Stranger

Nora

If you made it through your childhood without seeing your mother get arrested, you've got one on me. On a late August night, I watched from the porch, helpless and frozen, as I saw my mother, thin as a rail and still in her pajamas from last night, get cuffed by a police officer. She put up a fight, which was probably a side effect of the drugs she was on. The people in our neighborhood in Queens were all out on their porches, watching the drama unfold. Someone getting arrested was always way more entertaining than evening television.

Her idiot boyfriend, Rafael, was also getting cuffed, cussing something in Spanish. I couldn't care less if he got thrown in jail. In fact, I celebrate it. It gets him out of my hair for a few days. But this was the first time my mother was going with him. Usually, she was the semi-reasonable one. But now, my only parent was vomiting as the officer led her to the cruiser.

A good daughter would have defended her; convinced them that they had it wrong. But I wasn't a good daughter. I just stood there, unable to move. How should I know what to do in a situation like this? I was thirteen years old and in the 8th grade.

An officer stayed with me on the porch and was making a phone call to child services. I'd heard stories from other neighborhood kids and my classmates about what happens when your parents get arrested. They drop you in some stranger's house for an undetermined amount of time. They might be great, or they might be total douchebags. They might even be abusive.

"Nora Thomas?" The police officer asked me. I nodded wordlessly. "You're gonna come with me. We have a placement for you for foster care. You can go ahead and pack a bag. Put in a few day's worth of clothes because I'm not sure how long you'll be there."

I was glad to be given a task to do. I found my tattered backpack and went into my tiny bedroom. It was barely big enough to fit a twin-sized bed and a dresser. I had to sit on my bed to open the drawers. I pulled out 5 pairs of underwear, a couple of shorts, and several of my ratty t-shirts. And of course I grabbed my skateboard and buried a couple of my little notebooks at the bottom.

I was in the car for about 10 minutes when we pulled up to a house not that dissimilar from my own. There were several teenage kids hanging out on the porch, drinking soda. I felt a little intimidated, and that sometimes caused me to lash out. I didn't like anyone thinking I was inferior. I grabbed my bag and followed the officer to the door. He knocked and a woman in her 50's answered the door, a toddler clinging to her legs.

"Mrs. Vasquez?" The officer asked.

"Yes," she replied, over the sounds of yet another child crying in the background.

The officer handed her an envelope of paper work. "I have another one for you. From Queens."

The woman sighed, obviously already overwhelmed with the kids she had. Nevertheless, she took the folder and opened the door wider. The house smelled like sour milk and there were toys all over the floor. I just stood in the living room, not knowing what to do or say. After Mrs. Vasquez had a few words with the officer, filling him in on my case, the screen door closed and she came inside.

"Nora Thomas?" She said, looking at my file. "Where do you go to school?"

"Altman," she said.

"Good," she commented, dropping her file on the coffee table. "A couple of the other kids go there so I won't have to call for the bus. The rules here are simple. Clean up after yourself, do your homework, stay out of trouble. No drugs or alcohol. Can you handle that?"

I shrugged and she sighed.

"The bedroom on the right is for the girls. There's only two others in there right now. Just grab a bunk and find a sleeping bag in the hall closet."