The Foster Girls

by Lin Stepp

  Vivian glared back angrily, tears starting in her eyes.

  “You promised you wouldn’t look into my background, Scott,” she accused resentfully. “You broke your word.”

  “Oh, don’t start that teary eyes and broken promises crap,” he snapped back. “I found out inadvertently. I didn’t go snooping into your ever-so private life.”

  “How did you find out then?” Vivian wanted to know.

  “I don’t really owe you an explanation, Vivian, but I’ll give you one, anyway. I came by to bring some more pet food to the farmhouse on my way over to the Greene’s.” He gestured toward the house behind them. “Dearie came racing in under my legs with a bird in her mouth and started off through the house with it. Geeze. I started chasing her down and, then, when she let the bird loose in the house, I had to chase the bird down. I finally trapped it in the sitting room upstairs, with the dang cat yowling outside the door in protest.”

  “Oh, how awful. Was the bird dead?”

  “No, incredibly, it wasn’t. It was still flying around all over the room banging into the walls and windows. I finally caught it in a towel and let it loose out the window after I pushed the screen out. It flew off as if it was all right.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” Vivian wrapped her arms around her knees.

  “Yeah, well your phone started ringing about the time I let the bird out the window. I flopped down on the couch to catch my breath just when your Hollywood boyfriend called. He left you quite a message. He spilled the beans on you, Vivian. I didn’t have to go snooping.” He scowled angrily at her.

  “What boyfriend?” Vivian asked, confused.

  “The one who calls you darling and pretty woman.” Scott’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “The one who says he loves you and that you’re the only woman in his life. Some Tad guy.”

  “Oh, Tad,” Vivian said, starting to giggle then.

  “Don’t laugh about this, Vivian.” Scott leaned over her with a furious look, his tone dangerous. “It’s bad enough you’ve kept this whole Viva Leeds thing from me. But I don’t like it that you’ve kept a secret love relationship from me, too. You have someone else in your life, someone else who’s in love with you and that you’re obviously involved with.”

  Vivian was still laughing and couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  Scott tossed out an unexpected expletive and yanked Vivian to her feet.

  “I’ve never hit a woman in my life, Vivian Delaney or whoever you are. But you’re pushing me very close to the edge here.” He gripped her arms and looked into her eyes with a fury that had Vivian’s senses reeling in alarm.

  “I’m sorry I laughed, but Tad Wainwright is not my boyfriend in the sense that you mean. He is the director of my show and he is avowedly gay,” Vivian told him, in her firm and authoritative professional voice, trying to defuse the situation. “And I want you to let go of my arms right now, Scott. You’re hurting me.”

  Scott loosened his grip on her arms a little.

  “What did you say?” he asked, trying to calm down now.

  “One of these days that impulsive streak of yours is going to get you into some real trouble, Scott Jamison,” she told him quietly. “It’s always been the thing I’ve found least attractive in you.”

  Scott pushed away from her then, sitting down on the steps to try to channel his anger back under control. Vivian sat down beside him, rubbing her arms and watching him struggle with himself. He was actually shaking.

  “I won’t apologize.” He muttered his reply, breathing heavily. “I’ve been through hell tonight.”

  “Mostly of your own making.” Vivian knew her tone was snappish and unsympathetic but she didn’t care.

  “That man on that phone said he loved you and called you darling.” Scott frowned at her, his anger flaring up again. “Said for you not to fall for any guys from over here in farmsville. How do you think that made me feel, Vivian? Especially after just learning you were The Foster Girls author - and probably a millionaire off that television series. I felt like an absolute fool.”

  “I told you I didn’t want you to know because it would change things.” Vivian dropped her eyes, not wanting to keep looking at Scott’s angry face.

