Falling Harder

by W. H. Vega

  Miss MacCoy lets out a barely audible sigh. “In a perfect world, that’s what would be happening,” she says, “But you have to understand, Nadia. It’s harder to find adoptive families for older children.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. You see, most families that are looking to adopt a child prefer to take in a newborn, so that they can raise her as their own. Foster kids get sort of a bad reputation, so the older you get, the more difficult it is for us to place you.”

  “But...I’m really well behaved,” I insist, fingering my compass anxiously, “I never leave dirty dishes around the house, and I’ve never gotten less than a B+ in school. Doesn’t that help?”

  “I’m sure that if a family is looking to adopt a twelve year old girl, you’ll be at the top of the list, Nadia,” Miss MacCoy says with a sad smile.

  It doesn’t escape my notice that she uses the word “if” rather than “when” every time adoption comes up. I clench my teeth, fighting to keep a sudden swell of heartache down.

  “I guess this is OK for now,” I say, gathering my things. “Let’s go meet my new family, I guess.”

  Miss MacCoy walks me up to the Goldsteins front door. As we approach, I can hear a noisy racket leaking out through the cracks in the walls. My foot touches down on the first step of the stoop as the front door flies open. I feel the wind get knocked out of my gut as I hit the ground, toppled by some burly projectile. The world spins around me as I struggle to suck in air. I’m vaguely aware of a big, booming laugh sounding out overhead. I feel Miss MacCoy’s hands on me, straightening me up. Blinking around, I struggle to make sense of the scene.

  Two boys, fourteen or so by the look of them, are wrestling viciously on the patchy green lawn beside me. The front door of the house stands wide open, knocking against the vinyl siding. They must have knocked me over on their way out onto the grass. A plump, harried woman stomps out onto the porch, planting her hands on her hips.

  “Daryl! Chuck!” she yells in a raspy, low voice, “Get your asses back inside! Quit making fools of yourself, for once.” The two boys pay her no mind whatsoever, and she turns to me with a grunt. “Oh, hey there!” she says, crackling a yellow-toothed smile for my benefit. “You must be Nadia! Welcome to the Goldsteins."

  I steal a glance at Miss MacCoy, asking her silently whether there’s been some mistake. But she’s wearing a resolute mask, and I know that this is it. This is really the place that I’ll call home for the time being.

  “Is this our new sister?” hollers one of the boys, a thick piece of work with ginger hair and freckles. “She’s cute!”

  “Shut up dude,” yells the other boy, chubby and blonde, “That’s freakin’ gross.”

  “Get inside and wash up,” Mrs. Goldstein commands the boys. They storm past us into the house, stealing looks at me as they go. Something about the way their eyes linger on my narrow shoulders and hips, the bare skin of my legs where the denim cutoffs end, makes me uneasy.

  “I’ll let you take it from here,” Miss MacCoy says, pulling me into a brief hug. “Take care, Nadia. I’ll see you soon.”

  My social worker hurries back to her car, leaving me in the care of my new foster mother. Mrs. Goldstein plants a firm hand on the back of my neck and marches me up the porch steps.

  “You’ll love it here,” she assures me, “We’ve got cable, and a tire swing out back, and meatloaf every Wednesday. You like meatloaf Nadia?”

  “Sure,” I say weakly.

  “Great!” Mrs. Goldstein says, “You’ll get along just fine here.” She closes the door behind us, and so begins my new life as a member of the Goldstein family.

  For the first few nights, I don’t even sleep. My room is essentially a laundry closet decked out with a cot. I can hear my foster brothers and father snoring through the door, and the house all but rattles with the force of the sound. I lie awake, staring at the water stained ceiling, and wonder when I’ll wake up from this strange dream I’ve fallen into. How long before this world vanishes before my eyes and I feel my mother’s hands on my shoulders again, shaking me out of a deep sleep?

  But as much as I keep hoping to be wrenched out of this place, I’m just not that lucky. The days pass in a haze of boredom and wariness. Eventually, it sinks in that this is simply the reality I’ve been dealt. This is what my life looks like, now. And I have to figure out how to accept it.

