “That color suits you.”

I glanced down at my pastel-blue pantsuit, knowing it was nothing special, and it wasn’t the pantsuit he was talking about. If I hadn’t had my arms full, I would have walked back into the kitchen and hugged him. Instead, I said, “Thanks, Dad.” I smiled back at him, and he winked.

“Go get ’em, Tiger.”

He hadn’t called me
Tiger
in years.

I headed off to work feeling good about my day.
My day
—that was how it felt, as if I had the world by the tail, and the day belonged expressly to me. Even the traffic seemed to cooperate, and after an easy trip across town, I was waiting outside the cleaner’s when Granmae sent Justin and Shamika off to school. Justin gave me a hug. He must have known it was
my
day.

Releasing me, he peered across the street, said, “There da mens again,” and waved at two men who were setting up survey equipment across the street. When they pretended not to notice him, he smiled and waved again, cheerfully calling out, “Hey, cops!”

“Justin!” Grabbing his arm, Granmae yanked him away. “You stop with that, now, and git on off to school.”

“But Mim said—”

“Mim shouldn’t be tellin’ you that stuff. Now git.”

“What ’bout my angel?” he protested, and Granmae went through the motions of plucking invisible cherubs from the air and dropping them on the kids’ shoulders. “There you go. Now you two hurry all the way. Don’t look left nor right, jus’ straight to school. No talkin’ to nobody, and stay together.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Shamika took Justin’s hand, and he leaned against her grip, staring cross-eyed at the shoulder of his jacket.

“Did I det a boy angel today?”

Bracing her hands on her ample hips, Granmae leaned over him. “No, you didn’t get no boy angel. You too rowdy for a boy angel. You got that little blond-haired one that don’t know the neighborhood.” Glancing at me, she winked. “She got a pretty blue suit on, so don’t you get her dirty, y’hear?”