Drown in You

1. Welcome to our home

"We're here," my social worker, Jan, said flatly after pulling up to a clean, suburban house in Babylon, New York, 200 miles away from my Uncle's house in New Jersey. I looked out from the backseat to see the house. It was probably the biggest place I'd ever lived. My first thought was that this family must be doing something illegal to have all that money. Last time I stayed in a big house like this one, the whole family was connected to drug dealing.

"Bill and Carol are inside. Come on, let's get going," said Jan, opening up her door and climbing out to stretch her sore muscles after the 8 hour drive. "I worked really hard to find you such a great place to stay, Will. Try not to mess this one up."

Jan had been my social worker since before I could talk. She'd been there for every failed placement throughout my childhood and her patience for me was beginning to dwindle. After social services finally found out my Uncle had been hitting me, it was back to New York for me, and to a brand new foster home. Jan had already told me many times how lucky I was to be placed with a family like this one.

I yawned and followed her up the concrete path that cut like a razor straight through the perfect square of grass in their front yard. It was a very nice neighborhood, not at all like I was used to. I slouched forward, both hands in my pockets. All of my belongings were split between a 10 year old backpack around my shoulder and a trash bag. Jan rang the doorbell and shot me a look telling me to straighten up or else. I ignored her and was picking at some wax in my ear with my pinky when the door swung open and a short, blonde woman appeared in the doorway. Jan put a hand on my back and gave me a firm shove. I stumbled forward awkwardly.

"Welcome. Welcome to our home!" she said, and turned back into the house to yell, "Bill! Eliot! He's here!"

I peered past her shoulder at the elaborately decorated foyer. I'd never lived anywhere with a foyer. As far as I could tell, I'd never lived with anyone like these people before. Bill and Carol o'Neil were a couple in Long Island, New York, who had one biological child. That was about all I knew about them. I assumed they must have had at least a dozen other foster kids staying with them, considering it was such a large house, but it was surprisingly quiet, and she'd only called down two people.

I whispered to Jan, "Are you sure we have the right house?" She pinched me hard where her hand was and didn't say a word. Down the stairs came a man who I could only assume was her husband, followed by a scrawny kid who looked a few years younger than me.

The woman smiled and presented her family proudly, like she was showing off a trophy. "This is my husband, Bill, and our son, Eliot. He's 12." I nodded my head slowly to show I was listening. She went on, "I'm Carol. We're very happy to have you joining our family."
Jan smiled. "I'm sure he's happy too. Aren't you, Will?"

I knew this was a test. I quickly put on my most agreeable expression and said, as wholeheartedly as I could,"Yes. So happy. Overjoyed."

Carol laughed awkwardly, and I felt another pinch on my back before Jan said quickly, "Well, it looks like you're all set here. He has all his stuff, you've met, and we took care of paperwork ahead of time. I think my work here is done. I'll come back next week to check on everything."

With that, she turned and strode quickly down the pathway, leaving me alone in a home full of strangers. This scene was not unfamiliar. In my 15 years, I'd lived with 12 different legal guardians, from old disabled women who had too many foster kids to count, to drug addicted alcoholics who could care less if I dropped dead right then and there, all the way up to abusive bastards who should be ashamed to call themselves adults. And in between, I spent my time in group homes fighting with other kids for basic necessities. Anyhow, this wasn't my first rodeo, but there were still some noticeable differences when comparing this place to others.