So I’m here alone with Mary. I’m in love.
Is it okay to be in love with your foster mother? Well, to be honest, I don’t care if it’s okay or not.
“All right,” she says. “After breakfast, I’m going to take you down to the new school and get you enrolled. And then I’m going to work for a few hours. And then I’ll come back and pick you up after, okay?”
She’s giving me a schedule.
“What time will you pick me up?” I ask.
“Well,” she says. “School gets out at two-thirty. So I’ll meet you in front about two-forty-five. How does that sound?”
“Are you really going to be there?” I ask.
She smiles, but there’s a little sadness in her eyes, too. She knows I’ve been lied to a million times.
“I’ll be there,” she says. “I promise.”
Promise. What a good word. What a hopeful word.
“Whatever,” I say, because it hurts to have hope.
“Hey, listen,” she says, and leans down close to me. Her face is three inches from mine. She looks right into my eyes. “When I make promises, I keep them. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” I say. And you know what’s weird? I do believe her.
“All right, then,” she says. “Finish your breakfast.”
So I eat until my belly is stuffed and then I go into my bathroom to get ready.
I have my own bathroom!
Pretty soon there’s a knock on the door.
“Yes,” I say.
“Can I come in?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m decent,” I say, and laugh. I’ve never been decent, not once. And I’ve never used that word before. I’m getting soft.
Mary comes in. She looks a little nervous. She’s carrying a bag of stuff.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “It’s just — well, this is difficult. But can I say something really personal to you?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Well, it’s about your face.”
“I know. I’m ugly.”
“No, you’re not ugly. You’re handsome, actually. But your skin — we need to start working on your skin. You’ll be a lot happier if we do.”
She reaches into the bag and pulls out three jars and sets them on the sink.
“Okay,” she says. “This is some skin-care treatment stuff, okay? I’m going to teach you how to use it, okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Well, first of all, you need to wash your face with this stuff. It’s an acne scrub. It will clean your pores and get rid of the old dead skin, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and wash my face.
“Good, good,” she says. “Then we use this stuff to put right on your pimples. This goes after the bacteria in there. So just put a little on your fingertip and dab it on the big zits, okay?”
That takes me awhile. I have a lot of zits.
“Okay, good,” she says. “Now this last stuff, it’s an all-over moisturizer and oil-reducing cream. It’s funny, but it will keep your skin moist but dry at the same time.”
“I don’t get it,” I say.
“I don’t either,” she says, “but it works, okay? Trust me.”
I rub that stuff all over my face.
“There, that’s good,” she says. “We do this twice a day, and your face should start clearing up in a week or two. A few months from now, you’ll be brand-new.”
That just gets me in the soul. Right there, I start to cry. Really. I just weep and wail.
Mary hugs me. She hugs me tightly. It feels great. I haven’t been hugged like that since my mother died.
I’m happy.
I’m scared, too. I mean, I know the world is still a cold and cruel place.
I know that people will always go to war against each other.
I know that children will always be targets.
I know that people will always betray each other.
I know that I am a betrayer.
But I’m beginning to think I’ve been given a chance. I’m beginning to think I might get unlonely. I’m beginning to think I might have an almost real family.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I keep saying.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’ll be okay.”
“Michael,” I say. “My real name is Michael. Please, call me Michael.”
Acknowledgments
I OWE SPECIAL THANKS to Nancy Stauffer, for her continuing grace and friendship; to Morgan, Elisabeth, Deb, Eric, and everybody else at Grove, who were there in the beginning and are still with me in the middle; to Christy Cox, who keeps order in my insane life; and to my mother and siblings, who let me write about them and don’t complain publicly.