  “The only thing that’s changed is that I’m pissed at you for keeping this from me. And I’m hurt that you didn’t think I was important enough for you to talk to about this. That you still don’t think of me as someone you can trust.” Scott propped a foot up on the porch beside her. “I’ve waited patiently these months for you to come to know me well enough that you would want to tell me about yourself. But you never have. This is not the way I wanted to learn about you, Vivian. So it’s no wonder I thought the worst. Whose fault is that, Vivian? I ask you?”

  “Dearie’s?” she suggested with a grin, trying to get a little smile out of Scott.

  “No, Vivian, it’s yours,” Scott returned, refusing to soften. “Now this is D-Day. And I want you to talk to me. Why have you kept all this from me?”

  Vivian sighed. What could she tell him? She wasn’t even sure she knew the answers herself.

  “I’m kind of a private person,” she told him, trying to offer him some answer. “I’ve had a lot of losses and betrayals. I was close to my mother, but my relationship with the Meros was more formal, I guess. It wasn’t as rich and intimate as with my own mother. I always had a big imagination, a whole private life of ongoing dramas in my head. My mother understood. We imagined together. But when I shared with people after mother was gone, they thought I was odd. Peculiar. Over time, I just found it easier to keep myself to myself. To be more what people seemed to want. I guess it became a pattern with me.”

  She stopped to think, and Scott stayed quiet, listening. Watching her again.

  “When I started writing, it was my secret thing. A way I got release. It was private.” She looked up at him then, hoping she could find a way to make him understand. “I never told anyone about it until somehow it came up in conversation with Betsy Picardi in my college years. Over the years before that, I’d been polishing my little Foster Girl stories into better and better dramas as I studied English and learned more about language and writing. I knew they were nice little books, but I knew they weren’t the type of books English professors would see as good literature. They were just cute. Warm stories about four girls coming of age who were foster kids without parents. It was something I understood. When I was growing up as a foster child, I never really had anyone special, another sister or close foster sibling, but these girls had each other. I created that for them. I lived the life I dreamed of living through them, I guess. It felt exposing for anyone to know I’d written those books. It was my private side. I wanted it kept there.”

  “Why is that person, Viva Leeds, that writes The Foster Girls so different from Vivian Mero and Vivian Delaney?” Scott caught her eyes.

  “I don’t know.” Vivian’s reply was quiet. “Maybe because Viva’s books reveal the lost child in me. I based them on the little dolls my mother gave to me.”

  A few tears ran down Vivian’s cheeks, and she clenched her hands in her lap. “My mother gave me those small character dolls every birthday from five to eight. First Veronica, then Marybeth, then Rachel, and then Isabel. Mother and I named them and created stories about them, made them come alive. They had different nationalities; they were a part of an Around the World doll series. Each one came in a special box with a booklet about the country and a wardrobe of little clothes.”

  Vivian looked up at Scott again. “After mother died, I took them with me to every foster home. They would fit in my suitcase. I wasn’t allowed to carry much with me, to keep much from my home or my life with my mother. Just two little suitcases. That’s what my life got reduced to. So I lived all the pieces of my missing life through the dolls. I kept them growing up. I had them become foster girls, just like me, in my imagination. I wrote little stories about them in my mind, and when I could, I wrote them down on paper. But sometimes ot
her people found them and made fun of them. And they made fun of me for writing them. Even at the Mero’s, I kept my stories and my writing secret. It became my special thing that kept me in touch with my mother. It was private, Scott. I haven’t wanted to share it.”

  “But you shared your books with Betsy.” Scott’s words held accusation.

  “That was an impulsive thing,” she admitted. “Betsy and I had such a harmony. We still do. Her mind and her way of thinking mirrored mine. We related. I didn’t feel threatened or criticized with Betsy. I felt valued, especially when she convinced me other people would like to read and share in my foster girls’ adventures and lives.”

  Scott eyed her silently for a minute. “Shouldn’t the fact that people have liked your stories make you feel better about your work and who you are as a writer now, Vivian?”

