by Pat Simmons
“You’re too much.”
“Yeah, but my woman can handle me.”
Wonderfully distracted, she scribbled Hallison Jamieson several times on a pad. “We better hang up before we start something on this phone.”
“Ooh, let’s start something, baby.”
“Behave, Mr. Jamieson. Good-bye.” She giggled as she heard Malcolm smacking kisses on the other end of the phone before she disconnected. Stretching out her hand, she admired the stones on her engagement ring as they reflected the hues of sunlight.
She couldn’t wait to tell Cheney, but it would have to wait. With her receptionist out, Hallison had to deliver the new employee benefit handbooks to another department upstairs. Blissfully happy, she strolled out of her office on her way to the tenth floor.
Her two-inch heels clicked against the lobby’s marble floor as she approached a set of triple elevators. Hallison squeezed the booklets while humming Luther Vandross’s Here and Now. Of all the songs she and Malcolm had danced to on New Year’s Eve that one seemed to rotate in her head. “It’s scary being this happy.”
Suddenly, Paula Silas, the new credit manager, bounced off the elevator. A smile lit Paula’s face when she saw her. “I’m glad I ran into you.”
I’m not. Hallison forced her lips into a fake smile. “How are you? I’ve heard wonderful things about how you’re running your department.”
Paula beamed. “I don’t want to let anybody down—my staff, you, and definitely not God who blessed me with the position in the first place.”
Hallison fingered her hair in annoyance, keeping her lips glued together.
As the woman’s eyes widened, Paula’s mouth dropped open as her manicured hands went up in the air. “Wow. That’s some rock. You’re engaged?”
Although Hallison wanted the world to know, Paula was not one of them. Guarded, Hallison nodded.
“Well, congratulations, Miss Dinkins.”
Glowing, Hallison glanced down at her ring. “Thank you. My honey proposed to me New Year’s Eve.”
Paula touched Hallison’s ring hand. “May God bless both of you.”
Uh-oh, there she goes with putting God in this again. “Thanks, but I need to catch this elevator. I’ll talk—”
As if it were natural, Paula looped her arm through Hallison’s. “I’ll ride with you. I was just taking a break anyway, on my way to the cafeteria.”
Hallison dared not be rude to God’s people, but Paula was testing her. “Sure.”
After Hallison pushed the tenth-floor button, Paula talked nonstop. “I was engaged last year to a wonderful Black man, but I had to let the brother go. After God saved me, I realized it wouldn’t work.”
For some odd reason, Hallison didn’t want to hear the rest of Paula’s story.
“Humph, and the brother was fine, too. Good job, nice house, and great parents. I gave him up for Christ.” Paula added, grinning, “Now, I’m waiting for Jesus to send me my mate—a real soul mate, someone who can love me and pray for me. I can’t wait. God has promised to give me someone special. I plan to prove God’s Word.”
Just Hallison’s luck they stopped on almost every floor. Hopefully, Paula’s testimony would end soon. They had three more floors to go.
Pausing, Paula gave Hallison an intense look. “You and your fiancé are in the church, aren’t you?” She looked worried.
“We’re working on it,” she lied, plastering a pleasant smile on her face.
“Thank the Lord. There ain’t nothing like a God-fearing, on-his-knees-praying, Holy-Ghost-filled man.” She winked.
When the elevator stopped on the tenth floor, Hallison raced out.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“These are nice children’s rooms, Miss Reynolds. Your home is simply lovely.” Wilma smiled as she wrote a check mark in boxes on the Missouri licensing form. “I feel compelled to ask, how long have you thought about becoming a foster parent?”
Cheney fingered a native Indian doll resting on the dollhouse-shaped bookshelf. She shrugged. “A few years after I accepted that I wouldn’t be able to bear any kids.”
Wilma pushed her small wire-rimmed glasses up on her nose. “Have you decided how many children you want to take in, their ages, or if you want to be an emergency, specialized, traditional, or long-term foster parent?”
