Jersey Six(5)

She never complained. After six failed foster homes in fifteen years, sodium didn’t matter. Dena and Charles Russell loved her and the three other foster children in their care. So, why did she focus on pizza while shoving tattered clothes, worn boxing gloves, and two knives into a soiled, camouflage duffel bag? It distracted her from the drift of incessant chatter down the long hallway from the living room.

A hallway lined with photos of foster children, spanning twenty years.

A hallway haunted with the ghosts of Dena and Charles Russell.

And pizza.

Cheese made Jersey gag. She used to scrape the toppings from the crust, pluck off the sausage and mushrooms from its rubbery sheath, arrange them back onto the crust, and sprinkle it with parmesan—because parmesan was salty and didn’t make her gag like mozzarella.

“Jersey?”

Hearing the unfamiliar voice calling her name, Jersey closed her eyes, gripping the bag. She no longer needed salt. There was nothing she wouldn’t have given up to change the events of that morning. Even pizza.

A heartless, gutless person killed her foster parents along a winding road, a mile from home. Hit-and-run.

With an all too familiar sense of foreboding, she shuffled down the hallway for the last time.

Goodbye gold picture frames.

Goodbye lavender candle scent.

Goodbye vomit green paint.

Farewell creepy buck head above the fireplace.

Coo-coo …

The old cuckoo clock in the kitchen was the one thing Jersey wouldn’t miss. Dena inherited it when her mom died. It didn’t distinguish between 2 p.m. and 2 a.m. Dena said it comforted her. Jersey dreamed of it falling off the wall and shattering into unrepairable pieces.

But in that moment, she missed the contented sigh that fell from Dena’s chest every time that bird sprang from its perch inside the bottom of the clock. She missed the eye roll of Charles who hated it as much as Jersey did.

The thrumming heartbeat of the Russell home ceased to exist and so did all hopes Jersey had for the future.

“Jersey Six?” A brunette with a high bun, tailored black pants, and a fitted, pink blouse studied the contents of an open manila folder. She nibbled on her clear-glossed lower lip.

Several other strange adults, along with two police officers, clogged the pocket-sized living room as the three other foster children scuffled down the hallway, carrying belongings that could fit into a single bag: gently worn clothes, a doll or superhero figurine, a Dena Russell original hand-tied fleece blanket, and a toothbrush.

For the first time in many years, Jersey wanted to cry. She’d resided with the Russells for six months. The best six months of her miserable life.

“You.” The brunette snapped her blue manicured fingers at Jersey. “Roll call. I’m really sorry for your loss, but I’m a bit crunched for time. Are you Jersey Six?”

She nodded once, curling her straggly, coal hair behind her ear on one side, lifting her sable-eyed gaze to make eye contact with the social worker.

The sky spit a few raindrops into the late September air. Jersey diverted her attention to the front window—a clean window.

Dusted blinds.

Vacuumed beige carpet.

Shiny, faux-tile linoleum.

Not only had it taken fifteen years to land in a home where love was not laced with hard slaps and inappropriate touches, it took fifteen years to experience cleanliness, smoke-free air, and doors with locks meant to keep bad people out—not innocent children locked inside.

Mason, Sophie, and Wyatt followed another social worker to the door, shooting doe-eyed glances and trembling lower lips over their shoulders at Jersey.

Three, four, and seven.

They couldn’t comprehend reality, so they looked to Jersey for some sort of explanation or reassurance.

“Be brave and run fast.”

That’s the advice she followed years earlier after an older girl they called G used a baseball bat to crush the skull of the fifty-year-old man who liked to do sick things to young girls. Jersey ran, just like the girl told her to do, and she didn’t stop until a police officer snagged her by the waist in a park nearly two miles from the scene of the homicide.

CPS quickly placed Jersey in a new home with a new, demented fuck of a man and his wife who liked to screw the window washer.

Jersey knew Mason, Sophie, and Wyatt were destined to follow in her footsteps because, just like her, they had at least one living parent who was not willing to get their shit together but also not willing to completely surrender their parental rights.

As their social worker opened the door, Mason ran to Jersey, clinging to her leg. He pulled her pants down several inches because Jersey liked baggy jeans that hid her willowy body. She rested one hand on Mason’s head as her other hand tugged up the waist of her jeans. He cried but said nothing. Mason didn’t speak. Ever.

Not for one second did she think about lying to him, telling him everything would be okay. It wouldn’t be okay because Dena and Charles were dead.

Mason wailed when they tore him away from her and hauled him out to the dirty, white SUV.

“Let’s go, Jersey.” The roll-calling brunette jerked her head toward the door.

“Amy, search Jersey’s bag.” A partially bald police officer didn’t even look up from his flip phone as he barked his request. Jersey recognized him. He’d questioned her about different incidents on more than one occasion.