When Joy Came to Stay

by Karen Kingsbury

  Sick and scared.

  “You can stay with us tonight, sweetheart,” Kathy said. “But after that we’ll find you a foster home. A place where you can stay until another family adopts you.”

  They’d found a home. A foster home, like Kathy had talked about. And then another one. And another one. But the best times of all were when Amanda was between foster parents and got to spend a night or two with Kathy and her family.

  Amanda closed her eyes and pictured Kathy Garrett’s home. Warm, with lots of light and laughter and good smells from the kitchen. Someone was always talking or telling a story or singing or dancing. When Amanda was there she didn’t feel like her name was Brownell at all. She felt like it was Garrett. Like she belonged there. Like she was one of them. She even had her own chair at the kitchen table.

  At times like this she wondered if they left her empty chair at the table when she wasn’t there, if the Garretts missed her as much as she missed them.

  She opened her eyes again, folded the article, and slipped it back inside the bag. It was the same bag she’d had for two years, and she was careful not to rip it as she folded the top down and slid it back under the bed.

  Kathy Garrett was married to a happy man named Bill. He would lay on the floor and wrestle with the kids until they were laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. He always laughed. But one time…

  One time Bill didn’t laugh. When he brought everyone together in a circle once to pray for Amanda. During the prayer, when he thought she wasn’t looking, Amanda caught him crying. Not loud tears like kids cry, but quiet ones that rolled off his face and didn’t make his nose sound stuffy.

  Amanda stared at the barren walls in the chilly room, but in her mind she could see Bill and Kathy, laughing, playing with their children. Lots and lots of children. The Garretts had more kids than anyone Amanda knew. Seven altogether, all squeezed into three happy bedrooms. Kathy liked to say it wasn’t the size of the house that mattered, it was what the house was made of. After living in a dozen different houses in two years Amanda was sure of one thing: Kathy wasn’t talking about bricks and carpet and stuff.

  She was talking about feelings. So as far as Amanda was concerned, the Garrett house was made of all love and sunshine.

  There were footsteps again and Amanda’s heart quickened. Mrs. Graystone had four other foster children living with her, all of them crammed into two small bedrooms. Her husband drove a truck for a living and was hardly ever home. The other kids liked to tell secrets about Mrs. Graystone, and the first day Amanda arrived they told her what they thought of their foster mother.

  “Old Graystone uses all our money to buy her smelly cigarettes,” one of the kids told her that first day.

  Amanda frowned. “What money?”

  An older girl laughed out loud. “The gov’ment money, goof-ball. She’s supposed to use it to buy us food and clothes and stuff.”

  “Yeah, but she never does,” the first boy poked Amanda on the shoulder. “You’ll see soon enough. Two meals a day if you’re lucky. And if you’re hungry at night then too bad for you.”

  The kids had been right; Mrs. Graystone’s house was made of scary sounds and hungry nights. Lots of hunger.

  There was a sharp knock at the bedroom door, and Mrs. Graystone burst inside. She was a big woman with an angry mouth and rolls of stomach pushing against her flowered dress. Amanda jumped to her feet and backed up against the farthest wall as Mrs. Graystone waddled toward her.

  “Why aren’t you cleaning your room?”

  Amanda looked about and saw nothing out of place. “I made the bed and picked up the clothes like you said.”

  “Anyone could do that.” She came closer and shook a finger at her. “Do you think I brought you here so you could live like a princess?” The woman’s voice rattled like windows in an old house when the wind blew hard outside.

  “What else do you want me—”

  “Don’t be impertinent with me, young lady.” Mrs. Graystone’s face was red, and Amanda was scared. The woman had never hit her, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t. Other foster parents had done it. Not all of them, of course. Some of Amanda’s foster placements had been wonderful homes like Kathy’s. But her stay at those homes was never permanent. They were something called short-term or crisis-care stays. Something like that. After a little while in those places, Amanda always got packed up and sent to the next foster home.

  Since she was not sure what impertinent meant she squirmed toward the corner of her bed and remained silent.

