Fostering Love

This tale grew out of several true stories I've read over the years. Warning that it starts out a bit rough. This story is also light on the sex, which is often my way, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.

Trigger warning: Talk of physical and sexual assault, but no description.

Fostering Love

"David!"

"Yeah?"

"Come downstairs, please!"

"Ok."

I put down the controller for the game console, got off my bed and headed down the stairs with a bit of trepidation. Was I in trouble for something? There was no trouble in school, my grades were good, I had done my homework and all my chores. Thoughts of what it could be were still swirling in my head when I got to the bottom of the stairs. I had taken them two at a time and was looking down at where I was going. When I lifted my head, my mother was seated on the love seat with my father standing next to her.

"Sit down, David." He motioned toward the couch as he said it. Alarm bells rang in my head, but I still couldn't fathom what I did wrong.

"Your mother and I want to talk to you about something."

"Ok." I sat on the couch where he had motioned. His statement didn't give me anything to go on. If my parents could read the panic that was so obvious on my face, they didn't let on. My father wasn't even looking at me. He seemed to be chewing on what he wanted to say while staring absently at the floor. My mother just looked up expectantly at him.

"David... how would you feel about having a little sister?"

Wait, what? Was mom pregnant? She didn't look pregnant. I realized they were both looking at me expectantly... how do you answer that question when it comes out of the blue?

"Umm... I don't know... I never really thought about having a sister." They seemed to be considering my answer when I added, "Mom, are you pregnant?"

Looking back, I'm glad I asked it, as it broke the tension in the room. They both laughed and their serious demeanor ratcheted back a few notches after that.

"No sweetie, I'm not pregnant. I actually can't get pregnant. Your father and I had always wanted more children. Now that you're a bit older, and we are in a good place with our lives and careers, we've been thinking about fostering a child."

I was stuck on the first part of what she said. "You can't get pregnant? How did you have me then?" My mind started to swirl. Were they about to tell me I'm adopted?

"It was a difficult delivery when I had you and the outcome was that I couldn't get pregnant again."

That news hit me like a truck. My parents couldn't have the children they wanted, and it was my fault. "You can't have more kids because of me?"

They must have immediately read the turmoil on my face because they both immediately looked panicked. In unison they came over and sat on either side of me on the couch. My mother spoke first.

"Oh sweetie! I didn't mean it that way! It wasn't your fault at all... and if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing!"

Many years later, we would all laugh at how completely sideways this conversation had gone. They would tell me that when they discussed it that evening in their bedroom, they wondered if maybe they shouldn't have any more children given how shit they were at communicating with the one they had. Which aside from the current conversation, wasn't true. While there are many ways to broach a sensitive topic, tonight they just happened to pick all the wrong ones.

My father chimed in, "David, what we're trying to ask, obviously very poorly, is how would you feel if we invited a foster child to live with us?"

"Oh." One of my classmates, Charles, was a foster kid. He was eventually adopted by his foster parents, so I understood the concept. "I guess that would be ok... you're thinking of fostering a girl?"

My father answered, "Yes. They have a 14-year-old girl that needs a home... and I know you said ok, but we would like you to think about it. This is a family decision. We won't pressure you, and we won't do it if you don't want us to."

I appreciated the way they were including me. I was still reeling a bit at the news that my birth caused my mother to be infertile, but I didn't really have an issue with them fostering someone. I still remember some of the stories Charles told about the foster homes he had been in. They weren't good stories. That alone made me want my parents to do it.

"I don't have to think about it, I want you to do it."

This seemed to surprise them both. My mother leaned into me and rubbed her hand up and down my back. "Are you sure, sweetie?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. You know Charles; you know he was a foster kid."

"Yes, we know."

"He told some stories of previous foster homes. It sounded horrible. I know you guys wouldn't be that way."