Twisting her fingers, Cheney hoped, wished, and even prayed that she would be accepted. If Hallison’s year could start off with good news of her engagement, just maybe she would have good news, too. Plus, without asking she had Parke’s love and support, and this was her sign from God.
“Right now,” Cheney explained, “I can’t do the specialized training for children with behavioral and medical problems. I feel drawn to being an emergency parent for on-call crisis situations. I think the thirty-day limit would work best for me starting off.”
Nodding, Wilma added, “We might ask you to take a child in the middle of the night with just the clothes on his back. You may have a child just for the weekend until regular placement is found. Not every child you take in will be with you for a month.”
Cheney’s mind was made up. “I read through the information you sent. I know it requires additional skills and extra training, but I’m committed.”
“I’ll note your preference on your application. That’s a plus in your favor. Most people prefer the traditional foster parents—no surprise wakeup calls, just ordinary kids not living in the best situations.”
“Later, I may take in babies or toddlers under long-term care for possible adoption. That way, they wouldn’t have been exposed to so much pain.”
Wilma folded her arms with her clipboard against her chest. “Everybody has a history, including the children at the division. There’s a record somewhere—family, prenatal, birth, and hospital— regardless of their ages.”
“Hmm, I know, but the younger they are, hopefully the less they will remember of their bad circumstances and grow to appreciate the nice things.”
“It’s not about nice things, Miss Reynolds. Many people make the assumption that abused children will feel grateful to be with another family. On the contrary, most kids truly care about their parents and siblings. Most would return to their ‘crisis’ environment in a minute just to be around the ones they love.”
Cheney ingested Wilma’s reprimand in silence.
The recruiter turned and strolled out of the bedroom. “That’s why I requested records from your psychologist. In addition to good physical health, mental and emotional stability, you’ll have to help the child understand the position of foster and natural families. He should never be made to feel he has to choose between families because one is better than the other.”
The woman took her job seriously. Too bad all workers didn’t, otherwise kids wouldn’t suffer abuse at the hands of their foster or adoptive parents, or get lost in the system like five-year-old Rilya Wilson from Miami years ago. That child hadn’t been reported missing for fifteen months because the caseworker lied about conducting monthly visits. That wouldn’t have happened if Wilma was her caseworker.
Wilma continued to tour Cheney’s house. She inspected smoke detectors, searched for possible health hazards, and looked for structural violations that could keep her from becoming a licensed foster care provider.
An hour later, the two sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and discussing Cheney’s application. “Miss Reynolds, another concern of mine is your relationship with your immediate family. Without question, you’ll need a support system.” She paused. “Mrs. Beatrice Beacon described her relationship with you as a surrogate grandmother. Parke Jamieson—there’s something about that name that still sticks out, anyway, his background and references checked out, as well as his parents’ statements about you.” She shuffled through papers. “Miss Hallison Dinkins spoke highly of you.”
Cheney beamed. Parke’s family and friends had come through for her and made the difference. Rainey never returned her calls, so she made a mental note to
pay him a visit. She was almost as happy as Hallison when she spoke of her engagement then mumbled something about demons from her past not wanting her to be happy.
Demons. As if Cheney had some power over demons, she threatened them they were not invited to her foster care house inspection. Reading scripture after scripture that morning had paid off. Then Wilma twisted her lips. Here comes the bad news.
“Unfortunately, the responses from your family are mixed.” She scanned her notes. “Besides your twin—I informed you of his comments—your mother says she can’t provide a support system for you because you’ve distanced yourself from them. This information is not glowing and will have to remain a permanent part of your files.”
Demons from her past had indeed reared their ugly heads.
***
The next few months, Parke faithfully accompanied Cheney to the remaining training classes with no complaints. Mrs. Beacon stockpiled Disney home videos, computer games, and books. Finally, Cheney received the call.
“Congratulations, Miss Reynolds,” Wilma greeted. “Your criminal and financial background checks are complete, and the results are superb. Your home has passed inspection. You’re now a licensed emergency foster parent.”