  I last at the Goldsteins for the better part of a year. Every Wednesday, I obediently shovel meatloaf into my mouth. I laugh along with the bad sitcoms that play nonstop on the TV. I even manage to call Mr. and Mrs. Goldstein by their first names, after a while. I’m enrolled in a new school, study hard every night, and bide my time, waiting for something good to happen.

  But that year, I turn thirteen, and things start to change. My mother was always frank with me about what was in store for me, as a girl. I knew that my body would start to become more grownup, far faster than my mind and heart might. Overnight, it seems, I stop being a little girl and start looking, and feeling, like a young woman.

  My chest starts to swell, and my baby fat seems to disappear by the minute. I find baggy sweatshirts to wear, to cover the unexpected shifts in my body, but I can feel the eyes of men and women alike settling on me. People start looking at me differently, especially my foster brothers.

  One night, my red-headed housemate Daryl grows bold and corners me in the kitchen as I finish up the dishes.

  “Have you ever kissed anyone before?” he asks earnestly.

  “No,” I say flatly, drying off a plate with the hem of my sweatshirt.

  “Do you want to?” he goes on, his eyes fixed on me.

  “Leave me alone, Daryl,” I say, “I’m busy.”

  “I said, do you want to kiss someone?” he repeats, “Do you want to kiss me?”

  “Not even a little—” I start to say, but the words get cut off as Daryl spins me around and mashes his lips against mine. I drop the plate, sending little sharp shards flying all over. Daryl howls as a piece of glass nicks his shin, and he hops mercifully away from me, cradling the shallow wound. I dash out of the room, ignoring Mrs. Goldstein’s shouted questions as she pushes past me.

  The next morning, I wake up to find blood in my underwear. I figure that I’m being cursed for letting Daryl kiss me, that’s the only possible explanation. Before anyone else in the house is awake, I call Miss MacCoy and ask her to pick me up.

  Before I know it, I’m off to a new home—an apartment on the outskirts of Chicago. My next foster mother is a platinum blonde former model named Cheryl. She’s not a serial foster mother like Mrs. Goldstein, she’s just trying the whole kid thing on for size, or so she tells me. The first night I stay with Cheryl, she lets me have a cold beer with her.

  “To us,” she says, tapping her can against mine. “This is start of a beautiful friendship, Nadia. I can just tell.”

  I smile and take a tentative sip of my beer. The taste is overpowering, but I’m persistent. I want my new mother to like me, after all. Maybe she’ll keep me around, if she likes me.

  “You have the most beautiful blue eyes,” Cheryl says, setting back into the zebra print sofa beside me. “Like little blue oceans. You have that whole...exotic thing going. Are you mixed race?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I admit.

  “Never mind,” she says, “You can just say that you are. Multi-ethnic people are so hot.”

  “Cool,” I reply.

  “I bet you’re going to be stunning when you grow up,” Cheryl goes on, lighting a cigarette on the butt of the one she’s just finished. “Just you wait. We’ll go shopping together, get manicures, do the whole mother-daughter thing.”

  It sounds great, everything that Cheryl promises. For a time, I really believe her. I spent another year living with Cheryl in her tiny, smoky apartment. But as I continue to grow up, she doesn’t seem as thrilled with me as she promised. The more men start to notice me, the less Cheryl likes me. By the time I’
m fourteen, she sends me packing to the next home with a bitter scowl on her face.

  For the next ten months, I live with some bible thumpers in rural Illinois. I ask to be taken away from them when they start telling me that there are demons in my guts. Right before my first exorcism is scheduled to go down, Miss MacCoy snatches me away.

  At fifteen, I’m sent to live with the elderly Mrs. Tyson, who has about five other girls in her home. When a cat fight breaks out over an allegedly stolen hairdryer, I get a couple ribs broken and a bad black eye. Just before my sixteenth birthday, I find myself back in Miss MacCoy’s office, without a home once more.

  “Does everyone move around this much?” I ask, tucking my long blonde hair behind my ear.

  “Mostly,” she says.

  “So, where am I off to next?” I ask with a sigh.

  “We were able to find a place last minute,” she tells me. “You’ll be staying with Paul and Nancy Daniels. They’ve already got a few kids staying with them, so you’ll have plenty of company.”

  “Oh goody.”

