More Than Words: Stories of Courage

by Anthology

  “What’s going on, Trace?” He sat back, most of his linguine untouched. She could hardly blame him.

  She pushed a few green beans around her plate with a fork. “I went to Janet’s today.”

  “And now you have a migraine.”

  She laughed a little. “That would be more likely than a sudden yearning to have a litter of tiny Wagners.”

  “Noisy and chaotic, huh?” He picked up his wineglass. At least the wine had flavor.

  The two of them had agreed early in their marriage to delay the question of having children. Graham had had no experience with babies, and she’d had too much. Over the years he had shown no more desire to add one to their lives than she had. The issue had been sidelined indefinitely.

  “Absolutely chaotic.” She told him about Molly, finishing with a little grimace. “I’m not sure why it’s bothering me so much, but it is. I know there are a lot of children out there who get shoved from pillar to post through no fault of their own. I just haven’t seen it up close before. The way she looks at me when I talk to her, Graham… It’s like she’s trying to read what I want her to say. She must have picked that up along the way.”

  “Maybe that’s how she survived the system. She figures out what people need, then she gives it to them. And in return they don’t make her life any worse than it already is.”

  “I can’t figure out why her foster parents don’t want to adopt her. They could take her to France if they did.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe they just don’t think it matters that much.”

  “Of course it matters!”

  He stared at her.

  “I’m sorry.” She chased some more green beans with her fork. Her stomach was too knotted to eat them.

  Graham sounded as if he were struggling to be patient. “I didn’t say it didn’t matter. I said maybe that’s the way the foster parents think.”

  “It’s just pretty screwed up, wouldn’t you say? What chance will this kid have now? They’re leaving her behind. She has to move to a group home and live with kids who can’t get along in regular foster care. She has to change schools. And the social worker won’t even let Janet take her.”

  “Does Janet really want her?”

  Tracy considered, then shook her head. “No. She’s overwhelmed. She wants to help Molly, but I suspect it was a relief when the agency said no.”

  “The social worker probably sensed her ambivalence and factored it in.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tracy said. “This isn’t your problem. It’s not our problem. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  He swirled the wine in his glass. “Why not?”

  “Because this is our first night home together in ages.”

  “And the first time in a long time we’ve talked about anything really important.”

  She set her fork down. “You sound unhappy.”

  He reached over and took her hand. “I think I miss you. We’re so busy all the time. It’s just nice to be here talking to you, hearing you talk about something that matters. Feeling like it matters to me, too.”

  “Does it matter to you?”

  “I like kids. I used to be one. I remember what it was like.”

  “I wish we could do something.”

  He waited. When she didn’t say more, he cocked his head. “Trace?”

  “Well, I’m not sure, but I think we’re in the same school district as Janet. She’s only a mile away.”

  “And?”

  “Well, all they need is a temporary place for Molly to live until a real foster home opens up. I don’t really need a study. I could move my desk into the bedroom. We could move in a dresser from our room, buy a twin bed. A daybed would be nice in there, anyway, even when it goes back to being my study. It wouldn’t take much work to fix it up a little so she’d feel at home.”

  “We’re never here. You want this girl to take care of herself?”

  Tracy thought about that. “I could limit my evening appointments to two nights a week. Maybe even one. You could cover one night, couldn’t you? You say you’re tired. It would guarantee you a night at home. Maybe your clients could come here if you had to see them.”

  Graham was silent a moment. She watched his thoughts parade across his face. She was more than surprised he hadn’t just said no outright, that it was impractical, not like her at all, a complete intrusion on two lives that were too busy already.

  Then he squeezed her hand and dropped it. “Call the social worker. See what she says. We’ll talk some more when you find out.”

  Panic filled her. It had only been an idea. “You’re serious?”

  “It would be nice to do something for this kid.” He stood. “I’ll clean off the table.”

  No matter what she learned from the social worker, she was suddenly, powerfully certain that she had married the best—not to mention the most attractive—man in the world.

