So Much More(29)

I bark out a surprised laugh because that could be interpreted many ways and I don’t want to dive straight into the gutter, but I can’t help it. “Dirty meat?”

She laughs with me, blushing a bit, but standing her ground. “Yeah, dirty meat. Bologna, hot dogs, pepperoni. You never really know what’s inside. It’s dirty meat.”

Her rosy cheeks are adorable. “Gotcha. Please don’t mention that to Kira. She lives on bologna and hot dogs, and I can’t afford to cut any foods out of her limited diet.”

Faith fries the bologna while I make the mac and cheese. We even toast the bread, so everything about the sandwich is hot.

When we sit down on the couch with our plates, Faith assesses her sandwich. “Seamus, we might be on to something here. This is classy on a budget.”

Raising my eyebrows, I look around the room. “If you hadn’t noticed, that’s how I roll.”

She laughs as she bites into her sandwich and talks only after she’s swallowed. “Oh, I noticed. Me, too,” she adds with a wink.

While we eat, I decide now’s a good time to find out a little bit more about her. “Where are you from Faith?”

“Kansas City,” she answers.

I stop chewing and look at her because surely she’s kidding. She doesn’t look like a Midwesterner. “Really?”

“Really. I grew up there. I moved here a few months ago.”

“What brought you to California? You’re a long way from home.”

She smiles at me like she knows I’m going to be amused by what she’s about to say. “Research.”

I smile in return. “Ah, of course, research. Do your parents still live in Kansas City?”

She shakes her head as she chews a bite of her sandwich.

“Where do they live?”

“I grew up in foster care.”

The words, even though there wasn’t negativity behind them, concern me. I’m familiar with the foster care system due to my job. Counseling sheds light on all facets of my students’ lives. Most foster care parents are loving, giving individuals who want what’s best for the child. But, like anything else in life, there are always the bad apples. The ones responsible for tarnishing the reputation of the good. Those are the ones who stick out in my mind. The ones who shouldn’t be allowed around other human beings, let alone children. “How was that?” My stomach twists as I wait for her answer.

“Let’s just say, some families were better than others.” She takes in my worried eyes and adds quickly, “Some people are really good at making you feel valued. Like you’re worth something. And some people feed and house you.” She shrugs. “I survived. And it made me that much more grateful for the ones who cared. Gratitude isn’t a gift to the receiver, it’s a gift to the giver.”

“How old are you, Faith?” I’m more curious than ever now.

“Twenty-two.”

“How’d you get so wise in twenty-two years?” I mean it, she’s a deep thinker.

“Old soul.” She winks. “Growing up in and aging out of the foster care system is like dog years. About two to your one. Technically, I’m forty-four.”

I love her sense of humor. “Good to know. Should I start calling you ma’am? That’s how I address my elders.”

She shakes her head threateningly. “Never. Even when I’m ninety, no one will be allowed to call me ma’am.”

I’m finished with my sandwich—which was an unexpectedly tasty combination—and wait for her to finish before I ask another question. “How old were you when you went into the system?”

“Two.”

“So, you don’t remember your birth parents?”

She shakes her head to let me know I’ve missed something or that I have the story all wrong. “Long story short, my mother gave me up for adoption at birth. My adoptive parents…weren’t exactly up to the task of parenting after the newness wore off and they figured out babies, toddlers, were work.”

My heart aches. It aches because I can’t help but think of my kids. “Do you know the circumstances behind you going into foster care in the first place?”

“My caseworker shared my file with me when I turned eighteen. The neglect and abuse was all there in black and white. I’m glad toddler’s memories are purged as we mature.” She looks at me. “That’s one of the best gifts I’ve been granted in life, not remembering the worst. But it did make sense of some of the scars I have.”

I cringe at the pain she has no doubt suffered. “I’m sorry.”

Shaking her head, she says, “Don’t be sorry, Seamus. I don’t remember it—”

“That doesn’t excuse what they did,” I interrupt, feeling protective. I can see Faith in my mind giving hugs to strangers on the beach with a kindness that should’ve never been tainted.

“I’m not saying that because I don’t remember it excuses it. They both did jail time. I’ve never spoken to them. I’m just saying that not being plagued with the awful memories was a sympathetic act the universe bestowed upon me. An act that saved me a lot of money on therapy.”

I smile at her positive take on her life. “You’re pretty incredible, you know that?”