“There might be something important…”
“Look,” I interrupt, not wanting to hear anymore about it, “I don’t want to read the letter and I don’t want some meaningless locket. You want to read the letter, go ahead.” I shove the envelope with the locket forward, across the seat.
Hammond takes it out of my hand, but has it snatched away by Ms. Garza. She glares at him and then passes it back to me. “You may not want it now, but someday this may be important to you.”
I take the envelope from her reluctantly. “I suppose maybe I can hawk the necklace to buy a bus ticket away from wherever it is that you’re taking me.”
Ms. Garza sighs, realizing finally that there is no getting through to me.
“She is right,” Hammond says. “That locket may be more valuable than you know.”
“I was meaning the letter,” says Garza. “But I’m sure the locket is important too. It’s the only connection you have to your past.”
“And that is supposed to motivate me to hold on to it,” I say. The past is the last thing I want to cling to.
“You may not think so now,” Hammond says. “But someday it may be very important.”
Sitting back, I stare out the window again in silence. Hammond and Garza decide not to push the point. The forest we are driving through breaks into an open valley in which a small town sits, like an island in a sea of trees. Hammond pulls the car over to a small dirt road leading off the main road. A few miles in, a sign marks the outskirts of the town with the words: Welcome to Samos, founded in 1889. Upon looking on the town, it’s not clear how anyone would even know it was here if they weren’t looking for it.
“This is a little too small of a town for my taste,” I say. “Do they even have a mall?”
“Samos may be a small town, but the people are friendly,” Hammond says. “And no, they don’t have a mall, but they do have a local drugstore, and Main Street has plenty of little shops.”
Small houses surround the city center where shops line the road, and in the middle of it all, a church. The church is more like a cathedral, with spires stretching up into the sky. By far it is the tallest structure in the town. On the sidewalks, people stand and stare at us as we drive by. Their faces wear expressions of scrutiny as if they are cautiously deciphering our intent. Old men scowl while huddles of women gather to gossip, even the children interrupt their play to stop and stare.
Ms. Garza shutters. “These guys don’t get out much. Do they?”
“Trust me,” Hammond insists. “These are the sweetest people you will ever meet. They really are quite harmless.”
“Oh, I don’t question their harmlessness,” she says. “It’s their sanity I’m worried about. These small towns creep me out.”
“There’s nothing to be worried about. Kyra will fit in perfectly here. Won’t you Kyra?” His eye’s look eagerly at me through the rear view mirror.
“Just one big dysfunctional family,” I say, returning my gaze to the crowd of onlookers. It’s then that I see him. One standing outside of the crowd as if he doesn’t belong. He is tall, though he can’t be many years older than me. His long hair extends to his shoulders, not exactly my type, but it’s his eyes that catch my attention. They are a deep blue, penetrating as if there are endless depths to them. His whole countenance seems to emanate a light. He is staring at me, but not as the others are. It’s as if he knows me. Soon, I realize that we are staring at each other. I want to glance away, but my heart resists. My whole body is caught up in the stranger. And yet, I know nothing of this guy. Ripping away from my heart’s tugging pull, I glance away, but he does not. I feel him continue to watch me as I pass. On an impulse, I look back, but he is gone from view.
Who is he? I wonder. His face continues to roll through my mind. It is a kind face, though he is not smiling. His expression is more of concern, almost mourning, like the look seen on the faces of the bereaved watching the casket of a loved one being carried down the street. I can’t help to think that I am that loved one, but I don’t know the man. He is a stranger, and still I feel drawn to him as if he is more.
“I’m not convinced this is the best place for Kyra,” Ms. Garza says.
“Of course it is,” Hammond says. “What’s wrong with it?”
“That’s just it,” she says. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Would you rather her go to some slum?”
“Slums I can deal with. Those types you can see coming at you. These suburb types are a different animal. They’re the ones that are all cheery and sweet and then, snap, they’re a serial killer.”
“Don’t be absurd,” says Hammond, as he stops the car outside one of the homes. “She’ll be fine. See they even have a dog.” Outside a dog is running back and forth along the picket fence that lines the house.
“So, what does that have to do with anything?”
Hammond turns off the ignition and turns to her with a grin. “Serial killers don’t have dogs.”
We step out of the car and are greeted with inhuman enthusiasm by what can only be described as cloned versions of June and Ward Cleaver. She tries to hug me unsuccessfully. He vigorously shakes Hammond’s hand. They both declare themselves as the Gregor’s.
“I’m Jeff Gregor,” he says. “But you can just call me Jeff and this is…”
His wife approaches me again, this time with a hand shake. “I’m Justine.”
“We’re your foster parents,” they say, nearly in unison.
“I’m so excited to have you in our home,” Justine says.