Dropping the phone, Cheney screamed hysterically. Within minutes, Mrs. Beacon was banging on her door with a distressed-looking Parke close behind.
“I passed! I passed!” Cheney shouted.
Parke swept her into his arms in a tight hug, lifting her off the ground and kissing her hard on the lips. Mrs. Beacon sauntered into Cheney’s living room mumbling, “About time. You’re making enough noise to raise the dead.”
“Oh no, I left Wilma on the phone.” She detangled herself from Parke and raced back into the kitchen, her support-team trailing. Retrieving the phone, Cheney apologized. “I’m so sorry. Yes, yes, I’ll be here to sign the contract. Thank you.”
Wilma chuckled. “Congratulations, foster mom. See you in an hour.”
After the call, the three stood in Cheney’s kitchen sniffing, drying teary eyes, and hugging.
“You’re going to need a swing set in the backyard,” Mrs. Beacon commented.
“Do we have enough toys?” Parke asked.
Cheney folded her arms. “Wait a minute. Whose kids do you think they are anyway?”
Mrs. Beacon and Parke answered without hesitation. “Ours.”
***
A distant ringing bounced off Cheney’s bedroom walls. She scooted farther under the covers, burying her head into a fluffy pillow. When the realization hit, Cheney rummaged for the phone. “Hello,” her voice forced out, drugged with sleep.
Wilma’s voice was on the other end rapidly explaining a child’s needs. She pushed herself up in bed. Clumsily, she switched on the night lamp. “Okay, okay.” Cheney took a deep breath. “I’m awake, I think. Now, repeat everything.”
“I have a two-year-old girl who was just removed from a home after a drug bust and eight family members were arrested. She’s being checked out at Children’s Hospital. Can you meet me there and take custody of her?”
“Sure.” They disconnected. Rubbing her eyes, she looked cross-eyed at the clock: 3:42 in the morning. “Why can’t people do illegal drug activity during normal business hours?” As she pushed back the covers, Cheney debated if she should call Parke—nah.
After three hours waiting in the emergency room, Cheney chided herself for not waking Parke. “Isn’t it like a man to sleep through the night while the woman stays awake with the child?” She chuckled, sipping on her third cup of coffee as she tried to recall all her emergency foster care procedures. Mrs. Beacon had already agreed to care for any little ones during the day if Cheney couldn’t take off work, and Parke volunteered for the nights and weekends, if needed. But she had no plans on going to work today.
Wilma appeared, carrying a beautiful little girl with two forgotten braids. She wore a dingy once-white T-shirt and pink corduroy overalls. She looked frightened and tuckered out. “This is Kami Fields, a biracial child of a fifteen-year-old White teenage mother, who’s pregnant with another child. Her father is a seventeen-year-old African-American whose income comes from selling drugs—coke, crack, and heroine. This is his second parole violation. It doesn’t look good.”
What a bad environment to rear a baby, Cheney thought, reaching for the toddler, Kami pulled back, clinging to Wilma.
“I’m sorry it took so long. Since she was around drugs, we had to conduct developmental tests and give her a physical.”
Cheney swallowed hard. “Is she okay?”
“Luckily, she is. Otherwise, I would have to place her with specialized foster parents instead of with you. I hope you can take a few days off work.”
“Not a problem. I have vacation time. Plus, my immediate boss knows I underwent training to become a foster parent.”
The women talked as Kami dozed. Cheney took the sleeping child, wrapped her inside her trench coat, and left. She laid Kami in the car seat the hospital lent her, fumbling with the straps. Sitting behind the wheel of her Altima, Cheney called the executive office and left a message for her boss that she was taking off. Next, Cheney speed dialed Parke. It had happened. Cheney Reynolds was a foster parent.
“Hello.”
“Parke—”
“Hey, babe, I was dreaming about you last night. Want to know what about?”
“While you were dreaming, I was at the hospital.”
“What!” Panic filled Parke’s voice. Cheney heard his razor shut off. She would’ve roared with laughter if her precious foster child wasn’t resting behind her.