  Mrs. Graystone lowered herself over Amanda and glared at her. “I don’t need no insolent brat living with me. I can make the same money with someone who’ll do as I say. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman raised her hand, and before Amanda could take cover it came crashing down across her cheek. The blow made her fall to her knees, and she gasped for breath. I’m scared, God, help me!

  Amanda covered her face with her hands and felt her body shaking with fear. Don’t let her hit me again, please.…

  “Don’t you ‘yes, ma’am,’ me, missy. Now get up and get to work.”

  Amanda separated her fingers so she could see Mrs. Graystone again.

  “Move your hands from your face!”

  Amanda’s cheek felt hot and sore but she did as she was told. The woman pointed to a broom that stood in the corner of the room. “I want that hardwood floor swept and polished. And when you’re finished you can take a rag to those awful walls. I swear the last brat who had this room didn’t do any better than you.”

  She was still on her knees, afraid to move. Kathy’s coming today. It won’t be long. Just a few more hours and I can leave. Kathy won’t let me—

  “Move it!” Mrs. Graystone grabbed Amanda’s arm and yanked her to her feet. Then she pulled a rag and a bottle of floor polish from her apron and tossed it on the floor. “I want this place clean in an hour or you can forget dinner.”

  The woman took slow steps toward the hallway, then slammed the door shut as she left.

  Why does she hate me? Are You there, God? Don’t You hear me? All I want is a mom and a dad. I’ll clean my room perfect every day, I promise. But please, God, please give me a mom and dad. Someone like Bill and Kathy.

  Tears stung at the girl’s eyes as she took the broom and worked it across the floor in long strokes. She would be eight in six months and though she was small for her age, she’d been sweeping floors for as long as she could remember, so she had the task finished in a few minutes. Her mind began to drift back to when she was little, before her adoptive parents were killed. As she took the rag and began working polish into the floor, she started to cry harder.

  Even if she were going to see Kathy later, it wouldn’t solve anything. She’d still be a ward of the court, a foster child looking for a family. She wandered tentatively over to the brown sack and the photograph of her with her adoptive parents, the Brownells. They had been wonderful people, but they hadn’t been like real family.

  She closed her eyes and she could hear herself asking the familiar question:

  “If you adopted me, how come I can’t call you Momma and Daddy?”

  Mrs. Brownell’s answer was as clear now as it had been that spring day all those years ago. “Child, we will always think of you as our daughter, but Mr. Brownell and I never planned to have children and we don’t think it proper for a child to call us by so familiar a term. Mr. and Mrs. Brownell suits us better. But it doesn’t mean we love you any less.”

  Even back when she was five the answer had felt uncomfortable, like a shrunken sweater. She studied the picture once more and as she went back to work on the floor she thought of her mother. Her real mother.

  The Brownells had told her about a young woman who had been unable to care for her new baby and so, out of love, had given her to them to raise. But ever since God had taken the Brownells home, Amanda had kept a secret wish that somewhere out in the big world her real Momma was m
issing her.

  And that one day God would bring them back together again.

  Three

  MAGGIE STOOD IN THE PARKING LOT OUTSIDE THE NEWSPAPER building, pulled her running shoes from the trunk of her car, and slipped them on. Just then her cell phone rang, and she exhaled in frustration. What now? I only have an hour to finish my run and get the boys. If she didn’t burn off some of the anxiety coursing through her she wouldn’t make it through the day. She grabbed her purse and yanked the phone from inside.

  “Hello?”

  There was a hesitation on the other end that almost made Maggie hang up. Then the voice of an older woman cut the silence. “Maggie Stovall?”

  “Yes?” Great. Now I’m getting sales calls on my—

  “Maggie, this is Laura Thompson. From church. I’m sorry to bother you…”

  As the woman’s voice trailed off, Maggie pictured her: late sixties, gray hair, soft face, always involved in one committee or another. Concern transcended Laura Thompson’s voice, and Maggie felt herself tense up. What would Laura Thompson want with her? “No, that’s fine. What’s going on?”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Well, dear…we picked names last week, and I wanted you to know I got yours.”