She is perky and youthful, a complete contrast to Jeff who is obviously much older. She’s maybe mid-thirties, while he’s pushing past his mid-forties. She’s blonde. Enough said. He’s slightly balding with horn rimmed glasses. Together they could be on the cover of Martha Stewart’s living. She continues to stare at me with a dazed wonder, while he looks around at everyone with an open smile, waiting for some response. There is none. No one knows what to say. Instead, there is only awkward silence broken by the only genuine greeting. That of the dog, which leaps on Ms. Garza and begins licking her face.
Garza fights him off in disgust while Jeff restrains him at the leash. “He’s definitely the eager one,” Jeff says.
“He’s the eager one?” she murmurs, wiping herself off.
“Well, why don’t I take Kyra’s bags up to her room,” Hammond breaks in.
“Good idea,” says Jeff. “I’ll help you.” They push past us towards the car.
Justine continues to look at me with a blank smile. I wave, and then turn to Ms. Garza. “I don’t know about her,” I whisper with a slight nod toward Justine.
“She does seem a bit off,” Garza replies. “But at least she’s friendly, which is more than you can ask for at this point. Just remember what we talked about. This is your last chance. Don’t mess it up.”
“One year that’s all,” I say.
“Then you can go on your merry way to wherever you want,” she says. “For now, give the small town life a chance. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it. I myself would probably die of boredom.”
Hammond comes back from carrying in my bags. He stops and shakes my hand. “Remember, take care of that,” he says, gesturing to my pocket with the envelope. “You never know.”
I nod with a smile. Despite my act, I know that they are trying to help me and I appreciate it, but it doesn’t make things any easier. I wave as they drive off, leaving me with Jeff and Justine, and the dog.
“You know what we need,” Jeff says, “a good barbeque to introduce you to the neighborhood.”
“Great idea,” adds Justine. She reaches to put her arm around me and then thinks better of it. “Well, let’s show you to your room.”
“Lead the way,” I say.
As we turn to go into the house, I notice someone out of the corner of my eye. It’s the stranger from earlier, standing across the street. He’s watching me with a concerned look as if there is something wrong. I�
��m about to yell to him, but Justine interrupts.
“What are you looking at?”
I look at her not knowing why she would ask such a stupid question. “I’m looking at the guy,” I say, turning back to point, “standing across…” He’s gone. Not just gone, it’s as if he wasn’t there at all. The shock makes my head real as I question whether I actually saw him. But I know I did.
Justine glances at Jeff with a concerned look and then back at me. “It’s been a long drive,” Justine says. “Maybe you should rest up a bit before dinner. I’m making casserole.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say. The last thing I want is them thinking I’m crazy. Garza would just say I’m doing it for attention. Still, maybe I am going crazy. Seeing things like my mother. I don’t want to believe it. “I think it’s just the heat and everything. I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“Of course, Darling,” she says.
Given the circumstances, I decide to let the ‘Darling’ thing go. I even let her put her arm in mine as we walk inside. Garza can’t say I’m not trying. Placing my hands in the pockets of my jacket, I feel the envelope and my mind wanders back to the letter. What could my mother possibly want me to know? And why now? I should have gotten rid of the thing when I had a chance. It’s just too painful to drag up the memory of my mother. Too painful to admit that maybe she really did love me.
As I sit in my room, I can tell the Gregor’s took a lot of time to make me feel comfortable. It’s better than any room I’ve had before. Though I can’t say much for the taste in décor. All pink with lots of frills. Exactly what I would expect from my first impressions of Justine. But it’s better than what I usually have. Most fosters would just have me sleep on the floor in their kids’ room. I have to admit. It is nice. The quiet is new too. I can close my eyes and hear nothing, not even the chirping of birds. It is strange.
In the seclusion, I finally gather the courage to look at the letter. I pull out the locket and examine it. It appears to be gold and very antique. Two things I would not expect from a poor schizophrenic mother. She probably stole it from someone. On the front is engraved a strange symbol, almost like a pyramid made of ten flames. Some characters are written between the flames of some language that is unfamiliar to me. It looks Arabic, or how I would imagine Arabic to look. I’ve never actually seen anything written in Arabic. I feel along the side, finding a small groove, which I use to pry it open. It sticks at first and then swings open, allowing something to fall onto my lap. It’s hair.
Really, I think to myself, this is the most important thing that my mother has to give to me when I become an adult. Hair.
I wonder if it is my hair or hers, or worse, some total strangers. That possibility does not totally escape my imagination. My mother was into all kinds of voodoo stuff. Of course, she never admitted it was magic. I pick up the hair between my two fingers and stuff it back into the locket. After putting the locket aside, I quickly wipe my fingers on the bed and turn my attention to the letter.
The paper seems to cling to the envelope as I drag it out. It is fragile, worn with time. Taking a deep breath, I slowly unfold the paper, revealing its contents.
There are only three words written in large frightful letters: TRUST NO ONE.
Chapter 3
The Gregor’s home is a model of perfection. Everything has a place and nothing is ever out of place—ever. This fact becomes quite apparent as Justine takes me on a tour of the house and lays down the rules. Some make little sense to me. But that is the way of the afflicted. And Justine definitely has some heightened form of OCD. Still, she is nice and I get the feeling that she is glad to have me around.