“Yeah, I’ve got a little girl. She was removed from a drug house with only the clothes on her back.”
“What’s her name?” Parke sounded in awe.
“Kami,” Cheney hushed, smiling. “She’s a cutie.”
“I bet she is,” Parke said, chuckling. “I’ll go shopping and get her some clothes.”
“Oh no, you don’t. Little girls are supposed to wear matching socks, smell like flowers, and have straight parts in their hair with colorful barrettes and ribbons. What do you know about that?”
“Are you saying I can’t do my job as a foster dad? Watch me. I’ll call my secretary and take off work; we can all spend the day bonding. Next time, wake me up, sweetheart. I don’t want my new millennium woman to handle everything by herself.”
She smirked after they ended the call. Parke Jamieson was perfect. Had she created this African prince from her own imagination? He was truly genuine, very caring, and a determined Black man. Cheney’s opinion of him had come full circle. He had been so committed to her cause and she was falling hard for him. His branding kiss and enduring the foster care classes because of her sealed the deal for her.
Cheney checked on Kami, then called her neighbor. “I hope you’re working on breakfast because I’ve been up most of the morning with my first child.”
Mrs. Beacon huffed while music from Janet Jackson’s video blasted in the background. “Yippee. We got ourselves a baby.”
“We’ve got a scared little thing who isn’t going to be happy to see you or me when she wakes up,” Cheney mumbled tightly, glimpsing another look at Kami for the thousandth time before she drove away.
Kami slept through the car ride and a couple of hours more when Cheney got her home. “Finally, a little girl to tuck in at night.” Cheney smiled as she scanned her handiwork in the bedroom, then backed out the room, leaving the door cracked.
It was almost eleven in the morning before the child woke, and despite the aroma of Mrs. Beacon’s hot biscuits, strawberry jam, and sausage links she brought to Cheney’s kitchen, Kami whimpered, refusing a taste. When Parke arrived with a large teddy bear, colorful balloons, and two large shopping bags over-stuffed with sundresses, pants, lightweight jackets, pajamas, and cartoon underwear, Kami stopped crying as she held out her arms for him to pick her up. Cheney and Mrs. Beacon exchanged dumbfounded expressions as Parke winked, cradling the child lik
e he had been a dad all his life.
“Ya just gotta know what the little lady wants,” he instructed.
“Shut up, Parke,” Cheney and her neighbor barked in unison.
***
Cheney’s house was the meeting place for a family affair. Malcolm and Hallison arrived loaded with books and clothes for Kami. Parke’s parents weren’t much better, dropping off educational games, food, and offering free babysitting, calling Kami their foster granddaughter. She hadn’t bothered contacting her own family.
Less than a week later, Wilma phoned to inform Cheney that Kami might go into traditional care because the child’s maternal grandmother didn’t want to have anything to do with a mixed child, and Kami’s teenage mother had yet to contact the Division of Family Services to schedule any weekly visits. “The dad’s family is so dysfunctional,” Wilma commented, “I doubt any of them would survive the three-week kinship training classes. Most of them are substance abuse offenders themselves.”
“It’s amazing people live like that,” Cheney said out loud. “And nobody would want to fight for this beautiful little girl.
Wilma sighed. “It’s more amazing that Kami isn’t a drug baby. God must’ve been watching over her.” Cheney immediately offered to keep her longer. “Since you requested emergency cases, she can’t stay more than a few extra weeks at the most.”
Cheney observed Kami cuddled in Parke’s arms, enjoying Snow White, a video Mrs. Beacon had purchased. They were so natural as father and daughter. Parke turned, met her stare, and smiled contentedly before giving Kami a tight hug.
Happiness cocooned Cheney, too. Foster care was the answer. Kami remained subdued and alienated for a toddler, but she had begun following Cheney around the house and eagerly expected her arrival at the day care the agency suggested when Mrs. Beacon was unavailable. Parke stopped by every morning to eat breakfast with them. In the evening, he returned, sometimes bringing dinner, or to help prepare meals.
