when the bell rang each afternoon. Like the older girls in the foster home, I rode my bike to school. Pedaling uphill on Kingsway Road during the morning rush hour could be scary because so many cars were passing me, but the downhill ride was exhilarating.
On class picture day I chose my fanciest dress with a hoop skirt. When I got on my bike, I sat on the wire to keep the skirt from tangling in the greasy chain, but then the front popped up and I could not see over the top. Even worse, my panties were exposed. If I sat on the front of the dress, my butt hung out in the breeze. I was so frustrated that I had to walk the bike. I got grease stains on the hem and arrived after the bell.
When I walked in the classroom, Ms. Port saw that I had been crying, so she did not fuss at my tardiness. “Are you okay?”
“My bike—”
She assumed I had fallen off. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but my dress is ruined!” My sobs rolled in heaves.
“Honey, the bottom won’t show in the pictures and the spots will wash out,” she said, then sent me to wash up for the photographs.
I had moved in with the Hagens only six weeks before my seventh birthday, but I do not recall any special celebration or recognition. Christmas, though, was a big deal in foster homes. The foster parents’ associations provided plenty of gifts. Adele had promised me an Easy-Bake oven, but I had not heard from her since April. The Hagens said it was their tradition to open a single present on Christmas Eve. One of the girls asked if we could have a second. Mrs. Hagen relented. Someone asked for “just one more,” and somehow we ended up unwrapping all the gifts. I lay in bed that night feeling that Christmas was ruined. I no longer believed in Santa, so I knew the holiday was all over. The next morning we awoke to find one more gift under the tree for each of us! Although it was only a puzzle, it had been important to receive something—even if it wasn’t from someone who loved me. Since I had left South Carolina, I had not felt special to anyone in the world.
At the end of January, Clayton Hooper, my latest caseworker, visited me at the Hagens’ house. He watched me coloring valentines, then went to talk to Mrs. Hagen in a whispery voice on the other side of the room.
When I overheard Luke’s name, my ears alerted. I held up a valentine. “Can you take this to Luke?”
“Sure,” Mr. Hooper said.
I wrote Mama on the prettiest one. “Do you know where my mother is?”
He hesitated. “I believe she’s in South Carolina.”
“With Adele!” I felt giddy and sighed deeply several times. It was perfect. If Adele and my mother were together, they would figure out how to get us back. My face flushed with excitement. “Can you send this to her?”
“I’ll try,” he said.
I had not seen my mother since before our first trip to South Carolina—more than two years earlier—but now she would know where I was and could come back for me.
“I knew she would come! I knew it!” I danced around the Hagens’ home, hugging my doll when I heard that I would be seeing my mother. The closer we got to the downtown office, the shorter my already-stubby nails became. By the time my mother walked into the room, the cuticle on my thumb was bleeding.
“How big you are!” my mother exclaimed. Tears streaked her makeup. She fussed about a mark on my chin. “Did you bump yourself?” Using her spit on her finger, she wiped my face and was relieved when the smudge came off.
I pressed myself to her. “I missed you so much!”
“Oh, me too, Sunshine.” She rumpled my curls and sniffled into my hair. “They kept me away from you for so long! I would have done anything to see you.”
I did not doubt that it was “them” against “us.”
“I’m getting all A’s and I can read, Mama!”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not calling anyone else ‘Mama,’ are you?”
I shook my head. “No, Mama,” I promised.
“That’s my
On class picture day I chose my fanciest dress with a hoop skirt. When I got on my bike, I sat on the wire to keep the skirt from tangling in the greasy chain, but then the front popped up and I could not see over the top. Even worse, my panties were exposed. If I sat on the front of the dress, my butt hung out in the breeze. I was so frustrated that I had to walk the bike. I got grease stains on the hem and arrived after the bell.
When I walked in the classroom, Ms. Port saw that I had been crying, so she did not fuss at my tardiness. “Are you okay?”
“My bike—”
She assumed I had fallen off. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but my dress is ruined!” My sobs rolled in heaves.
“Honey, the bottom won’t show in the pictures and the spots will wash out,” she said, then sent me to wash up for the photographs.
I had moved in with the Hagens only six weeks before my seventh birthday, but I do not recall any special celebration or recognition. Christmas, though, was a big deal in foster homes. The foster parents’ associations provided plenty of gifts. Adele had promised me an Easy-Bake oven, but I had not heard from her since April. The Hagens said it was their tradition to open a single present on Christmas Eve. One of the girls asked if we could have a second. Mrs. Hagen relented. Someone asked for “just one more,” and somehow we ended up unwrapping all the gifts. I lay in bed that night feeling that Christmas was ruined. I no longer believed in Santa, so I knew the holiday was all over. The next morning we awoke to find one more gift under the tree for each of us! Although it was only a puzzle, it had been important to receive something—even if it wasn’t from someone who loved me. Since I had left South Carolina, I had not felt special to anyone in the world.
At the end of January, Clayton Hooper, my latest caseworker, visited me at the Hagens’ house. He watched me coloring valentines, then went to talk to Mrs. Hagen in a whispery voice on the other side of the room.
When I overheard Luke’s name, my ears alerted. I held up a valentine. “Can you take this to Luke?”
“Sure,” Mr. Hooper said.
I wrote Mama on the prettiest one. “Do you know where my mother is?”
He hesitated. “I believe she’s in South Carolina.”
“With Adele!” I felt giddy and sighed deeply several times. It was perfect. If Adele and my mother were together, they would figure out how to get us back. My face flushed with excitement. “Can you send this to her?”
“I’ll try,” he said.
I had not seen my mother since before our first trip to South Carolina—more than two years earlier—but now she would know where I was and could come back for me.
“I knew she would come! I knew it!” I danced around the Hagens’ home, hugging my doll when I heard that I would be seeing my mother. The closer we got to the downtown office, the shorter my already-stubby nails became. By the time my mother walked into the room, the cuticle on my thumb was bleeding.
“How big you are!” my mother exclaimed. Tears streaked her makeup. She fussed about a mark on my chin. “Did you bump yourself?” Using her spit on her finger, she wiped my face and was relieved when the smudge came off.
I pressed myself to her. “I missed you so much!”
“Oh, me too, Sunshine.” She rumpled my curls and sniffled into my hair. “They kept me away from you for so long! I would have done anything to see you.”
I did not doubt that it was “them” against “us.”
“I’m getting all A’s and I can read, Mama!”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not calling anyone else ‘Mama,’ are you?”
I shook my head. “No, Mama,” I promised.
“That’s my
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