  “It should.” She admitted that honestly. “But that scared little girl is still in there, I guess. I loved it when I could have both lives - Vivian’s more normal life that everyone approved of plus Viva’s secret writer’s life. Both were important to me. And when everything blew up at Armitage, I almost fell apart. I couldn’t choose between the lives. I couldn’t give up writing to just teach, but I didn’t want to be a famous Hollywood person, either. I hated that environment. I didn’t fit in.”

  Vivian smiled in thought. “Tad loves that life style, you know. He and his partner, Boone, just thrive on that Hollywood world. But I don’t, Scott. It locks me up. I can’t think; I can’t write. I can’t produce. When everything became public at Armitage, I shut down. I felt nervous and conspicuous all the time and my stomach hurt. Reporters followed me around. People called and wanted me to be on radio and television shows, to come to events and parties. I didn’t know these people and suddenly they wanted to know me just because of my work.”

  “Vivian, most people would find that flattering.” Scott smiled and shook his head indulgently.

  “I don’t know why they would.” She puzzled the idea in her mind. “Sometimes these were people who never even noticed me or gave me the time of day before. Who didn’t even like me. Not the real me. Don’t you see?”

  Scott sat quietly for a minute considering what she’d told him.

  “Here’s what I see,” he replied, calmer now and reaching down beside the porch to pick one of the flowers that grew there.

  He held out the flower on his palm to Vivian. “What is this?”

  “It’s just a little purple violet,” she told him, wondering at this turn of thought.

  “That’s right.” His voice was kind now. “And, look, it has these five petals or parts – kind of like you do.”

  Scott picked off one of the petals and put it in Vivian’s hand. “Here’s Vivian Delaney, the child, her mother’s daughter, the one that lived in that little bookstore in Mendocino and played fairies like Sarah and Chelsey.”

  Vivian smiled in the dark.

  “And here’s Vivian the foster child,” he said, picking off a second petal to put it in her hand, also. “She had some bad experiences, and then some good ones. She grew up with some pretty nice folks, the Meros, from what I hear. That led to this next person.”

  He picked off another petal. “This is Vivian the professor, a smart woman, a good teacher, someone who cared about her students.”

  “Here’s yet another Vivian.” He put a fourth petal in Vivian’s hand. “This is Vivian the creator, the writer, with a brilliant imagination and an incredible story-telling gift. Becoming rather well-known, this Vivian.” He chuckled at that.

  “And here, this last petal, is just Vivian the woman.” He took the last petal off and held it in his fingers for a moment before laying it in Vivian’s hand, too. “Full of promise to be someone’s love, someone’s wife, someone’s mother, maybe someone’s grandmother some day.”

  “All those fragmented pieces.” Vivian looked down sadly at the petals scattered in her hand.

  “No, you miss the point, Vivian,” Scott admonished gently, reaching down to pick another violet from beside the porch. “There’s just one violet here with many parts. With any part gone, the violet isn’t whole. It is all the parts together that make it beautiful, that make it whole, that give it its full identity.”

  He took her hand then, and reassembled the petals he had pulled away back into a whole flower shape in her palm. “You’re not just one part, Vivian. You’re not supposed to be. No one is. And you’re not meant to keep the parts separate or secret. They’re all you. They’re all worth celebrating. They’re all worth knowing.”

  “Maybe.” She studied the violet petals in her hand.

  Scott waited while she thought about it. He always seemed to know when she needed time to be quiet and just think.

  “What about you?” Vivian asked him then, reaching down to pick another violet. “If it’s true, what are your parts?”

  Vivian knew by the quick frown on his face that he hadn’t expected that response from her.

  “All right, Vivian,” he said, humoring her and giving her a quirky smile. Such a contrast to the Scott who had been so angry before.

  He stretched out his tanned legs, took the violet she’d picked from out of her hand, and pulled off a petal. “Here’s Scott the kid who grew up with two brothers and enjoyed great times on the lake and here in the mountains.”

