The Foster Family (33 page)

Nash swept me into a bear hug that pushed the breath out of my lungs and nearly lifted me off the pavement.

“Bah,” he said, slapping my back as he let me go to take the handle of the rolling suitcase. “Grey crawled in with us about an hour ago. He does that almost every night since we took out the crib and put him in a big-boy bed. Wouldn’t mind, except he sleeps like a ninja flailing starfish.”

“Ninja?”

“Yeah,” David added as we trudged up the three steps toward the warm kitchen light. “The ninja part is the getting in under the covers from the bottom of the bed. We never know he’s there until someone gets a knee or a foot or an elbow somewhere sensitive. The rest—”

“Pretty self-explanatory,” I agreed. I looked down at the child, still peering at me from behind David’s thin legs. One small fist clutched David’s sleep pants tightly, the other, Grey had half stuffed into his mouth.

“Ninja, huh?” I asked.

Grey blinked at me solemnly, removing the fist from his mouth just long enough lift both arms in a silent demand to David.

David obliged instantly, lifting the child while Nash surreptitiously put a hand on David’s back, as though ready to catch him if he overbalanced. David shot him a brief smile and settled Grey on a bony hip. “Thanks, babe.”

In answer, Nash pecked his cheek, then Grey’s and pulled out a chair, which David took without comment.

“Put your stuff in your old room, Kerry. Then come have a cup of tea. We’re all up anyway.”

I looked from one to the other of them.

“What is it, son?” David asked.

“That,” I said quietly, feeling the word sink into skin and bone. “Just that.” I smiled, ruffled Grey’s thin crop of red hair, then took my suitcases down the hall to my old room.

I was tempted to just sit there on the bed and stare at the walls, my old dresser, the cork-covered closet door, still plastered with posters of Rambo and
Top Gun
and muscle-bound athletes. How I had ever thought I was being incognito with that flaming display was beyond me now. But fifteen-year-old boys could make themselves believe anything, I supposed.

It was a little shocking to see that not much had changed. The bed had a new mattress, the closet and dresser held linens and jigsaw puzzles, but the vibrant-green walls and the sand-colored carpet Nash had taken me to pick out were the same. I smiled to realize I had chosen an updated variant of those exact colors for my room at Malcolm’s. I hadn’t done it on purpose, but there it was, staring me in the face.

“Kerry?” Nash called from the kitchen. “Water’s on.”

“Be right there!” I hung up my jacket and tossed keys, sunglasses, and cell onto the bedside table. Curious, I pulled open the drawer, but it was empty. No sign of the hand lotion or foil packets I’d left.

“Expired,” Nash said, and I jumped, closing the drawer with a small, guilty thump as I turned.

He smiled wide. “Don’t think it’s a shrine or anything,” he said, nodding to the posters. “We just haven’t had a reason to change it. Grey’s room is where Lacy’s was, and if David needs his own bed, I use the pullout in the living room. It’s less like being banished, and I can hear them if they need me.”

“Right. How is he?”

Nash’s smile remained. “I don’t have to sleep on the couch this week.”

I nodded. “Good. I’ll keep my distance, though. Plane air and all.”

Nash blinked at me, still standing there, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, and I didn’t know what it was I’d said to make him look at me like that.

“Come here,” he said after a moment, and held out his arms to me.

What could I do but go to him and allow the second hug in less than fifteen minutes? “You’re a good boy, Kerry.” I hugged him back this time. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” I whispered, and it was heartfelt and true. I missed Charlie and Malcolm and Miss Claire, and even Lissa enough to etch gouges in my heart, but here was safe. Here was something I hadn’t realized I truly had. Home. Family.

I took one more look at that half-wall of posters. “You knew I was gay from the first day, didn’t you?”

Nash smiled. “I could make a case for knowing before you did, I think.”

I studied the collection. “What gave me away? Greg Louganis?” The man had certainly rocked that Speedo, but I had banked on his gold medal hiding the real reason I had him in a place of glory in the center of one of the doors. “Because Rambo and
Top Gun
were pretty ubiquitous, I thought.”

Nash ruffled my hair. “The
Wham!
album under the bed. Maybe if you’d actually played it, even once, I’d have hedged my bets.”