Jeff, while not as concerned about the house, is extremely attentive to the yard and is constantly obsessing over what the neighbors might think of it. Even the dog seems to be a well devised ploy to give some image of what they want everyone to see, which leads me to wonder what image they hope to gain from having me around.
“I hope you don’t mind,” says Jeff, “but I invited one of the neighborhood boys to eat with us. He was helping me in the yard and seems pleasant enough. I thought maybe it would be good for the two of you to get to know each other.”
I don’t know what to say. I never had an adult ask my permission for anything. For that matter, no adult has ever been so polite to me. It’s like I’m an important dignitary rather than some foster care flunky. “That’s fine,” I say.
“Good to hear it,” Jeff says. “He should be coming soon. After he washes up a bit.”
“I’ll set another place at the table,” Justine chimes in.
Everything is still new and I’m not sure what to do. Should I sit down? I look at the couches that are pristinely set with cushions. I missed the part of Justine’s orientation on whether I’m allowed to sit on the couches, so I stand hoping that something will break the awkwardness of the moment. A knock at the door is at least a momentary relief.
“That should be him now,” Jeff says as he opens the door, revealing the dinner guest.
He’s definitely not a boy, at least my age, maybe even older, and very pleasant to look at. He’s got a darker complexion with black solid eyes that glint in the light and a slight hint of roughage along his tight jaw and jetting chin. He looks at me and his brow furrows downward and head bows slightly, not in a submissive way but in a respectful gesture. Despite the rigid features of his face, his expression seems soft and comforting when he smiles. Everything about him gives off a feeling of safety.
There remains a silence between us, but nothing uncomfortable. At least not for us. Jeff, on the other hand, stutters uncomfortably as he tries to interrupt our interlude. “This is… let me make sure I pronounce this correctly. Haa-shh-em.”
“Hashim,” he says. He has a slight accent. Maybe Arabic, but again, I have never really heard anyone who is Arabic speak. But it is how I would imagine it to sound. Rich and exotic. “Most just call me Ethan.”
“Well, Ethan this is Kyra,” Jeff replies.
“That’s what most call me, at least” I say.
“And what do the rest call you,” he says.
I hesitate. “The rest don’t call me.”
He smiles.
“Ethan here is one heck of a landscaper,” Jeff says.
Ethan grins, modestly. “It is easy to work on a yard such as yours.”
Beaming from the compliment, but trying to show humility, Jeff changes the subject, “I don’t know about you, but I am hungry. I bet you are too,” he says, jabbing playfully at Ethan’s arm.
Ethan nods politely, and then smirks at me as if he too is amused by the Gregor’s over-enthusiasm. We walk into the other room. Dinner is served in an actual dining room with a perfectly set table. As I sit, I notice there are more utensils than I usually use for a meal. There are so many that I don’t know which I should use. I decide on the trusty fork, since a spork is unavailable. I look at Justine to see if I have offended some solemn rule of dinner etiquette, but she seems not to have noticed. The food looks better than anything I have seen. Most of my experience has been fast food or some prepackaged frozen substitute lightly warmed in the microwave. For the most part, I have learned to do with little by way of sustenance. This is the first time that I have actually sat down at a table and had a meal that was prepared ahead of time.
As I begin to eat, I am careful not to give the impression of being a slob. Half-way through my first bite, however, I realize that everyone is staring at me. They are all holding hands. At first, I am not sure what they are doing. Some sort of before dinner ritual? Then I realize that is exactly what it is, a ‘before dinner ritual’. Prayer. I’m not sure whether to allow the bite I have placed in my mouth to slip back onto the plate or gulp it down quickly. I decide on the latter and nearly choke.
“Sorry,” I say after taking a swig of drink and allowing the food to slip down my throat. “I’m not used to this. Not much use in praying over a TV dinner. It’s bad for you either way.” I make a
joke, trying to escape embarrassment.
Justine smiles warmly. “That’s alright, darling,” she says. “We just prefer to offer a prayer before we eat. You are welcome to join us if you like, but we don’t want to pressure you.”
“Oh no,” I say as I offer my hands to Justine and Ethan who are sitting at my sides. “I’m fine saying prayer with you.” Actually I’m not, but as Garza said, I have to make this work. This is definitely beyond my usual dinnertime experience.
While Jeff offers prayer, I discretely look around at the others to make sure I am doing it right. The rest of the meal I am sure to watch and follow what the others do. I have never been so nervous at doing such a simple task as eating. I shouldn’t be nervous. After all, I have been doing it my whole life, yet I still feel like I am completely failing. My mind is caught up in thoughts of how everyone must be perceiving me. Usually, I don’t care. But it is difficult to feel that way with a new foster family that I actually need to make things work with, and a good looking guy sitting beside me does not make it any easier. The only thing I can think about is how they might see me. Keeping up images is exhausting; I don’t know how the Gregor’s do it.
Angel Realms 01 The Dawn of Angels Page 2