  “And here’s Scott the fox.” He smiled that smooth and easy smile of his. “A boy who began to have his own identity, his own dreams - who went to college to become a businessman, who was fascinated with marketing and liked the challenges of pursuit.”

  He pulled off another petal then. “Then, here’s Scott the successful young marketing graduate, out in the business world, on his own, finding his way. And doing a dang good job of it most of the time, if I remember right.”

  Vivian smiled at him. “And then Scott the camp director?” she asked, looking down at the flower in his hand.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s certainly another dimension. And, then maybe this last petal is just Scott the man. A man that has fallen in love with this crazy woman with multiple personalities and multiple lives.”

  “Is that me?” Vivian asked with a touch of wonder.

  “Yeah, and if she could ever realize that all of her is good – that all of her identities are okay and of worth and value – and that no part of her needs to be kept secret, we just might have something.” He stopped and looked at the petals they had torn off, still loose in her open palm.

  “Vivian, I don’t want just a petal or two.” He looked at her intensely. “I want the whole flower or nothing at all. I want to offer you my whole self and, believe me, it’s your whole self I want in return. I don’t want to live with part of a person that is always holding things back and keeping parts of herself private and secret from me or from anyone else, either. I’m an open and straightforward guy. I’m not good at playing games. I’ve told you that from the start.”

  He stood up then, dusted off his shorts, and turned to look down at Vivian.

  “When you can give all of yourself to me – and to the world, too, Vivian, – without hiding little aspects of yourself like they’re shameful rather than beautiful, then you let me know. We might just make a go of it. We might just have a shot at something like my Gramma and Poppy Jamison had, like my folks have.”

  “You think about it, Vivian.” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t want just some piece or two you decide you might want to give me. I want the whole thing. I want all of you, united, no secrets. I want to meet this Tad guy, Betsy Picardi, and the Meros; I want to go see California and the places you’ve lived. I want to take you to my parents’ house, to meet my brothers and their wives, and all of my friends. I want to be able to tell them about you, about every aspect of you and not just a part or two. It’s all or nothing with me, Vivian. I don’t want any more secrets. And I certainly don’t want any more surprises like tonight.”

  Vivian looked up at him and watched the face that had been so angry before soften in
the gathering darkness. He touched her cheek and turned to head home.

  “I don’t want just a kiss goodnight anymore, either, Vivian,” he added from the shadows as he started away from the farmhouse. “I want a ring on your finger and a place in your life and every night in your bed. No pieces, Vivian. No single petals. You think about it.”

  And he walked off back toward the camp.

  Vivian sat there a minute trying to digest all that happened, all that he had said.

  He knew who she was now. He’d been so angry about finding out. He’d been so angry about Tad. She almost laughed over that again. There was nothing to be jealous about with Tad.

  Vivian opened her fist and looked at the violet petals she held crushed in her hand. He wanted her whole, he’d said. He valued all of her. She studied the petal pieces again. He said he liked all of her, all the Vivians, all the parts of her.

  She sat up in surprise as another piece of Scott’s conversation penetrated into her consciousness. He’d said he loved her, that he’d fallen in love with her. How had she missed that? And he’d said something else. What was it? That he didn’t want just a kiss goodnight anymore. That he wanted all of her and to be in her bed. And, oh my Lord, that he wanted a ring on her finger. He actually said he wanted to marry her.

  Was he proposing and had she missed it? Vivian’s heart started to beat almost out of her chest. He loved her and wanted to marry her and she’d been so mad at him and so confused over everything that she’d missed it.

  She looked down the path to see if she could still see him. But he was gone.

  Vivian got up and started running after him.

  “Scott!” she called out into the night after him. “Scott, stop. Please stop. I’ll put it in the newspaper. I’ll be on the local news station. I’ll do a television special from the camp. I’ll quit hiding anything, I promise. You can have all of me, all the petals.”

  She ran on into the woods into the dark, wishing she had a flashlight, hoping she wouldn’t trip. And then she did trip and fell straight into the big solid wall of Scott in her pathway.