I laughed then and followed him out of the room. “I’ll just wash up and meet you in the kitchen.”

Nash waved a hand in acknowledgement, and I ducked into the bathroom to wash my hands and face. I’d looked up what I could about heart transplants while I sat bored to death at the airport, and with knowing David was just barely recovered from some sort of infection, I didn’t want to chance carrying something into their home that would set him back.

When I joined them, David was pouring the boiled water into a teapot, and Grey was curled on an armchair next to the table watching him, that fist still tightly wedged in his mouth.

“You going to give Daddy Dave his chair, Grey?” Nash asked.

Grey shifted his focus to Nash, but made no other move. His face was round and sort of flat, eyes huge and sky-blue, and the hair on his head stood out in all directions, a peachy-orange fuzz that reminded me of Miss Claire when I’d first brought her home, all tiny and watchful and looking like she’d just stuck her tail in an electrical socket.

“Why you sucking on that hand, Grey?” I asked, choosing a chair across the table from him. “Does it taste good?”

He looked at me a moment, then slowly drew it out of his mouth and looked at it. He made a face that made me think of the lemon after a tequila shot and I chuckled.

“Not really, I bet,” I told him, accepting the cup David handed me. “I remember when I was, oh, maybe four, I used to suck my thumb.” I glanced up to see if he was paying any attention at all, and found his gaze riveted to me. “This guy I knew, he’d sprinkle salt on it to get me to stop. Thought it would taste bad, and I wouldn’t do it anymore.”

I felt Nash looking at me, that enigmatic smile on his face I remembered that meant he had just had a lightbulb moment.

“You know what Papa Nash just figured out?” I asked Grey, who continued to stare and blink and soak up every word I said. “He just figured out why, when I was finished eating dinner, I would pour a little pile of salt on my plate and lick it off my finger while I waited for him to finish eating.” I glanced up at him and smiled. “I don’t do that anymore, by the way. We all outgrow these things, eventually.”

Grey promptly stuffed his fist back into his mouth and shifted his position so he could watch me while I poured tea for Nash, David, and then myself.

It was a little ritual, but it made me feel settled, and they didn’t have to know why I did it.

“How did you know I’d figured anything out?” Nash asked.

When I answered, I spoke to Grey. “You’ll get to know this about him. He has absolutely no ability to mask what’s going through his head. That’s a good thing, by the way.” I glanced at Nash. “It means you always know when he’s happy and when he’s not. You’d think knowing would make it easy to manipulate him, but don’t even try it. If he hasn’t done whatever it is you think you’re getting away with himself, he’s had a kid in this house who has, and he knows it all, I promise you.” I smiled as Grey yawned and curled his soggy fist against his chest. “You’ve got yourself the best papa in the world, kid. Don’t ever forget that.”

It was David who cupped a hand around the back of my neck and gave me a little shake. “Good to have you home, Kerry,” he said. “Real good to have you home.”

W
E
TALKED
over our teacups for a little while before Nash declared it bedtime and carried Grey to his toddler bed in Lacy’s old room. It still had the yellow walls and brilliant-blue carpet she’d chosen, but the furniture was all brand new, made from cedar and stained a reddish brown that looked perfect against the bold backdrop.

“You make these?” I asked, running a hand over the edge of the tall dresser.

Nash smiled fondly at his son. “I thought it would be appropriate. When he’s grown, it’ll still be standing and he can take it with him when he gets his own place.”

I nodded. “That’s a good plan.”

I thought about that. Nash was pushing fifty. Grey, barely a year. The man was in good health, and even though David was a textbook case of recovery and health after his transplant and ten years Nash’s junior, this kid could very well end up alone way too young. I brushed a curl of red hair off his cheek and he wiggled deeper under the blanket.

“He’s adorable, Nash.”

Nash nodded.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“It’s morbid,” I warned.

“Anything,” he said again.

“You have a plan, right? To take care of him? Just, you know….”

“Because I’m old and David is—”

“On my second lease?” David said, coming in the room and wrapping an arm around Nash’s waist. “So you want to do this now, babe?” he asked Nash.

“I was going to wait at least ’til morning. Or, you know, a few days or weeks. Until they got to know each other.”