  “There’s not much to clean.” She stood, too. “But our room’s a different story. I threw my stuff all over the bed when I got home. Did you notice?”

  “I did. I think we need to go and clean it off. We can’t have a mess in our house.”

  “It will definitely take two.” She leaned against him and kissed him, tasting marinara sauce and wine. “It’s a very big mess. A skirt, a blouse, a slip. It’s possible there could be more soon.”

  “I’m glad I still have some strength left.”

  “Oh, so am I,” she said with a little smile. “So am I.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Molly had learned a long time ago not to give in to panic when she woke up in a strange house. Through the years she’d taught herself that strange houses were normal, that if she lay in bed without moving and let the early-morning cobwebs drift away, she would eventually remember where she was, why she was there, and if she wanted to make the effort to stay a while.

  This morning she remembered quickly. She was living with the Wagners now, Tracy and Graham, who didn’t expect to be called Aunt Tracy and Uncle Graham, or worse—much, much worse—Mom and Dad. They were just Mr. and Mrs. Wagner, and this room that Mrs. Wagner had fixed up for her was really a study and would go back to being a study soon enough.

  She had lived here three weeks. This was just one more stop until she made it to eighteen and said goodbye once and for all to life as an outsider. When she was eighteen she would get an apartment and she would never leave it. She didn’t care how crummy or small it was, it would be her home forever.

  She heard noises in the hallway, slippers scuffing their way toward the kitchen. Mrs. Wagner got up every morning to make Molly a hot breakfast before school. Molly figured that would stop soon enough. The woman was playing house, and once she got tired of making the effort, Molly would be rooting in the cupboards to find something to eat.

  She’d been there before.

  She got up and carefully made her bed, tucking the sheet in the way one foster mother had taught her. Mrs. Grey, two foster homes ago, hadn’t been mean, exactly, but she had demanded that every chore be done exactly to her standards. She had stood over Molly, tugging the sheet out over and over again if there was a wrinkle or a sag. Molly had finally met the test just before moving on to a different home.

  She showered quickly. She’d gotten in trouble with the last foster family because she used too much hot water. She wasn’t sure if that had anything to do with their ditching her before they went to Paris, but she figured she’d better not take a chance. All she had to do here was stay out of the way, follow the rules, until real foster parents turned up to take her, people who needed the county’s money and would have something to lose if Molly was moved again.

  She knew she was skating on thin ice here. The Wagners didn’t need the county’s money. All Molly had to do was look around the condo to know that. She was just a good deed, something to do so they could feel proud of themselves, and Molly knew if she tried their patience even a little, she’d be packing her suitcase.

  She dressed as quickly as
she’d showered and made sure the room was tidy before she grabbed her book bag and headed for the kitchen to choke down eggs and bacon. She was a vegetarian, waiting for the moment when she could choose her own menu. Four years. Just four more years…

  Pausing in her doorway, she went back to the bed and lifted the pillow. Her quilt was tucked carefully beneath. She fingered it a moment for good luck, closed her eyes and made a quick wish that she could keep the Wagners happy for a while, then tucked it back in and headed for the door.

  Tracy was still surprised how easy it had been to become Molly’s foster mother. She and Graham had received emergency training so the placement could be made without delay. Molly’s social worker had been so thrilled to keep Molly in the school district that she had cooperated in every way.

  Tracy was also surprised how easy it had been to change her schedule, and Graham’s, too, so that Molly had the required supervision. Molly went to Janet’s every afternoon to help with Janet’s kids, and Tracy or Graham picked her up on the way home from work.

  Not that the girl seemed to need adults. Tracy couldn’t imagine a child with fewer needs than this one. She suspected that if Molly could learn not to breathe their air, she would permanently hold her nose. She asked for nothing and seemed worried about everything Tracy and Graham did for her.