My parents would later tell me how proud they were of me. How mature and thoughtful they thought that statement was. I didn't think there was anything profound about it. I told the truth. Foster care sounded terrible. It sounded like a lottery for whether you got a good home, or an abusive one that was looking for a paycheck. I was a teenager. I had the typical teenager issues and occasional fights with my parents, but even my self-centered teenage brain could see my parents are good people. They are good parents. Why would I want to stand in the way of them being good parents to someone that, by virtue of being a foster child, had a rough time in life so far? I didn't. I wouldn't.

That is how Jessie came to live with us.

*****

I spoke to Charles about it before Jessie came. He told me it would probably be awkward at first, and it was. She barely spoke to my parents and didn't speak to me at all. School hadn't started yet and she stayed in her room most of the time. She would come out for meals because my parents insisted, but even then, she didn't speak. She just kept her head down and ate her food.

During that time, I couldn't even tell you precisely what her face looked like because her head was down all the time, which made her hair cover it. She had long, straight hair that went halfway down her back. The color seemed to be somewhere between a light brown to a light auburn, depending on the light. I thought that she seemed a little gangly at the time. She was only fourteen years old, so was probably hitting her growth spurt.

It was only a couple of weeks until school started, and I was starting to worry about how she would get on if she wouldn't talk. We would both be going to the same high school; she would be a freshman, and I was starting my junior year.

I needn't have worried though, because shy Jessie only lasted about a week. After that, she started talking more to us. Then the lying started. I would find things missing from my room. Random things. My controller for my game console. A book I had been reading, things like that. I would look all over the house for them, assuming I had misplaced whatever it was. That Jessie may have taken them did not even occur to me until I was passing her room one day. The door was open and there was my controller, sitting on top of her dresser. When I asked her about it, she denied taking it. The weird thing was, she didn't even try to hide it. She would leave whatever she took out for me to find.

I kept quiet about it at first. I didn't want my parents to worry, or to think that I was secretly unhappy Jessie was with us and was starting trouble to get rid of her. But then some of my parents' things started going missing. Some of mom's jewelry, dad's cuff links; she even took one of my mother's favorite dresses. These things she didn't leave out in the open. My parents asked me about the missing items, I confessed that I had things missing as well. I told them about finding the things in Jessie's room. They seemed suspicious toward me at first, which was exactly what I had been afraid of. But I think they could tell from my attitude I didn't want to be in this position.

They confronted Jessie. That's when the yelling started. She accused my parents of everything under the sun. She accused them of looking for excuses to send her back, of just taking her in for the money. My parents were shocked by the venom and immediately backed off. This was right around the time we had started school. Things didn't improve from there.

It was only our second week of school when she got in her first fight. I never learned the real cause of it. This was high school, and it was impossible to separate the made-up drama from the truth. What I do know is that she slapped a girl in her class in full view of the teacher. She was sent to the principal's office and given two after-school detentions. My parents tried talking to her, to understand what happened. She just yelled at them again.

They tried to encourage me to talk to her as well. Thinking maybe she'd feel more comfortable talking to someone around her age. I told them I would try, but what did I know about being a big brother? I mean it had only been about a month by this time.

I knocked on the frame of her door and poked my head in her room. She was laying on her bed with her knees pulled up looking at a magazine. She lifted her head and stared at me.

"Mind if I come in?"

"Yes."

Not thinking, I stepped through the doorway and into her room.

"I mean yes, I mind."

I stopped in my tracks, realizing what she meant when she said 'Yes.'

"Oh... uh, sorry. Well, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"No! You're not my real brother, so stop trying to act like it."

"Umm, I know I'm not your real brother. I just thought maybe you needed someone to talk to."

"I don't need anyone to talk to, and if I did it wouldn't be you. Now get out."

"Umm, ok."

I turned on my heal and headed out of her room. As I walked through the door I heard her mumble under her breath, "Pussy."

I talked to Charles about her a bit. He explained some of the resentment. If you're one of those kids that's been shuffled off from home to home, you just assume the next one will be the same. So why make any attempt to get to know them. You assume they will abandon you too.