  “I know it’s been a rough ride,” Miss MacCoy says earnestly, “But I’ve got a good feeling about this place.”

  “Whatever you say,” I tell her, tucking my knees into my chest. “Wherever I’m going can’t possibly be worse than where I’ve been.”

  Someday, maybe I’ll learn to stop thinking things like that. After everything I’ve been through, you think I’d have better sense. If there’s one thing growing up as a foster kid has taught me, it’s that where you’re going is almost guaranteed to be worse than where you were before. The devil you know, right?

  And so, for my sweet sixteenth, I get a new dysfunctional family, gift wrapped just for me. Not exactly what I would have wished for, but then again, when do wishes ever come true?

  Two

  Nadia

  Sweet Sixteen.

  For what seems like the millionth time, I find myself in the passenger seat of Miss MacCoy’s busted-up Honda Civic, on my way to another “home”.

  The morning dawned gray and unremarkable, the smell of impending rain hanging heavily in the air. My dad used to tease me because days like these are actually my favorite. I love the hours before a big storm hits more than anything—when the air itself is charged and alive in your lungs.

  Wherever I am, whatever house I happen to be staying in, the sound of a storm raging outside is always strangely comforting to me. Even now that the day is wrapping up, it gives me a certain sense of ease.

  “It’s my birthday tomorrow,” I say, staring out at the run-down neighborhood as it races by my window.

  “Shit,” Miss MacCoy mutters, glancing at me guiltily, “I should have remembered that. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s cool,” I say, “You’ve got a ton of kids to look after. I wouldn't be able to keep them all straight, either.”

  “Still,” she says, turning onto a street lined with craggy trees, “Happy almost-birthday, Nadia. Anything special you’re hoping for this year?”

  I let out a little laugh. “Like what?”

  “Come on,” the social worker urges, “It’s your sweet sixteen! Aren’t you excited at all?”

  “I dunno,” I say, “Sure, I guess.”

  “Well, maybe this new home will be like something of a birthday present,” she says, peering through the windshield, “Paul and Nancy are old vets. They’ve been foster parents forever.”

  I decide not to point out that some of the other families I’ve been assigned to were serial fosters as well. Miss MacCoy does her best, I know, but there’s only so much that’s even in her control when it comes to where I end up. I’ve never had any resentment for my social worker, even though we’ve been through a lot together.

  Whenever I’ve gotten in a really bad jam with one of my families, she’s swooped in to pull me out again. It’s a comfort to know that I can count on at least one person if the going gets really rough. She may not be able to work miracles, but I know that she’s always doing her best.

  “Here we are,” Miss MacCoy says. Her voice is doing that cheerfully optimistic thing it always does when I’m about to embark on a new leg of my journey.

  I look up at the house before us and instinctively grab onto my compass charm. The home itself looks innocuous enough. It’s a pretty nondescript row house with a cluttered porch and green awning.

  Even from the curb, you can tell that this is a home where children live. Rusty bikes litter the lawn, sidewalk chalk is scrawled all over the driveway, and a dented red minivan lingers in front of the garage. I hope that the other kids are something approaching nice this time around. I’ve had my fill of bullies and tyrants where my other foster siblings have been concerned.

  As I step out of the car, the front door of the house swings open. I look up and see a middle aged couple stepping out onto the crowded front porch. The woman is wearing a dated but cared-for dress that probably dates back to the eighties. Her ashy blonde hair, streaked almost imperceptibly with gray, is pulled into a hasty up-do.

  The man is decked out in an honest-to-god Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts - an outfit I wouldn't even wear to a dog fight, but who am I to judge? I’ve certainly lived with worse.

  “Amy!” the woman chirps, coming down off the porch. “It’s so nice to see you.” Miss MacCoy lets the woman embrace her, smiling sheepishly at the display of affection.

  “Hello Nancy,” my social worker says, “You look great. Is that a new shade of lipstick?”

  “It’s called Mystical Mauve,” Nancy says proudly, “Picked it out just for the occasion.”

  “Paul,” Miss MacCoy says, offering her hand to the man in the goofy shirt.

  “Come on now, Amy,” he says, pulling Miss MacCoy into another bear hug, “You know we don’t shake hands in this house.”

