We Break Promises, Memories Break Us

Continued Life

This is a story I was working on for NaNoWriMo '10. It's not finished, but maybe if I put it somewhere I will work to complete it. It jumps back and forth between different POV, I will always let you know which person is speaking.

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                                                                    Amelia

            Outside is the only place that I can blend in and be normal. A million people can pass you during the day and not one of them will know what is wrong with you. I walked into the Borders on the corner, my safe haven. It’s my home away from home. Okay, so it may be my only “home.” I don’t feel like I have a home, just a bunch of houses that I temporarily resided in for a few years. From a young age I always just had a place to sleep, and when I was even smaller, I would occasionally eat. Now these houses are where I get my rest and my food. I am on my own—self-reliance. My big girl boots are on and I have to be the one that walks in them.

            I walked into the back of the store to the young adult fiction.  Currently, I am fascinated with Jodi Picoult. I don’t know what it is. Maybe its her wonderful plots, her portrayal of the American legal system, or maybe it’s the fact that you don’t know what will happen and she keeps you hanging until the end. All I am sure of at this moment is that it is time for me to read “My Sister’s Keeper.” Flipping through, I discover that I can probably read this in a few hours. Holed up in the corner of the section on a big red beanbag chair, I sit to read my book. I love the atmosphere in here; it is so quiet and cheerful. I wish I could buy these books, that way, I would have my own collection at home where I can just read everything in my collection over and over again. I know it is a little thing for some people, but for me, it would mean the world. I would have to have even just one book to call my own.

            I look up from my book a few hours later when I have about thirty-five pages left. I stare at the clock: it is four forty-five. Dinner is in forty-five minutes, and I cannot afford to be late. I try my hardest to cram in these last few pages, and after twenty minutes I finally finish. I get up from where I am sitting and I put the book neatly back on its shelf. I walk towards the front door, knowing that in seven days I will be back home again, safe and sound for a little bit. Once I was outside, I had 7 blocks until I was home. I fold my arms around my body to try and keep as much heat as possible inside my hoodie. With about 25 minutes left I should be able to make it.

            I turn the corner to head up the street and into the house. In the distance I can see a couple of boys hanging out in the middle of the street on their bikes and skateboards. As I got closer I realized that they were Mitch and his friends. I had to try and sneak into the house unnoticed, but of course that couldn’t happen.

            “Amelia, momma wanted me to make sure you got home okay,” Mitch finally spoke up when I was at the door.

            “Well, here I am,” I replied, “So you can stop worrying about me.” I opened the front door and walked in before Mitch decided to say anything else. All I could hear behind me was Mitch’s low life friends laughing.

            Once I was inside, I could smell tonight’s dinner—something Italian. These people are not Italian, and we only have these big elaborate meals when something major happens. Usually it was an announcement that a new kid will be joining the household, or when on of the fosters are due to go back home or to whomever they are released to the custody of.

            This was a customary thing when you grow up in the great old foster care system. I myself have been in 6 homes over time. This has been the longest time that I have spend in anyone house. I have been here for about 19 months. In the beginning I was in a temporary foster care house. So I was only there for a few months, but I was too young to remember a whole lot of anything. Soon after that I was placed with a family who was certified in special needs fosters mainly because the state of New Jersey wasn’t sure how well I would survive in a “normal” house I guess. I was about 4 years old at the time and very hyper. I was told my social worker was asked to relocate me twice when I was with them. I was the hyper preschooler amongst a handful of less active kids with disabilities. The couple was older and couldn’t keep up with me so the social worker decided to place me in a home that had older fosters hoping that I could be a much needed relief to the family to have someone living with them again. I guess that’s when my true fight with hell started.

            I walked across the kitchen and greeted Mrs. Kinsley, or Momma, as she required us to call her. Right now there are 6 children in the house. Her and Mr. Kinsley have one child of their own, Mitch, and the other 5 of us are the fosters. I am the oldest, which is something I am not used too to say the least.  Frankie is our newest, he is seven years old, and was a recent placement, so he still cries himself to sleep every night, which tends to upset momma, but I know where he is coming from. It is scary moving out of your house, no matter how bad the situation was, it is what you got to know. So anyways, with Frankie being the newest, I had a feeling that this meant that we would be losing someone to another home or they are moving back to their family.

            With the way momma was acting around me, I was hoping it was news for me. She was being nice, or well nicer than she usually is. And she was making sure that I was happy all day today. She was even asking me this morning when I was going to leave for the bookstore, which usually she just tells me to be back by dinner. I honestly do hope that I get to be the one to leave. It would make me happier. I am tired of being the oldest, besides Mitch, but he isn’t much older than I am, and he is a bio kid, so he has to stay no matter what. But between the five of us, the next oldest is eleven years old. So I always feel surrounded by babies.

            A little while later when we all sat at the family size picnic-y table for dinner, Mr. Kinsley didn’t waste anytime explaining the penne marinara that was sitting on the plates in front of us, “Momma and I have received excellent news today, and it effects every member of our family.”

            All I could think about the whole time was that I got to leave. I don’t know how this would count as good news for the family, but these people tend to have a weird way to twist words around.

            Mr. Kinsley continued, “In the mail today we received a certified letter stating that Miss Amelia has been cleared to be adopted, so Amelia,” he paused and looked at me,  “Momma and I have some things we want to give you.”

            Momma walks by one of our storage cases and pulls out two packages, one significantly larger than the other, and she handed them to me. They told me that it was my decision if I wanted to be adopted, and no matter my answer I could still keep the two gifts. They said that it was just a blessing to be able to be adoptable. With that, they let me open them up. In the larger package was a laptop and the smaller one was a new iPod. I thanked them politely like I should and told them that I would think about it.

            I knew that I didn’t want them to be my adoptive parents. Of course I wanted to be adopted. Almost my whole life I wanted to be a part of a family that loves me. But that is just it; I want a family that loves me. I don’t get that feeling here. I was actually shocked when I was given these gifts. Even at Christmas we don’t get anything this spectacular. Last Christmas we were given some clothes and new bedspreads for our rooms. I asked if I could be excused to place these in my bedroom that I sometimes share with 11-year-old MacKenzee. I got up from the table and walked into my bedroom, and set my “gifts” onto the bed.

            Somehow I made my way into the adjoining bathroom. This is the one that the three girls use. All I could do is stare at myself in the tiny vanity mirror. I know that I should allow them to adopt me, since they have done so much, but they also have not supplied me with everything I need.

            I was finally convinced that I knew what I needed to do, and with that, I walked out and back into the dining room, acting as if nothing has happened.