“They look nice,” Pickles said. “What are their names?”
Mrs. Beazley frowned. “Miranda and David Harris. They’re from Michigan, and you will be their first foster child. They might be looking to adopt someday.”
The hope that never quite died with each disappointment began to blossom again. Pickles had hopped from one foster family to the next, but what she really wanted was a family to call her own. Mrs. Beazley had once told her that her parents had abandoned her on the footsteps of a police station when she was three years old. Pickles recovered from the abandonment and had been in the foster care system ever since. Her dream, though, was always to find one thing — a family who would love her.
“Do you think they would like somebody like me?” Pickles asked. “Didn’t they want a baby?”
Mrs. Beazley’s pale face grew red. “Well, yes, but so does everybody else. When they couldn’t get a baby, I asked if they would like to try foster care. You’re a sweet girl, Pickles. Never, in all of my years of working this job, have I met a girl as nice as you. I believe with all of my heart one of these days a family is going to adopt you permanently.”
With a slow nod, she concentrated on the smiling couple in the picture. Please let them be the ones to love me enough to want me for always. With her thought finished, she lifted her face and met Mrs. Beazley’s kind gaze. “When can I meet them?” Pickles asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock.” Mrs. Beazley grinned at her. “How would you feel about going to lunch? I’ll come over early to help you look pretty. My daughter has outgrown a lot of her dresses and I think you might fit one of them.”
“Oh, Mrs. Beazley, thank you.” Pickles leapt to her feet, grinning.
“Anytime, Pickles.” Mrs. Beazley’s smile faded as she slowly got to her feet. Confused, Pickles cocked her head as she also stood. “Mrs. Beazley, is something wrong?”
“No.” Mrs. Beazley fought back tears. “It’s just sometimes I wish you could be my own daughter.”
With a grin, Pickles stepped forward and hugged Mrs. Beazley around her plump middle. Mrs. Beazley hugged her back until the air was choked from Pickles’ lungs. Sometimes I wish I was her daughter too. Mrs. Beazley smelled of bacon along with a sweet floral perfume, which Pickles had come to know as well as love. It was comforting, like home. When Mrs. Beazley stepped back, Pickles smiled at her, though she felt her heart clench with hope, nervousness, and fear. None of her past homes had worked out for her, but this couple appeared perfect. She couldn’t help but feel excited and anxious at the same time. Tomorrow would be a frightening day for her.
“Don’t worry about me,” Pickles said. “If they adopt me, I’ll be real happy. If they don’t, then this isn’t such a bad place to be. I mean, I could be out wandering the streets, right?”
Shaking her head, Mrs. Beazley reached forward to tousle Pickles’ short bob. Blonde strands of hair got in her face. Laughing, Pickles tried to straighten it.
****
The next day, she shook with excitement and nervousness. Pickles stood in front of the mirror with Mrs. Beazley beside her. Her roommate, Prudence, sat behind her. Pickles was short, dense but not fat, with a jaw-length bob, plump red cheeks, and bright green eyes. Prudence was her complete opposite, tall and thin with long brunette hair and toffee colored eyes. Pickles believed if Prudence didn’t get adopted, she would be picked up by a modeling agency, which was actually one of the other girl’s goals.
“That dress looks good on you,” Prudence said. “But in the green, you really look like a little pickle.”
They both laughed. Mrs. Beazley stepped over to pat her head. Pickles spun in the mirror for her and the knee-length dressed fluttered around her plump kneecaps. Nothing in her dresser was as fine as this.
“You like it?” Mrs. Beazley asked.
“Do I ever!” Pickles exclaimed. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Then it’s yours.”
With a cry of delight, Pickles stepped over to embrace Mrs. Beazley. She squeaked in surprise before hugging her back, tightening her grip. Today the woman didn’t smell of bacon, but she wore the same perfume.
“Maybe your new foster parents will get you clothes a lot better than this,” Mrs. Beazley said. “Maybe you’ll get a hundred new dresses.”
“I would just settle for good parents,” Pickles said.
Once again, Mrs. Beazley remained silent. She then grabbed Pickles’ hand. Pickles stared up at her in wide-eyed confusion.
“You ready to go to the restaurant to meet your new foster parents?” Mrs. Beazley asked.
“It’s not fair your social worker always takes you to cool places and gives you clothes.” Leaning against the wall, Prudence pouted. “Mine always makes me meet people in the dumb cafeteria. I don’t think she even remembers my name half the time.”
Mrs. Beazley gave her an apologetic look. “Maybe I’ll talk with someone one of these days and help you out, okay, Prudence?” Then she glanced back toward Pickles. “You ready to go?”
“Of course.” Pickles beamed.
The Mechanics of Being Human Page 15