  Maggie’s mind was blank. Names? What was Laura talking about? “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  “The prayer team, remember? You put your name in the basket so one of us would pray for you.”

  Maggie’s concentration was waning and without reason her heart began to race. “Prayer?” Then it hit her. Laura was right; she’d written her name on a slip of paper requesting one of the older women in the church to pray for her. She’d never expected a phone call from one of them. Silent, anonymous prayer was one thing, but this…She felt her cheeks grow hot. “I remember now. So, uh, thanks for letting me know.”

  “Yes, I’ll be praying. And I’m here for you, dear. If you need anything, anytime. You can call me. We’ll pray on the phone, or I can meet with you. Whatever you’d like. Whatever’s on your heart.”

  Pray with Laura Thompson about what was on her heart? The idea was so terrifying it was ludicrous. Impossible. If Laura knew her secret everyone at Cleveland Community would know, too. And they would never look at her the same. Maggie’s heart beat faster still, and she managed a polite laugh. Control, Maggie. Show her you’re in control. “Thanks for the offer, Laura. But really, everything’s fine. I only asked for prayer because…well, you know…it can’t hurt.” She laughed again, forcing her voice to sound upbeat.

  Silence.

  She knows. Oh no, it can’t be. How did she find out about me, Lord? Maggie closed her eyes and forced her trembling knees together. “Laura?”

  “Yes, dear, I’m here. It’s just—”

  Maggie cut her off. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d still like you to pray. But there’s no crisis or anything, that’s all.”

  “Okay” Laura didn’t seem convinced. “I’ll let you go, dear. But I’ll be praying all the same. My number’s in the church directory.”

  She knows. I know she knows. Maggie hung up and slipped the phone back in her purse. Who had told her? Why else would she have called? Wasn’t the prayer team supposed to do things in private, secretly?

  Her hands were shaking, and perspiration ran down her arms and neck. She glanced at the running shoes. Why did she have them on? Oh yes, her run. She frowned glancing about the parking lot and across the street to the park. Think, Maggie, come on. Had she finished her run already? So quickly? She barely remembered a moment of it.

  Remembering to breathe, she slipped her shoes off and froze. She felt the breath of something evil on the back of her neck, something close enough to touch. Tossing her shoes back in the trunk she hurried into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut and hit the lock.

  It was no use.

  The invisible darkness had followed her into the car and now was locked inside with her. How did I finish my run so fast? She looked across the street once more at the familiar park and its asphalt jogging trail that ran the circumference. I did run, didn’t I? Her body was sweaty, her heart beating hard. She must have run.

  Maggie started the car and again felt the presence of evil beside her. “Get out!” Despite her shouted command, the feeling didn’t ease. All I want is peace, Lord, what’s it going to take?

  Confess your sins and you will be clean…. The prayers of a righteous person are powerful and effective….

  Maggie shook her head. No. She wouldn’t confess to anyone. Not after years of building the life she had, her marriage with Ben, the career she loved. She wouldn’t throw it all away now by admitting the truth.

  Not even to one whose prayers might be powerful and effective.

  One like Laura Thompson.

  Maggie pulled out of the parking lot and realized she had never been so tired in all her life. I must have overdone it on the run. She needed to pick up groceries and stop at the post office before getting the boys, but in that moment every breath required a conscious effort.

  As she drove, the darkness closed in around her. If only there were a hole she could crawl into, a place where she could sleep for ten years or twenty, she would have gone there without hesitating. She forced herself to regain control, summoning the strength to keep the car on the road. Things began to look familiar, and she knew she’d be home in a few minutes. Maybe I’ll take a nap.