  This absolutely infuriated Tracy. Life had taught the girl this was what she had to do to survive. Some nights Tracy didn’t sleep much just thinking about it and wondering how to help.

  This afternoon Tracy got off early and went home alone. Molly wouldn’t be finished at Janet’s for another hour, and Tracy wanted to start a pot roast. The recipe was her mother’s favorite, but it had been years since Tracy had used it. Neither she nor Graham really liked beef, but with a teenage girl in the house, a growing girl who needed iron, they were eating more of it.

  When she unlocked the front door and stepped inside, she was greeted with silence. The condo seemed as empty as it had before Molly’s arrival. As uncluttered, as perfect, as cold.

  She resisted the impulse to drop her coat on the floor and went to change into jeans and a cotton sweater before she started the roast. On the way back toward the kitchen she stopped at the door to Molly’s room and peeked inside. On one level she was pleased at what she saw. She and Graham had moved Tracy’s desk to his study and replaced it with a dresser from their bedroom. Tracy had hung flowered curtains at the window and covered the daybed with a matching comforter and pastel throw pillows. She hadn’t known what to put on the walls, so she’d left them blank. She hoped maybe she and Molly could buy a few posters, but Molly had resisted every invitation to shop. Still, at least the room was inviting and feminine. She hoped Molly approved.

  Despite the cheery floral motif, the room seemed empty. Both Tracy and Graham had been astonished at how little Molly had brought with her. The most basic toiletries, one suitcase of clothing, a few books. Now Tracy stepped inside and looked around. The room was painfully neat, with absolutely nothing out of place. Except…

  A colorful scrap of fabric peeked out from under the pillow on the bed. Tracy knew she was snooping, and that snooping was a major offense to a girl Molly’s age. Still, she felt justified. She wanted to know more about Molly. She needed to. Leaning over, she tugged. Out came a small quilt, larger than those made for infants, but still too small for a twin bed. The quilt was ragged, tattered at the edges, definitely not as clean as it should be. It looked as if it had been dragged around by a much younger child and nearly loved to death.

  Tracy held the quilt at arm’s length to examine it closer. It was made of two different types of blocks. Half the blocks were made of three equal fabric strips of different patterns and shades of lilac, sewn into about a six-inch square. The remaining blocks were made of yellow and white patches, four in each square. The pattern was simple, but charming. Or it would have been charming if the quilt weren’t so ragged. The blocks in the middle were still in pretty good shape, but the rest of the quilt was hanging by a thread.

  Tracy tried a deep breath and found that breathing was harder than she’d expected, because now there was a lump in her throat. The quilt said so much about her young charge. That there was still a little girl inside the self-possessed fourteen-year-old. That Molly had something left from her past to treasure. That Molly needed comfort, even if she didn’t show it.

  When she flipped the quilt to the other side, Tracy saw that the back was a flowered lavender and yellow calico, broken only by the knots of embroidery floss scattered over the surface to hold the quilt together. She almost missed the label in one corner. She was turning the quilt back over when a logo caught her eye—a hand with a heart on the palm.

  “Quilts from Caring Hands, Corvallis, Oregon,” Tracy read out loud. “This quilt belongs to Molly Baker.”

  Who had given Molly the quilt and why? Exactly what did it mean to the girl?

  She folded it carefully again, lifted Molly’s pillow and slipped it back underneath. She couldn’t tell Molly she had seen the quilt, since clearly the girl had hidden it. But she was determined to find out more. This was a key, even if only a small one, to her foster daughter’s heart.

  Molly seemed to like the potatoes and carrots well enough, but her thin slice of meat had gone down quickly and largely unchewed, as if she was swallowing medicine. Graham’s slice was every bit as thin, and now he chased it around his plate as if he were designing a still life: American Pot Roast Supper. Tracy half expected him to bring out an easel and canvas after dinner.

  “Okay,” she said, putting down her fork. “The pot roast was not a good idea.”

