Chapter 15 - Where I Eat Now When It Rains
The courtroom was smaller than I thought it would be. Not like on TV. Just a wood table, flags in the corners, and a clock that ticked loud enough I could hear it when nobody was talking.
My name is Emily. I was seven and I hadn't been hungry in three weeks, and that morning I sat between Ms. Rivera and Mr. Whitaker and tried to keep my feet still under the chair.
The judge read from papers in front of her. She didn't look angry. She looked tired the way adults look when they've stayed up late working. She said my placement was approved. I would stay with Diane and Paul Carter, the licensed foster home on Alder Street where I'd been sleeping the last nineteen nights. I would stay enrolled at Jefferson Elementary. Dental check next Tuesday. Counseling on Thursdays. She said it slow so I could follow.
Then she looked right at me. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Emily?"
I nodded, then remembered I was supposed to use my voice. Ms. Rivera had told me that in the hallway. "Yes, ma'am," I said. My hands were folded too tight in my lap.
She turned to Mr. Whitaker. He was in the same navy suit, only this time his tie was gray. He had his hands flat on the table like he was trying not to fidget.
"Mr. Whitaker, your role is defined as a court-approved mentor and educational sponsor, with supervised visits twice a week. You understand you are not the placement parent and you are not to remove her from school or the home without prior approval?"
"I understand," he said. His voice was low. He glanced at me once and then back at the judge.
That was the first scene. It took eleven minutes. I counted by the clock.
After, in the hallway outside, my mom was waiting on a bench with a case aide next to her. She looked thinner with her hair pulled back. She had on a clean blue shirt I hadn't seen before.
She stood up when she saw me. She didn't run at me. That was part of the plan, Ms. Rivera had said. We'd talked about it yesterday at the Carters' kitchen table.
"Hi, baby," my mom said.
"Hi," I said.
We sat on the bench together, not too close. The aide stayed where she could see but she looked at her phone to give us room.
Ms. Rivera knelt down so her face was level with mine. "Tell her what you decided, Emily. In your own words."
I breathed in. My chest felt tight. "I want to see you on Saturdays with Ms. Rivera there. And you have to keep going to your program. And no sleepovers yet."
My mom nodded fast. Her eyes got wet but she didn't cry loud. "Okay. Okay, that's good. That's fair." She twisted her hands together. "I'm proud of you for saying it straight."
"I still love you," I said, because Ms. Rivera said I could say true things even when there were rules.
"I love you too. So much." My mom didn't try to hug me until I leaned in first, and then it was just a short one. It smelled like soap from the shelter laundry.
That was the second part. It hurt less than I thought it would, having it have rules.
That afternoon it rained again. Real October rain that ran down the windows of the Carters' house and made the streetlights come on early.
Diane let me help cook. Not restaurant spaghetti. Ours. She boiled the noodles and let me stir the sauce with a long wooden spoon, and Paul grated cheese and showed me how to tear the basil instead of cutting it. The kitchen was warm and the windows fogged up. My socks slid a little on the tile. I had socks now that matched.
At six-thirty the doorbell rang. Mr. Whitaker stood on the porch with an umbrella and a paper bag. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket, just his shirt and tie and a dark sweater over it. He looked older without the jacket, smaller.
"Come in before you get soaked," Paul said.
Mr. Whitaker stepped in and wiped his shoes twice on the mat. Diane had told him to do that last time and he'd remembered.
We ate at the dining table, the four of us. White plates, not fancy. Spaghetti with broccoli on the side because Diane remembered I'd liked it that night. Milk in a real glass for me. Water for them. The pendant light over the table buzzed faint, and the rain ticked against the glass.
Halfway through, Mr. Whitaker put his fork down. He reached into his sweater pocket and set something on the table next to his plate. A small worn photo in a plastic sleeve. A boy with slicked-back hair, maybe ten, holding a fish up by a lake.
"You asked me once what I kept touching," he said to me. "It was this. My son. He died a long time ago. He liked spaghetti too."
I looked at the photo. Then at him. I didn't feel scared like that night in the restaurant when his hand had moved near his jacket. I just felt sad for him in a normal way.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He nodded. He slid the photo back into his pocket and patted the pocket once, flat. "I carry it less now," he said. "I thought you should know I put it away during meals. This is your time. Not his."
Diane reached over and squeezed my hand quick. Paul didn't say anything. He just kept eating, which helped.
After dinner Mr. Whitaker helped me with my spelling words at the table while Diane washed dishes. Rain. Cheese. Second. He quizzed me and I got nine out of ten. He said, "Good work," in that solemn way he had, but his eyes weren't so stern anymore.
When it was time for him to go, he stood at the door with his umbrella closed. Supervised visits twice a week, the judge had said. Tuesdays and Fridays. With boundaries. That was the word everyone used.
"Goodnight, Emily," he said.
"Goodnight, Mr. Whitaker," I said. Then I added, "See you Friday."
On the porch light, the rain looked silver coming down. He opened his umbrella and walked to his car, and Paul locked the door behind him, and the house stayed warm.
Later Diane tucked the blanket around me and Paul checked the window lock like he always did. Ms. Rivera's card was on the nightstand next to my library book. School tomorrow. Counseling Thursday. Mom Saturday with Ms. Rivera there.
May you like
I listened to the rain and wasn't hungry and wasn't barefoot and wasn't waiting for someone to tell me to leave. I thought about that round table with the white cloth and how I'd stood beside it in my hoodie and asked if I could eat. I didn't need to ask that way anymore.
I had somewhere to eat when it rained.
