Three Little Words (17 page)

For months, though, the excitement built around Christmas. In October the staff had given us forms and told us to list anything we wanted.

“What’s the limit?” I wondered.

“There is none,” Sabrina told me.

“What are you asking for?”

“Lots of clothes, a music box like yours, a bike—”

“You already have a bike.”

“You can get one every year,” she said, as if explaining something to a toddler. “The lists are given to our sponsors—really rich people, even companies—and they go out and buy us everything.”

For the next few days we would watch television with our lists on our laps. Every time a commercial would come on, we would scribble the toy on the form. I asked for Barbie dolls, children’s beauty and nail supplies, stuffed animals, a new bike, and Rollerblades. The staff doled out money for us to buy gifts for a few special people. I purchased something for my teacher, my brother, and Ms. Sandnes. On campus the big event was the Christmas Cantata, a musical program put on by the residents, followed by fancy food served in the cottages. We all wore our dressiest clothes and were on our best behavior because sponsors and outsiders—who might be prospective parents—visited.

Christmas morning was a feeding frenzy. We all dove into the huge stack of packages, grabbing anything with our names on it. Sabrina had been right. We each received most of the items on our lists—and more. Foster parent groups provided some of the basics, and our sponsors bought the big-ticket items. Everything was from “Santa,” so we did not know who had contributed what. Kids ripped open their boxes, checked the contents, tossed them behind their chair, then attacked another. Paper, cardboard, and Styrofoam piled up in drifts around us. As we reached the bottom, the other kids’ faces registered an is-that-all-there-is? expression. By the end of the day half the toys were missing parts, broken, or trampled. Even though I tried to take more care with mine, some of my gifts disappeared into the tangle of wrappings.

“Where’s my French Barbie?” I shouted into the living room.

“Sabrina has it,” Daphne said.

“I wrote down French Barbie too!” Sabrina claimed.

“Did not!” I screeched. I gathered up as much as I could and took it to my room, but by the time I got back, Will and Leroy were playing catch with my softball and had already smudged it. I was disgusted and wondered why I couldn’t live with a regular family and have a nice, quiet Christmas like everyone I saw in holiday specials on television.

Living in an institution with a myriad of regulations, it was impossible to lead a normal life. When my school had a fund-raiser, I was determined to sell enough to win one of the prizes. Ms. Sandnes squashed my plans to go door-to-door in the neighborhood. “Sorry, it’s against the rules.”

That afternoon I grumbled in therapy. “You could show the brochure around campus,” Mary Fernandez suggested.

I started with Mr. Bruce, who placed an order. He offered to accompany me on my rounds. By the time I returned to Lykes Cottage, I had made one hundred fifty dollars in sales, enough for one of the better prizes. I gave the envelope filled with checks and cash to Ms. Sandnes for safekeeping before I went to change into play clothes.

When I returned, Ms. Sandnes looked ill. “Ashley, did you take the envelope back to your room?”

“No, you put it on your desk.” My pulse quickened. “Is it missing?”

“I’m afraid so. I was gone just a minute or two.”

Nobody found the envelope and the deadline to turn in the order forms passed. I was more upset about accepting everyone’s money and not having anything to show for it than not winning the prize. A week later someone noticed that Daphne, who had not moved in with her adoptive family yet, had used a twenty-dollar bill when they went to a store. Eventually, she admitted to taking the money and made a halfhearted apology to me.

I held in my fury for a few days. On the way back from the gym after a soccer game, Daphne kept trying to trip me. My seething started in my gut and exploded through my fists. I punched her above her eye. I expected I would be punished, but I did not care. To my surprise, no one ever said anything about the incident.

Isabel, the other redhead in my fourth-grade class, was my best friend. She invited me to her home often, though I was never permitted to go—not even for her birthday party. Because campus residents could be unpredictable, they always had to be accompanied by staff. I pestered Ms. Sandnes for a visit so many times that she finally agreed to take me on a playdate.

Isabel’s mother was tense because I had come from “that place” and needed supervision. The four of us sat in the living room staring at one another until Isabel asked, “Want to see my birds and guinea pigs?”

The room smelled like cedar chips, and animal cages and tanks lined the walls. Isabel handed me a fuzzy guinea pig, which I petted until I noticed the raisin-like poops on its fur, then hurriedly gave him back. Because Ms. Sandnes had to be on duty at the cottage, we had to leave after only an hour. That was the first—and last—time I visited with a friend until I went to my adoptive family.