  “It’s fine,” Graham said. “Great. But I had a big lunch.”

  “Oh, I’ll have some more,” Molly said. “It’s very good. I’m sorry.”

  Tracy covered the girl’s hand as she reached for the serving fork. “You don’t have to eat another bite, Molly. If you don’t like something here, you never have to eat it.”

  “But I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” For a moment panic flickered in her pretty blue eyes.

  “Honey, everybody likes to eat different things. It’s perfectly natural. Tell me what you do like.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh, pretty much everything.”

  “Well, I don’t really like pot roast,” Graham said. “Or steak. Or black-eyed peas, or turtle soup. Or sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top. I particularly despise marshmallows unless they’re covering a graham cracker and a square of chocolate.”

  “Turtle soup?” Tracy said. “Have I ever served you turtle soup?”

  “And I don’t like kale,” he continued. “I really don’t like mushy peas.”

  Tracy got into the spirit. “Okay, I don’t like lima beans. We used to have them three nights a week when I was a little girl, and nobody wasted food in our house. And succotash. Who ever thought calling vegetables succotash would make anybody want to eat them?”

  “I’m not that crazy about pork chops, either,” Graham said. “I grew up reading Charlotte’s Web. I practically memorized it.”

  “I really hate chicken nuggets,” Tracy said. “Who are those fast-food people kidding? Like there’s any real chicken in one of those things?”

  Graham made a face. “You think chicken nuggets are a joke? Read the label on a pack of hot dogs.”

  “I don’t like any kind of chicken,” Molly said. Immediately she looked embarrassed and, worse, fearful that she’d just made an error.

  “How about turkey?” Tracy asked, keeping her voice even, the question light. “Thanksgiving’s coming up, you know.”

  “I eat turkey.” She gave Graham the quickest of glances. “But mostly I eat the sweet potatoes with little marshmallows on them—if somebody makes them. They’re my favorite.”

  He reached over and ruffled her hair. “You and I are a team, Moll. I’ll eat your turkey, you eat my sweet potatoes. This is a match made in heaven.”

  Molly smiled, but she looked more relieved than h
appy. She hadn’t made anyone mad. No one was going to criticize her for speaking her mind or having preferences.

  She was safe.

  They finished what was left of the meal in silence. When Molly got up to clear the table, Tracy stood, too. “Mr. Wagner and I’ll take care of that tonight. Tomorrow’s Friday. Don’t you have a quiz in history?”

  Molly looked surprised. “How did you know?”

  “Well, you’ve had a history quiz every Friday since you came to live with us. I just assumed…”

  “Oh.” The girl looked flustered. “It’s just that… Well, I do. It’s just that…”

  It was just that she was surprised that anyone had noticed. Tracy saw this as clearly as she saw that the new discovery worried Molly. She understood the girl’s train of thought. People here paid attention. Attention meant expectations. Expectations were impossible to meet.

  “It’s nice to have a teacher you can count on, isn’t it?” Tracy said. “I always hated the kind who popped quizzes any old time.”

  “I never count on anything,” Molly said. “Just in case.”

  She was gone before Tracy could comment. She heard the door to Molly’s room close quietly.

  Graham’s hands were a welcome weight on her shoulders. For a moment she couldn’t speak.

  “She needs more from us than we’re giving her,” he said at last.

  “But she’s only been here a few weeks. It takes time to develop trust.” Tracy faced him, her expression pleading.

  “Hey, did you think I meant we should pass her on to somebody else?” He smoothed Tracy’s hair back from one cheek. “Don’t you know me better than that?”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “That we have to spend more time with her. Get to know her. Let her know she can speak her mind around here and not get in trouble. How about this weekend? What’s on your calendar?”

  Tracy’s calendar was filled with new homeowners who couldn’t see her any other time. Just this once she decided she didn’t care. “I can cancel my appointments with the stroke of a pen, except for a couple. And I can finish those by noon Saturday.”