27. Nick
“What’s goingto happen to my mom?”
Surprised, Nick glanced at Sydney, who’d been silent for the better part of the drive to her brother’s house. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, like, is she going to get buried or what?”
Stymied, Nick frowned. “Ah, I’m not sure, actually.” He hadn’t given much thought to what might happen, mostly because he hadn’t known the woman and was far more concerned with the impact her death was having on Sydney. But Sydney would care, of course. Even if she pretended that she didn’t. And it was normal for her to be curious about arrangements. Only, Nick had no idea what those arrangements looked like for a person who’d died from an addiction that had cost her everything, including her children.
Sydney frowned. “Oh.”
Nick cleared his throat, recognizing the need to tread delicately. “Do you know if she was religious?”
“Um, sort of? I think she went to church sometimes. I don’t know.” She sighed. “I read this book one time about paupers’ graves, where they just used to dump everyone in a pit.”
“Nobody’s going to do that,” he said automatically.
“But you said you weren’t sure.”
“Yes, but I’m sure nobody, ah… they don’t just put people in pits.”
Do they?He wasn’t certain—he hadn’t had to think about it before. It had been years since anyone he’d been close to had passed away, likely because he didn’t often let himself get close to anyone.
“Why don’t we talk to Donna about it? I bet she’ll know.”
“Yeah, okay,” she said before falling silent once more.
The GPS piped up about their turn, and Nick drove onto a quiet tree-lined street. Suburbia, but not the same sort as his own neighborhood. These houses had bigger yards and room to breathe.
He followed the guidance to a yellow box of a house—two stories with faded siding that needed a power wash and paint, toys strewn across the patchy grass in the yard.
“Syd,” he began, turning off the engine and twisting himself to face her. “I’m going to make sure your mom is taken care of. You don’t have to worry.”
“I don’t care what happens to her,” she said, scowling. “I was just wondering.”
That was the sort of thing one said when one didcare. Nick noted but didn’t press because at that moment, the screen door opened, and a little boy with a gap-toothed grin emerged.
“Sam!” Sydney leapt from the car and sprinted across the lawn to wrap her brother in a fierce hug.
Nick followed as Sam squirmed away from her embrace. Eight-year-olds didn’t need long hugs, apparently.
“Syddey, you’re crying,” Sam informed her.
“I’m not crying,” she said, wiping away tears. “Hi.”
“Hi. You wanna see my room? I got a new poster.” Sam tugged on her arm, and Nick noted their similarities—same mouth, same forehead—as well as their differences. Sydney was black haired and pale, while Sam was a few shades darker, his skin tone complementing his wheat-colored hair.
“Sure.” Sydney looked back at Nick. “Can I?”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
Sydney didn’t need his permission, but it was nice to be asked. Nick smiled, watching as Sam dragged her in. Seconds later, the screen door opened again, and a stout redheaded woman smiled at him.
“You must be Nick,” she said. “Come on—I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
The woman was Fran, Sam’s foster mother, who explained that her husband, Ralph, was traveling for work. She offered Nick coffee, which he accepted. Two boys came screaming through the kitchen, having some sort of a light saber battle with pool noodles, and she made brief introductions.
“How’s Sam doing with the news?” Nick asked once the boys were gone.
“Well, you know, he’s funny. I don’t think he remembers her much—he was just four when they were separated, and when he talks about her, he often confuses her with Sydney. So when we told him, he just asked if it meant he wouldn’t have a birthday anymore. Once we reassured him that his birthday remained the same, he got pretty quiet. Wanted to play in his room. And of course, he was excited to hear Sydney was coming to visit. So we’re just keeping an eye on him and letting him talk if he wants to talk. What about Sydney?”
“She’s…” He wasn’t Sydney’s parent or guardian, so he didn’t know how much he should say. But then, he had every intention of becoming that person, and Fran was someone who could relate. “She’s worried about Sam, obviously. And I think she’s been angry at her mother for a long time, so now she doesn’t know how to marry that anger and her grief.”
“That’s astute.” Fran sipped her tea then smiled. “A little birdie named Donna told me you’re looking into fostering Sydney.”