“Do what?” I asked, skin beginning to cool and sweat breaking out to make me shiver at the dichotomy.

“Come out so we don’t wake him,” Nash said, leading us both out of the room.

I followed them, casting one last look at the sleeping cherub with the really intelligent eyes.

“I truly didn’t want to spring this on you the minute you walked in the door, Kerry. Certainly not in the middle of the night when you’re obviously exhausted.”

I stifled a yawn and managed a smile. “Well, it isn’t like I’m going to sleep if you don’t tell me now anyway, so you might as well say whatever it is so I can not worry myself into a freak-out.”

“It’s nothing bad,” David reassured me as he took a seat beside Nash on the couch. “Promise.” He took Nash’s hand and smiled at him. “I plan on living a hella long time, so it’s probably just a formality.”

“And you don’t have to give us an answer right now. You can think about it as long as you need to.”

“Oh my God, guys, spit it out.”

“Okay.” Nash drew in a breath and let it out. “Remember I told you about Lacy asking me to take guardianship of Grey? She wanted to make it formal before he was born, so that nothing bad could happen to him if something happened to her.”

“Okay.”

“Well, it was a good idea on her part, as it turned out.”

“Yeah,” I said, sad to think about how rough the girl’s life had been and how sad her death was. The same sadness showed on both Nash and David’s faces.

“Well, so we adopted Grey and all. He’s our son, and nothing can change that now. He’s safe.”

“Yeah.” I smiled at him. “I meant what I said earlier, Nash. He’s got it really good here.”

“Yes. But I’m fifty.”

“And I have a shelf life,” David said.

Nash shot him a look, but David pecked his cheek and reminded him they’d already agreed to be realistic.

“Whatever,” Nash grumbled.

“Grey is a baby,” David said. “Nash will be sixty when he’s just getting to that wicked age, and who knows what I’ll be dealing with.”

“What it comes down to,” Nash interjected, “is that we want to make sure Grey will be looked after if anything happens.”

“Of course,” I said, seeing where this was going and not sure I could fathom it. “That only makes sense.”

“We want that person to be you, Kerry.”

“Me.” I wasn’t shocked by this point. Just… unable to believe they would choose me to take that kind of responsibility.

“You’re family,” Nash said.

“I—” truly did not know what to say to that. Thinking about family in my own head, wishing for it in my heart was not the same as hearing it from Nash’s lips.

“Okay.” Nash got up. “We said what we wanted to, and I don’t expect you to make a snap decision. Just think about it. Get to know him. You can take your time on this, because it’s a big deal, and a lot more likely, in this situation, to matter than it normally would. So please think about it.”

I nodded. “’Course.”

David got up too and squeezed my shoulder, and they went off, hand in hand, to bed while I sat there doing nothing but thinking about that.

M
ORNING
WAS
typical for early summer in Seattle, and I remembered why I had begged Nash to distraction, back in the day, for blackout curtains. He’d never actually got them for me, and I cursed him a bit as I pulled my pillow over my head and rolled away from the torture.

What seemed like only minutes later, something tugged at my blankets. Then the bed creaked and a small weight settled on my legs. My foggy brain went straight to Miss Claire having gotten into a vat of radioactive goo in the night and mutating to some grotesquely abnormal orange fuzz ball. Then I heard a distinctive sucking sound and remembered where I was.

“Grey,” I moaned. “Don’t sit there.”

There was a jolt. Then I was bounced around as he crawled up to the head of the bed. The pillow moved and his pale, round face appeared in the sliver of daylight.

“Hey,” I grumbled.

He pushed and pulled and tugged until the pillow was off my head, then sat back on his haunches to watch me.

“Did you bring coffee?” I asked.

He watched.

“Is it breakfast, at least?”

He watched, then stuffed his fist into his mouth. But not his fist. He was holding something, and it squished between his fingers with a wet sound.

“What the—” I sat up in a hurry and blinked at him, reaching for my glasses to see what he was scarfing down that was going to kill him.

Glasses in place, I figured out after a squeamish examination that he was munching on a slimy cookie.

“Oh, tell me you didn’t.” I glanced at the bed, and sure enough, smears of whitish goo covered the bedspread. “That is gross, little dude,” I told him. “Just”—I shivered—“ew.”