I had come to The Children’s Home expecting to be gone in a few months, but a year passed without anyone adopting us. I saw a few kids leave … and some returned because it had not worked out. I figured that I probably would be there until I was eighteen, but at least I was not at the Mosses’ or with some of the other creepy parents I heard about. I decided to take it day by day and forget about everything—and everybody—else.

In August, I started fifth grade at Dickenson Elementary. For the first time in my life, I was no longer the new girl. The school selected me as a safety patrol, and Mrs. Trojello, my teacher in the gifted program, encouraged me to run for Student Council president. This required speaking in the auditorium to all the students at each grade level. I asked Mr. Irvin for a hunk of accordion-style computer paper. When it came time for the candidates’ speeches, I stood behind the lectern and let the paper cascade off the stage onto the floor. “Dear Santa,” I began. “I would like a new bike, some Barbie dolls, a radio, and—whoops.” I let a few more feet of paper tumble forward so it looked like a massive document. “Unless our principal has turned into a jolly old man, I have the wrong speech!” The first graders burst out laughing, and I hoped the gag would be as successful with all the classes.

The results were announced over the intercom. “And your new Student Council president is Ashley Rhodes!”

Ms. Sandnes glowed when I told her the news. By dinnertime the whole campus knew I had won, and I received congratulations from every member of the staff I encountered.

Neither Sabrina nor Daphne said a word to me.

“Here comes the brownnoser,” Leroy said, rubbing the tip of his nose.

Although his words stung, it was more important to me to get recognition at school than from the campus kids because I did not respect their opinions.

Still, I was hungry for attention. I was in my gifted class when I started hiccuping, which made the others laugh. I forced more air into my throat so the hiccups would become more obnoxious.

“Go get a drink of water and come back when you have those under control,” Mrs. Trojello said, and then asked me to stay after class.

“Ashley, I know where you live, so I can guess you’ve had some tough times,” she began. I thought she was going to lecture me about my past not being an excuse for poor behavior. Instead, she went on to tell me that she had come from a rough background herself and knew what it was like to struggle without support at home. Mrs. Trojello handed me a book. “You have a lot in common with Anne of Green Gables.”

Reading the book, I began to see what she meant. Lucy Maud Montgomery could have been describing me. It also reminded me of Annie, the most famous girl orphan. I remember thinking that all three of us had red hair, sunny smiles, plucky dispositions, and names that begin with
A.
But perhaps Mrs. Trojello also wanted me to see that some stories—like her own—had happy endings.

At least twice a year we attended adoption picnics. Even though there were carnival games and hot dogs and burgers on the grill, the real purpose was to display the merchandise: the children nobody else wanted. Some of the “shoppers” were discreet and stood at a distance; others were chatty—even pushy. One prospective parent even poked me! A chubby lady ran her fingers through Luke’s hair and said to her husband, “Isn’t he cute as a button!” Then she turned to Luke. “We’d love to adopt you!”

“I’m going to be adopted!” Luke bragged on the way home.

Luke and I were selected to be on the Christian Television Network. A bubbly blonde reporter interviewed us in the arts-and-crafts room on campus. “What sort of family do you want?” she asked me.

“Oh, I’m not too picky,” I replied. “I just want someone to take care of us, to treat us nice—just … a family.” I hoped I had hit the right note, but Luke made silly faces and purposely yawned, stealing my moment.

“What about you, Luke?”

“I want frogs and a baseball glove and a mom.”

“In that order?” The reporter laughed. “I’m praying that people will call in if the Lord has touched their hearts, because these children are praying for a family.”

When nobody responded, I felt hopeless. I also had few expectations for my eleventh birthday later that month. It would be the same old cottage party; I would get a few generic gifts and then meet the Merritts in the therapy conference room. Whoopee.

“Happy Birthday!” Mary Fernandez said when she came to take me to the therapy wing after my cottage cake.

I did not look up from some beads I was stringing for a Thanksgiving program. “What’s so happy about it?”

“Several kids threw cake,” Ms. Sandnes said to explain my rudeness.

My therapist had more bad news. “I’m sorry you had a difficult day, and I’m sorry the Merritts can’t make it either.”

“I don’t care.”

