It had only been a couple of hours since the caseworker dropped me off at the Shaws'. Ernie and Hensley seemed nice enough, but I hadn't spent much time talking to the adults. Or Portia-a strange name that somehow suited her, even with the little bit I knew. The three of them showed me my room and the mounds of books they'd stocked on the shelves, and I stayed holed up alone until dinner, lost in the pages of a made-up world.
It was weird to eat with anyone other than my mom, or anywhere other than at our table for two. Ours was nestled into a corner of our living room to create a makeshift dining space. Even at eight years old, I knew it wasn't much, but it was ours, and my mom worked hard to make sure we had a nice place. It wasn't as big as the Shaws' house. Our carpet was flat from walking on it all the time, and my twin bed didn't have a matching dresser, much less a nightstand and a lamp. The walls were white and our dishes mismatched, but at home, my mom tucked me in every night. When I was there, she brought me novels from the used bookstore every couple of days. And I knew I'd miss hanging out after school at the diner where she worked-they had the best lemon pie.
There was no lemon pie here. And even though there were tons of new stories to read, they weren't stamped with the logo of my mom's favorite shop. And they didn't smell like they'd been loved. But I had to make do. This wasn't permanent-my mom would get better. And I would go home.
"Jude's a weird name."
I cocked my head to the side and considered what Portia said. I didn't think she meant it to be cruel; it sounded more like curiosity.
"My mom loves the Beatles." The first smile I'd worn all day tugged at my lips. I thought of my mother dancing around our apartment, listening to songs I'd memorized in the womb.
We moved to the couch after dinner. I read a book on one end of the long, leather sofa, and Portia watched a kids' program on TV that I'd never seen since we didn't have cable. She'd sat silent for so long, the sudden conversation surprised me. I'd seen her eye me, and I waited for her to pounce the way other kids did. I wondered whether she would pick at my red hair or the abundance of freckles, or maybe how tall and skinny I was in comparison to other boys our age.
"My biological mom was into Janis Joplin. I hate hearing her songs." She shrugged, and her face contorted into a funny expression, like she'd sucked a lime and didn't care for the taste.
"Does it make you miss her?"
"Hardly," she scoffed. "She did me a favor."
I set my book down, curious to hear what she wanted to share. "I don't understand."
"It makes me think back to the day I found her." She rolled her eyes and let out an exaggerated huff. "And all the days before that, when I'd come home from school and find her tanked."
There was something she wasn't telling me. She glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen, I guessed to see where Ernie and Hensley were. When she gave me her attention again, her words didn't match her tone. "She did drugs. A lot of them. And those stupid songs were always playing in the background. The day I found her dead, one was stuck on repeat. It played over and over. Even after the cops got there, no one turned it off."
"How long have you been here?" I murmured, as though someone slept nearby and I might wake them. Ernie and Hensley had to be as aware of Portia's background as they were mine, so I wondered what the secret was and why we were whispering.
She wiggled a bit and snuggled deeper into the corner of the couch. Her rosy grin quirked to the side, and she stared up as though the answer might be on the ceiling. "Since right after Christmas." Her finger bounced on her chin three times. "So, six months, maybe. Yeah, that's about right." Then her gaze returned to me.
I wanted to keep her talking, but I was more of a listener. And I wasn't big on sharing things about my life. The kids at school made fun of me any time I did, so I had learned a long time ago not to tell my stories. Portia seemed different. Genuine maybe.
"You'll love it here. It's so much better than anything we know." Portia absentmindedly twirled a chunk of her dark hair, and her eyes glazed with contentment, assuming the two of us came from the same mold. "I hope if I'm good, the Shaws will adopt me. That's what they want, too." Her voice was sweet like cotton candy, light and fluffy. I imagined if it were a color, it would be pink-pale pink.
Listening to her ramble on made the day a little more bearable. I should've corrected her and told her that my mom didn't do drugs. I wouldn't be here forever. Yet I was afraid if I did, she'd think I thought I was better than her. And I was certain, even in the short time I'd spent with her, I wanted Portia to be my friend.
"Can you imagine? We could be brother and sister. I've never had a brother." She paused, and that dreamy expression floated across her eyes again. "Or a sister." When she giggled, the room got brighter, my heart grew larger, and I was warm all over.
"I don't have any, either." Sadly, Portia wouldn't become one.
I would go home when my mom finished treatment...even if I didn't know how long that might be.
