For Keeps

5. Taking care.

{Jon}

Long afternoon light was slanting through the window of Jon's work house as he sliced up apples and tossed them in lemon juice. The sun would drop under the horizon before supper hour, its beams already hazy over the snowy streets, where three children were tramping home. Dusty was first in the door, barely pausing to kick off his boots.

"Did anything come in the mail for me?" the boy asked breathlessly.

Jon grinned back at him. "Hey, welcome home Dusty. Yeah, your mom's letter is here, just like she promised." As Dusty dropped his jacket and backpack in the entryway to snatch up the letter, Jon said, "Dusty--jacket," like he did every single day.

Hastily, Dusty turned back to throw his coat over a hook, leaned into Jon for a quick hug, and then hurried to his room, the envelope clutched in his hand. It was the third letter from the treatment center in southern Alberta in as many weeks. Dusty's hope for his mom was contagious; Jon was starting to feel it too.

Glancing at the street, Jon smiled to see Jordin running along the top of a snow drift, her skirt flapping over her thick leggings, and Grace trailing behind, her coat unzipped and her nose buried in a book. Dusty burst back out of his room as Jon set the apple snack out on the table for the other two children climbing out of their snow clothes.

"Pops, what's this word mean?"

Jon squinted at the page. Dusty's mom had looping cursive, overflowing the lines of the paper. "Tremendously," he said. "That means, a lot."

Dusty hugged the page to his chest, while Jordin glanced warily at him. "She says she's tremendously proud of me--and you too Jordin."

Jordin's thin mouth pulled up on one side, like she wanted to smile. "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna write back, are you?" Dusty laid the letter next to Jordin's elbow on the table. She only glanced at it for a second.

"No. You can though." Jordin ruffled Dusty's hair, popping the last apple slice in her mouth and getting up to play video games.

"Jordin--dishes please," Jon said, and Jordin checked herself, putting her bowl and cup in the sink.

"What's for supper?" Jordin asked. Her face was all cheekbones and her knees and elbows kept wearing holes in her leggings and shirts. Jon thought she was in a growth spurt and they would need to go shopping again soon.

"Spaghetti," Jon said. "Is that still your favorite?"

In answer, Jordin narrowed her black eyes at him in a silent smile. She turned aside and Jon noted the way her angular shoulders strained the blouse she was wearing today. The flowing skirts and tunics Jordin wore now matched her graceful athleticism, but her body was increasingly becoming man-shaped. It was outside the scope of Jon's role, but he wondered if they could stretch her clothing budget to get some hip pads to go with the bra she wore now so her outside matched her inside, at least in her clothes.

He couldn't help her step into a more womanly shape permanently; on Jordin's 14th birthday she would 'age out' of this house. Already, at 13, it was unusual that she would live in a home for 9-12 year olds. Jon had worked tirelessly the weeks before her last birthday to make the case to his boss, his organization, Jordin's Indigenous band, and Social Services that they could handle an older child in the home and that it was worth stretching themselves for one more year of stability for Jordin.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, and found Grace's eyes on his face as she hunched over her bowl of apples, picking the ends off with her fingers before taking a nibbling bite. "Is Angel coming today?" Grace asked in her throaty voice.