Breathe In (Just Breathe, #1)(7)
Three
A fear of men, heterosexual men, came from my last night in New Jersey. After the accident, the State arranged for me to go into foster care once I was released from the hospital. I didn’t have any family other than my parents; they were orphans too. I was in a daze when the whole process began. Eight days after waking up in the hospital, I was turned over to state custody. I would have been handed over sooner, but they were monitoring me to make sure I wasn’t a danger to myself anymore. I was placed with a husband and wife who already had two foster girls. Brittany was seven and her sister, Leslie, was five. The State was apparently so bogged down with foster kids, that they weren’t as picky with foster parents as they should have been. I had to share a room with the two girls. They slept in one bed and I slept in the other. Though I already was a high school graduate, the State and the foster parents insisted that I attend public school. I just figured they didn’t really want to bother with me. The teachers were nice, but I was bored and depressed.
Two weeks into living with the foster family, I started taking care of Brittany and Leslie. Dean and Amber, the foster parents, if you can even call them that, wouldn’t really bother with me or the girls. They both drank, were unemployed, watched TV the majority of the day, unless they went out, and it was clear that they were living off of the foster care money. I wondered if the social worker who placed me with them knew that Brittany and Leslie needed me.
I had stopped talking since the day I woke up in the hospital, but that didn’t seem to hinder me assuming a motherly role for the two girls. They were young, sweet and never a handful. Since I wasn’t really sleeping either, and I was up before the girls from the nightmares, it was easy to make sure they were dressed and fed before walking them to the elementary school which was right across the street from the high school. At the end of each school day, they would wait for me until my school was over. We’d walk home, do homework, and then I’d take them out to play for an hour before going inside to cook dinner. The brutal cold winter weather was much more palpable than the storms of Amber and Dean. After dinner, we’d play some more in our bedroom before I got them bathed and ready for bed. Since I didn’t speak, the girls would pretend to read books and describe a different adventure each night from the pictures. They were even able to make me smile a few times.
Our daily morning and evening routine for the week spilled over into the weekends. I would take the girls out of the house for the whole day to avoid the foster parents’ drunken fits and rages, which occurred daily. We didn’t have any money, but we always had fun everywhere we went. I was determined to distract them and myself from the miserable house we lived in. Since the foster house was a brick row home in Hoboken, we did have some nearby places to go to other than the park when the days were too cold from the winter gloom. We’d venture around town going to the local bookstore and some of the shops on the block. One of the restaurant owners would invite us in to rest, warm up and even started giving the girls and myself food every time we visited. The owner, Martin, was even nice enough to invite us to the Christmas and New Year’s feasts he and his wife would host in their home above the restaurant. I made sure we attended. It was a pleasant distraction. They even gave the girls and me a few gifts, mostly clothing, but we accepted graciously.
On one particularly dreary day, towards the end of January, Dean saw us in Martin’s restaurant from across the street. He was picking up his weekly secret ration of liquor that he hid from Amber — I knew where he hid it. Spotting us in the window, he stormed into the restaurant shouting and cursing. Dean accused me of stealing money and sneaking the food we were eating as he grabbed me by my still injured right arm just below my shoulder — when I was released from the hospital, I never received any further care for my injuries. One of the restaurant staff members quickly ran to get the owner.
Martin intervened by placing himself between Dean and me. “She didn’t steal money from you, Dean!” Martin shouted loud enough to make his point to Dean while trying not to scare Brittany and Leslie. “Get out of my restaurant. You are not welcome here. The girls are, but you aren’t.” Martin nodded to Conor who was behind the counter and Conor picked up the phone.
“Don’t you tell me what to do,” Dean’s mouth slurred.
“I gave the girls the food. Let them be and go home,” Martin insisted, taking a step closer to Dean.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Dean blurted out with a breath that reeked of whiskey that I could smell even six feet away.
“This is my restaurant. Get out before I call the cops,” Martin demanded.
“Fine, but they’re coming with me,” Dean barked as he reached to grab Leslie’s left forearm, but Martin blocked him.
“No. I’ll bring them home later after they are finished and you’ve calmed down,” Martin sternly commanded.
Dean glared at Martin with rage. Suddenly, Dean went to strike him, but missed as Martin easily moved out of the way, causing Dean to fall to the floor.
I wondered if he saw the punch coming.
“That’s it . . .” Dean muttered as he tried to stand up straight several times. He repeated his attempts to strike Martin; each time Martin ducked and Dean fell.
The police station wasn’t far, so the police arrived just after one of the times Dean got to his feet, still stumbling from intoxication.