I tried to keep that in mind whenever I interacted with her, but it was hard. She seemed to make it as hard as possible on purpose. Charles said it was to push us away, because she probably felt we would just abandon her anyway. I even tried to get Charles to talk to her. He got about three sentences in, when she laughed at him, told him to 'fuck off' and walked away from him.

*****

Two more months went by. There were three more fights in school. One of which got her suspended for two days because she tried to pick up a chair and hit a boy with it before a teacher intervened. She also added truancy to her repertoire. The school called on two different occasions saying she hadn't shown up. When my parents confronted her and tried to find out where she had gone, she let go with a torrent of expletives that would have made any sailor proud.

It was during this time I turned seventeen and got my driver's license. I had saved for over a year during my summer and weekend jobs to buy a car. My parents chipped in as well and helped me purchase a slightly worn, but still nice for a first car, Honda Accord. I was of course ecstatic not to have to take the bus anymore. But that also meant I had to drive Jessie to school. My parents liked this idea because they figured I could make sure she got there. She did still take the bus home a lot as I often had hockey practice after school.

The holiday season was quickly approaching, which was typically a season my family loved. I know it's sappy, but we really get into the holiday spirit. The season usually kicked off around Thanksgiving, but this year was different. My parents were on edge. The school had called twice in the last week. Once for truancy, the second time for another fight. The rumors I heard about this fight though, were that Jessie hadn't started it. Evidently Jessie had been mean to the younger sister of one of the popular senior girls. That and all the gossip about the fights she had started previously meant the senior girl and her friends decided that Jessie should be put in her place. She came home with an assortment of bruises, scratches and red marks on her. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to dissuade her in the slightest. She would end up starting another fight three weeks later.

Thanksgiving morning came and the usual amazing smells were emanating from the kitchen. It was a wonderful fall day outside. Cool and a little brisk. Great sweatshirt and jeans weather.

The great smells and weather were not enough to overcome the mood in the house, though. In between helping my mother cook, my father and I would head to the family room to watch some of the football games. Jessie stayed in her room all morning. My parents tried to coax her down a few times, to no avail. I stayed away. She had made it clear she didn't want me meddling in her business.

When everything was finally done, mom and dad both went up to try and get her to come eat with us. I was mildly curious how the conversation would go, but stayed downstairs as I didn't want to get involved. I needn't have worried. She screamed her responses so loud, I wondered if the neighbors had heard, and what they would think if they had. As a teenage boy, I was proud of my stable of put-downs and my ability to string together a series of curse words in new and inventive ways designed to amuse or insult, depending on the need. What came out of Jessie's mouth was a level in vile invective I hadn't heard before or since. I still remember the last set of slurs that came out of her mouth like it was yesterday: "Lick my cunt you dirty old pig!! I bet that's why you got a foster daughter, isn't it!? So you'd have someone to molest, you filthy fucker!!"

They left her alone after that. My father looked shell-shocked when he came down the stairs. My mother was in tears.

We ate dinner in silence. Dessert went untouched. It was the worst Thanksgiving we ever had.

*****

To say the next month was tense would be an understatement. My bedroom was next to my parents. I heard them quietly talking one night about sending Jessie back. Both of my parents felt they were out of their depth in giving her the support she needed. Neither one wanted to do it though. The thought of abandoning her a few weeks before Christmas hurt them too much.

Hearing that conversation was probably the first time in my life that I truly felt bad for my parents. I believed my parents were good people, but as a teenager, I usually viewed them as an impediment to me doing the things I wanted to do. The anguish and sadness in that conversation was easy to discern... even for my teenage brain. They really wanted to do right by Jessie, but were thwarted in every attempt by her obstinate behavior.

I decided to try talking to Jessie again. We were both teenagers, maybe I could somehow get through to her. I ignored her telling me to 'get the fuck out of her room.' I sat on the end of the bed. She was once again leaning against the headboard with her knees pulled up. She glowered at me. It was the first time in my life I truly felt someone's hatred. It was like she was radiating it out toward me. I sucked it up and started to speak.