  Other drivers were passing her, and Maggie wondered why they were speeding. She let her eyes fall to her speedometer. What? Twenty miles an hour? How long had she been driving that slowly? She stared at the road ahead of her, concentrating, frowning. I need to pick up something…buy something…

  Up ahead, a store sign caught her eye, and she made a sudden turn into the parking lot. That was it; she needed food. They were out of milk and eggs and cheddar cheese. But she was so tired. The idea of climbing out of her car and grocery shopping right now felt as impossible as attempting the Boston Marathon on two hours’ sleep. You can do it, Maggie. It’s not that hard.

  She parked, climbed out of the car, and pulled herself across the parking lot. For what seemed like an hour she wandered through the produce section, staring at row after row of vegetables, fruits…round, even, orderly rows…

  What food did she have back at home? Ben liked apples, green apples mostly. Or was it red apples? She ripped a plastic bag from the roll, opened it, and began placing apples inside. Five, six, seven apples, that ought to do it. One a day.

  She dropped the bag into her cart and made her way deeper into the store. Vegetables. Canned vegetables. She had a casserole to make for the weekend. A church function. What was it? A potluck? A reception? Maggie stopped walking and pulled her cell phone from her purse. She scanned the numbers programmed into the directory and pushed connect when she saw “C.C. Church.”

  “Hello, Cleveland Community Church, can I help you?”

  Maggie started at the voice, then froze in place. Why am I standing in the middle of the grocery store calling church? “Uh…never mind. Wrong number.”

  She put the cell phone back and stared at the shelves. What did she need here, anyway? Why couldn’t she remember what she was doing and how come she was so tired? If it wouldn’t seem a little crazy, she would just as soon lie down right where she was standing—smack in the middle of the canned vegetable aisle—and take a nap. An hour of sleep, that was all she needed. Maybe then she’d feel better. But of course people would notice if she took a nap in the middle of the grocery store, wouldn’t they?

  They would, Maggie was fairly sure. She’d have to wait and sleep at home. What was it she needed? Tomato sauce. That was it. She pulled four cans from the shelf and moved on to the next row of food products.

  At that moment a woman entered the aisle from the other direction and beside her was—

  Maggie gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. It was her! The blond girl. She was six, maybe seven, and her blue eyes took up most of her face. Cascades of curls sp
illed over her shoulders, and she had that questioning look in her eyes, the same one she always had, like she wanted Maggie to help her find her mama.

  Other times Maggie knew she’d imagined the little girl, but not this time. This time it was really her. Maggie dropped all four cans of tomato sauce on the floor and pushed her cart straight for the child. When she got close enough, she left her food and knelt in front of the girl. Moving slowly so as not to frighten the child, Maggie took her small, warm hand—but before she could speak she heard someone talking above her.

  “Excuse me, ma’am? Do I know you?”

  Maggie blinked. An Hispanic woman in a tailored business suit was peering down at her, and though the woman’s tone was polite, her face was lined with concern.

  Where did she come from? Maggie blinked again. “Yes…I mean, I thought your little girl…” She glanced back at the child and inhaled sharply. The girl whose hand she held had short brown hair and brown-skinned features.

  The little blond girl was gone.

  Maggie dropped the child’s hand and uttered a nervous laugh as she stood and faced the girl’s mother. “I’m sorry. I thought she was someone…” Maggie’s mind raced. “Someone I knew from church. Sunday school, actually.”

  The woman smiled coolly and reached for her daughter’s hand. “I don’t think so.” She pointed to the other end of the aisle. “I think you forgot your tomato sauce.”

  Tomato sauce? Maggie saw the cans lying on the floor and forced another laugh. “Right. Thanks.”

  She pushed her cart back down the aisle, retrieved the cans, and dropped them in the cart. Why did I need tomato sauce? She stared at the bottom of her cart and squinted in confusion. There was a bag of onions where her apples had been. Did she have the wrong cart? Had someone taken her apples and replaced them with onions?

  The girl and her mother had moved to a different aisle, and Maggie hoped they didn’t think she was crazy. She wasn’t, after all. Tired maybe, worn out. But not crazy. It wasn’t her fault the little blond girl followed her everywhere she went.