  “My goodness,” Nancy says, her eyes falling on me, “Is this Nadia?”

  “Sure is,” I say, wrestling my mouth into a smile, “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Daniels.”

  “Please, it’s just Paul and Nancy here,” my new foster dad says. His hair is light, like his wife’s, and the five o’clock shadow on his jaw is almost red.

  “You’re quite the looker, Nadia,” Nancy says, giving me a not-very-subtle once over. “We’ll just tell people that you got it from me.”

  “You crazy hag,” Paul laughs, planting a sloppy kiss on his wife’s cheek. “You’ll have to excuse us being so giddy. We’re always just so excited to welcome a new addition to our family.”

  “That’s...very nice of you,” I say, baffled by their high spirits.

  “I suppose I should leave you to it,” Miss MacCoy says, “Let you all get acquainted with each other and whatnot. If you need anything, Nadia, you know where to find me.”

  My social worker gives my hand a short, reassuring squeeze and heads back to her car. The Civic wheezes to life and starts off down the pothole-ridden street. Paul and Nancy wave happily as the car disappears from view. I watch as the tail lights flicker out around the corner.

  For some unknowable reason, my heart clenches uncomfortably. The moment I’m truly alone with Paul and Nancy, a familiar sense of foreboding comes over me. Their manic smiles swing my way, and for a moment I’m reminded fiercely of cartoon vampires with a taste for blood.

  “Now you’re all ours,” Nancy says, laying a firm hand on my shoulder and spinning me toward the house. “Come on. Let’s go get you introduced to the whole herd.”

  My new foster parents march me up the porch like prison guards escorting an inmate to her cell. I can practically hear the bars slamming behind me as we finally step inside.

  ~~~

  The faint sound of a TV laugh track rings out through the musty house as I step over the threshold. The light bulb illuminating the foyer is bare, casting raw, dingy light all through the tight space. All around me, creaks and groans betray the presence of people—but with them out of my sight, it feels more like a haunted house and a dwelling of the liv
ing.

  The air is thick with the smells of cigarette smoke and beer, which have never been good omens in my experience.

  Paul shuts the door behind us, sealing off the gray daylight. My new foster parents release my shoulders, suddenly disinterested in my presence. I look up at their faces in the harsh glare of the single bulb. Is it the sharp shadows that have them looking so transformed?

  “I’m going to go wipe this shit off my face,” Nancy grumbles, her demeanor entirely changed. “I hate playing dress up for that McCoy girl.”

  “You want a beer or something?” Paul asks, moving away from me into the kitchen.

  “Vodka,” Nancy snaps, stalking up the rickety staircase, “Double.”

  They disappear from the cone of light, leaving me standing in the foyer with my ancient backpack and an overwhelming sense of confusion. What the hell just happened? Were they just playing nice for Miss MacCoy’s benefit? Suddenly, the ominous feeling I had the moment my social worker left the scene makes a whole lot of sense.

  “Hello?” I call into the roiling darkness of the house. “Paul? Nancy? Should I just...put my stuff down somewhere?”

  But they’ve gone, already. It’s pretty clear that they’re not exactly going to be the doting parent types. I heave a heavy sigh and let my backpack fall down to the carpet beside me. I should have known better than to hope for a second that this place would be anything but miserable. Haven’t I been through enough homes by now to know the drill? Kids like me don’t get shuttled off to caring families with snack-stocked fridges and HBO. I’ve been lost in the shuffle since the moment my parents died, and that’s where I’ll stay.

  “Just two more years...” I mutter to myself, “Two more years, and then I’ll be free.”

  “Only two?” says a voice from within the shadows. “God, you’re so lucky!”

  “Who’s there?” I say, my body going rigid with apprehension.

  “Oh, sorry,” the voice giggles, “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

  A face swims up out of the darkness, grinning earnestly. Two sparkling green eyes peer up at me, brimming with spunky curiosity. Their owner is a petite blonde girl, a year or so my junior, if I had to guess. Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, leaving her thin shoulders uncovered. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder vintage tee and tiny cotton shorts. Her frame is impossibly small, almost pixie-like. Next to her, I feel downright Amazonian, though I only stand at five foot seven. The girl cocks her head to the side like an inquisitive kitten.