“Ashley,” Mary Fernandez said gently, “Matthew Merritt was hit by a car.”

I dropped my beads with a clatter. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, it isn’t life threatening. They want to have your party in his hospital room.”

Bruce Weslowski, our family therapist, drove Luke and me to Tampa General Hospital.

“Happy birthday!” Mrs. Merritt sang out.

“Hey,” Mathew said, “thanks for bringing your party to me.”

Mary Miller handed out my gifts. The Merritts gave me a silver vanity set complete with brush, comb, and rotating mirror, which was the sort of elegant gift I preferred over toys. But I remember thinking that the disinfectant smell of the hospital ruined the cake’s taste.

I should have known not to anticipate a great birthday because I had always been disappointed before. Even when Mrs. Chavez hosted my ninth birthday party, it was spoiled by Amelia wearing the outfit my mother had given me. At my tenth Luke hogged my candles and messed up my cake. Now even my eleventh was a letdown. This time, at least, Luke was more interested in Matthew’s leg cast than in harassing me, but it was hardly the birthday party of my dreams.

After a while the staff felt Luke was mature enough to move into Lykes Cottage—but they were wrong. Although he was almost nine, he followed at my heels like a pesky puppy. If I ignored a request, he pulled my arm, tugged my hair, or did something so annoying that I pushed him away. I loved him; but I did not want him hanging on me all the time, so I went out of my way to avoid him.

What I could not avoid was an irrational throbbing for my mother that came in waves. As long as I kept busy, I managed to skip over most of my feelings by reminding myself that this was another bad habit, like biting my nails. But during quiet moments I could be overwhelmed by thoughts about where she was and why she had never come for me. Worst of all were the times when I couldn’t fall asleep quickly because Sabrina cried out during the nightmares caused by her abuse. Mary Miller had told me that my mother’s parental rights were gone, yet I did not think that any official pronouncement would make the slightest difference to her because she had always returned in the past—even when the caseworkers had tried to limit her visits.

I believed that she yearned for me as much as I did for her. There were times when this longing dissolved all my defenses until all that was left were tears that couldn’t be contained. If someone found me crying, I’d refuse to answer their probing questions because I did not want to have to explain my feelings to Ms. Sandnes, Mary Fernandez, and Mr. Bruce over and over, as if words alone would bring my mother back.

In many ways The Children’s Home was more pleasant than any of my foster homes, and I was not worried about them sending me away without warning because they had promised I could stay as long as I liked. I decided it would be better to remain with Ms. Sandnes, Mr. Todd, Mr. Irvin, and my friends than risk some snooty parents kicking me out the minute they tired of me. Besides, the only parent I wanted was my mother, and if I could not have her, then having nobody was better than somebody else.

The cottage staff told all the TPRed kids—the obnoxious acronym had somehow become an adjective—that we were going to have our photos taken by a professional photographer for an adoption catalog.

Mr. Irvin was surprised I was not ready. “Hey, Ashfoot”—he had given me that nickname because my feet were growing so fast—“what’s wrong?”

I lay on my bed facing the wall. “I don’t want my picture in a stupid book.”

“How will a family find you if they don’t see those cute freckles?”

“I hate my freckles and don’t care if I am ever adopted.”

“Too bad, because I know how much you like contests.” My ears perked up. I had recently won third place in a poster contest for a race-car show.

“What contest?”

“At the photography studio. The best drawing will be on the cover of the book.”

“I guess I’ll go,” I said.

“That’s my Ashfoot.” He grinned. “Just don’t let them take a picture of your feet or you might break their equipment!”

While I waited for my turn to have my photo taken with Luke, I drew a picture of two couples. On the left was a man in a suit and a woman wearing a long dress and pearls standing next to a three-story house. Beside a ranch house on the right was a man in a T-shirt and shorts and a woman dressed in a blouse and short skirt. Underneath the picture I wrote:

I was very pleased with it, but nobody told me whether I had won or not.

On Easter Sunday the Lykes staff took us to one of our sponsor’s homes—an elegant waterfront mansion—for an egg hunt. There was a five-dollar bill in every plastic egg! Within a few minutes, some of us had more money than we had been able to accumulate in a year of cottage allowances. As we drove away from the upscale neighborhood, I stuck my head out of the van’s window and shouted, “Hey! Anyone want a kid?” It seemed as useful a recruiting strategy as anything else.