News travels fast.Nick smiled back. “I am. Things are moving pretty quickly on that front, actually.”
He wished things were moving even faster, but with the new job—which he didn’t love but was resigned to—he had less time to take meetings and chase down those responsible for pushing along the process.
“That’s wonderful. When we first took Sam, Donna tried to get us to take Sydney, too, but we had a full house, so she ended up with another family. Those people weren’t great about coordinating visits, so the kids didn’t see enough of each other.”
“That must have been hard for both of them.”
“It was. And now, well, it gets harder and harder to get them together, especially with Sydney’s, ah… living situation. Sam insists he’s going to go and stay with her one day, when she’s eighteen. To me, that sounds like Sydney is whispering things in his ear.”
Nick nodded, reaching for his mug. When he’d coordinated the visit, he hadn’t told Fran about Sydney’s midnight flight or subsequent time in custody, nor did he intend to. Sydney was holding a lot of tension regarding her brother, and incidents like that of the previous evening were indicative of just how much she loved him.
“She misses him too,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “And now that I’m in the picture, as soon as I’m allowed, I’d like to find a way for them to see each other on a regular basis.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Fran smiled then shrugged and sipped her tea, considering Nick over the rim of her mug. “You know, Ralph and I love Sam—he’s a good-natured little boy. But we decided a long time ago that we’re meant to be foster parents, not adoptive ones.”
Nick frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“We believe that God’s plan for us is to help as many children as possible for as long as we’re able. If that means them living with us until they’re of age, that’s fine. If it means we support them in finding their forever family, that’s fine too.”
Fran was about as subtle as a sledgehammer, and Nick nearly choked at her implications. “Oh, that’s… no, I mean, obviously, Sydney’s a great kid, but she’s sixteen. Sam’s a lot younger, and I can’t see myself—”
“How old are you, Nick?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Seems pretty young to me. And you know, if you take on Sydney, you’re getting a handful of Sam too. Unofficially.”
A parade of fire ants started dancing a jig across Nick’s lower intestine. “I’m, ah. I’m going to go up and check on them,” he said after an awkward pause.
That was easier than thinking through the what if scenarios his brain was spitting at him, rapid-fire. He couldn’t take on two kids—he was crazy to take one—but that didn’t make Fran’s words less true. Sydney loved her brother, and it wasn’t fair that life had forced them apart.
Following Sydney’s laughter, Nick mounted the stairs and headed for a cracked door, inside of which lay a bright-blue bedroom. A set of bunk beds was pushed against one wall, and piles of clothes and toys were strewn across every available surface. Sydney and Sam sat on the floor, a mound of Legos between them, and they both looked up when Nick came in.
“Hi.” Nick leaned against the doorframe and offered them a smile.
“Hi.” Sydney’s eyes were red rimmed, but she was no longer crying, so that was something.
Sam cocked his head. For all that he’d ignored Nick outside, he seemed interested now. “That’s Nick?”
“That’s Nick,” Sydney said.
“Do you like Legos?” Sam held out a handful of blocks.
Nick sat down cross-legged to join them. “I never played with them much growing up. Can you teach me?”
Sam looked at him with an exasperated air that was far cuter than it had any right to be. “It’s just blocks, though. It’s not very hard.”
“Right. Just blocks.” Nick exchanged a glance with Sydney. “What are we building?”
“A restaurant on the moon,” said Sam. “Luke Skywalker’s the cook.”
“Kylo Ren’s there too,” Sydney mumbled, her cheeks going pink. If Nick recalled correctly, one of her school notebooks had a picture of Kylo taped to the cover.
Well, there was no accounting for taste in villains. Besides, Nick had crushed on some questionable choices when he was sixteen. It was a rite of passage.
“Got it. Restaurant on the moon. Can I be the fry cook?”
Sam giggled, and they got to work constructing a gourmet lunar experience. Nick lost himself in the world they were building, and as they teased and joked and played, he couldn’t help but notice that everything about the situation felt right and good and the way things were supposed to be.
In other words, he was utterly fucked.