"Look Jessie, I know you don't like me... and that's fine, you don't have to... but my parents are really trying. They really want you to have a good life."

I paused and looked at her. If I had any hope of getting through to her, it immediately evaporated. If anything, she looked even more hateful than when I started.

"Ok, I can see that you don't care about what I'm saying... but I really wish you'd try to give them a chan..."

She shot herself away from the headboard toward where I sat on the end of her bed, kicking me off it. I landed on the floor with a thud and scurried backward on the floor away from her, afraid she'd attack me further. Instead, she sat on the bed, screaming at me.

"Get the fuck out!!"

"Ok! Ok! I'm going... sorry."

I got up off the floor and headed out of her room. Just as I entered mine, I heard my mother make it to the top of the stairs. She must have stuck her head in Jessie's room, because I heard Jessie yell at her. "Tell your faggot son to stay out of my fucking room!"

My mother didn't respond to her, at least not that I could hear. A moment later she arrived in my room, looking at me with sad eyes. I'm sure my look was the same. I Just shook my head. Neither of us wanted to discuss anything at that moment.

*****

Christmas felt more like a funeral than a holiday. The school had called that week and said they would start calling the police on Jessie if her truancy continued. When they tried to talk to her about it, it was another verbal lashing. At least that's what I surmise, I was thankfully out with some friends when that occurred, but I overheard my parents talking about it.

When I was younger, it was all about Christmas morning and opening presents. Now though, I started to enjoy Christmas Eve more. That seemed to be the height of good cheer. After you opened presents on Christmas day, it was almost sad, because now the season was over.

But this year the sadness extended to the whole holiday season.

My parents still made a wonderful meal on Christmas Eve. They tried several times - unsuccesssfully - to get Jessie to join us. We usually stayed up past midnight on Christmas Eve, eating, making a fire, watching Christmas movies, listening to Christmas music. We didn't do any of that this year. I think we were all in bed and asleep before ten.

I can't remember what I was dreaming about as I was slowly dragged awake. I realized the sound I was hearing was a phone ringing. I fumbled around looking for my phone as my brain slowly tried to boot up. I then realized the ringing was farther away. It wasn't my phone. Whose was it?

I then hard my father groggily say, "Hello?"

"Yes, speaking."

There was silence for a few moments. Then I heard, "Which hospital?"

That immediately got my attention. I got out of bed and put on some sweats and a t-shirt. I could hear my parents talking, but with my fumbling around, I couldn't hear what they were saying. I finished throwing my clothes on and headed into the hall toward their room. I didn't bother going to Jessie's room. I somehow knew she wouldn't be there.

I knocked on my parents' door and walked in. They stopped their conversation and looked at me. I could see tears in my mother's eyes.

"What happened?" I asked.

My father took a breath before responding, "Jessie stole your car and got in an accident."

"Is she ok?"

"She has some facial burns from the airbag, but they say she'll be fine. She's going to be in the hospital overnight."

We all dressed and headed to the hospital. The nurses and police asked us to leave after she started her usual stream of invective at us.

The police told me my car was likely totaled. She had made it a couple of miles before hitting a telephone pole.

We went back home to wait until they were going to release her. The police called back and stated that she would be going from the hospital to juvenile detention. Turns out this wasn't her first run-in with the law. The judge was not happy about his Christmas being disturbed and had her remanded there.

In any other situation where my car was totaled, that would be my first priority. A car was a teenager's freedom. In this case though, all I could think about was how devastated my parents were. I felt this was going to be the last straw. They had done all they could. Trying any longer would be masochism.

Jessie ended up taking the decision out of their hands. While she was in juvenile detention, she told the case worker that I had molested her.

I still remember the panic I felt when my parents told me. I obviously knew it wasn't true, but I had never really been in trouble in my life. The worst I ever had was detention once for getting in a fight at school. Now I was being accused of one of the most awful crimes I could think of.