An Image of Death by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page B

a hand.
    “A woman in Marin County took me in. Taught me how to dress, how to talk, how to eat with a knife and fork. She had connections. It was through her I got a scholarship to UCLA.” He paused. “I was lucky. Some kids aren’t.” He paused again.
    “Did you know almost twenty percent of the homeless were in foster care at some point?”
    A door opened and closed down the hall. I shook my head.
    “Most people don’t. Once a kid is eighteen, he’s supposed to be out of the foster care system. But a lot of them have been bounced from home to home, or they’ve been depending on lawyers and social workers to solve their problems. They don’t have a clue how to rent an apartment, how to buy groceries, how to open a bank account. It’s all too much for them. When they go out on their own, they give up.”
    “Give up?”
    “Some get pregnant and go on welfare. Others get involved with gangs or end up on the street.”
    “You didn’t.”
    “Like I said, I was lucky. I’ll never forget the thrill the first time I bought my own groceries. Or put the clothes I bought myself in my own dresser. It’s a high, you know? I decided other kids should experience it.”
    “I thought this was just about subsidized housing.”
    “We also want to teach them how to live on their own. At least to know what’s expected of them.”
    “And you want the video to raise awareness of their plight?”
    He nodded. “We want opinion leaders and legislators to see it. We’re lobbying for changes in the housing codes. Of course, with this administration, it’s like spitting in the wind.”
    “How come?”
    “There’s an Undersecretary at HUD—a holdover from the Clinton years. But he’s fighting an uphill battle, and I’m afraid if we interview him, he’ll lose his job. We need every friend we can muster in that town. Happily, there’s a congressman who’ll say that a few well placed grants will save money in the Section Eight programs. And he’s from southern Illinois.”
    “You want to interview him.”
    He nodded and launched into an explanation of federally funded housing programs and how they were geared toward families, not singles. My mind wandered. David had grown up in foster homes all over Pennsylvania. Had he felt the same way as Jordan Bennett? David had the proper social graces, but I never thought to ask how he’d learned them. In fact, it occurred to me I didn’t know very much about his life before we met. A brown leaf, somehow left over from fall, drifted past the window.
    “My…a close friend of mine grew up in foster care.”
    He looked at me with new interest. “No wonder Ricki wanted you in on this.”
    I was about to tell him Ricki couldn’t possibly have known about David’s background. Then again…. I kept my mouth shut.
    ***
    “You said you could run an eight-minute mile,” Rachel called out as she sprinted past me on Voltz Road.
    “I could, once upon a time.” I picked up my pace, but it was hopeless.
    “You’re slipping, Mom,” she yelled over her shoulder.
    I laughed and let her widen her lead. Rachel’s always been built for speed. I remembered her at six, streaking across the front lawn one Sunday morning chasing a rabbit. It was spring, and she was wearing her Beauty and the Beast nightgown—the one she refused to take off for about a year. She thought we’d bought her a bunny for Easter. We had to let her down easily. Not only did we not buy it, but we didn’t celebrate Easter.
    Now though, watching her pass me on the bike path, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright, I felt unaccountably grateful. She was a child of divorce, and she hadn’t been raised with the extras that others consider their birthright, but she hadn’t been shunted around to strangers. She had loving parents and family, good friends, and was even starting to think about her future. I blinked. Maybe there really was a God.
    Rachel turned around, jogging in place. “Oh, I almost forgot. Is it okay if I