8. Eight
Eight
Saturday greets me with an hour at the gym followed by running errands, one specifically for Veda after some research I do on arthritis, and the showdown I’m now having with Huck in my kitchen.
“C’mon, Huck, just try it,” I say as he stares at the ceiling with his mouth clamped shut.
“Please,” I beg, dragging the word out. “I made it red, just for you.”
He looks at the loaf of bread, eyes nearly closed with his skeptical squint.
When Huck and I first started spending time together, his food aversions drove me crazy. He showed up on my porch with an orange sports drink, orange lollipop, and a can of spray cheese. I nearly collapsed as every horrible ingredient and potential side effect he was holding raced through my mind .
My disgusted, Why don’t you just do a line of arsenic off the counter?! Was met with his, Why don’t you just do a line of arsenic off the counter?!
Now, after many deep breaths and months of getting to know him, I’ve learned to accommodate him in ways that don’t involve any frustrated shouting.
Huck’s current food color of preference is red, and while I understand that Miss Alice is doing the best she can, the red sports drink he shows up with today promptly ends up in the trash.
Today’s spread features strawberries, homemade bread I dyed using beet-based food coloring, a smoothie made with strawberries and raspberries, and meatballs in marinara sauce.
So far, he’s tried zero of them.
“I wonder if Huck would like to give a meatball to George Strait,” I say, switching tactics.
The slightest smile ghosts his lips.
“I wonder if Huck would like to give a meatball to George Strait and eat a meatball at the same time.”
Without warning, he pops one into his mouth while simultaneously dropping one on the floor for the dog. As George Strait laps his up, Huck chews, then smiles.
“Huck likes the meatballs,” he says loudly, grabbing another one for him and the dog.
I laugh as they eat every single one out of the casserole dish.
The rest of the foods aren’t as popular. The strawberries are too mushy; he spits those out. The smoothie is too cold; he screams after one sip. The bread he flat out refuses .
One out of four is better than nothing.
In the living room, we play Connect 4, his favorite game, about seven hundred times.
Finally bored of playing, we spend the rest of our time together watching a documentary about bugs.
Just before dinner, I walk him home, Miss Alice greeting us at the door.
“Hi, Huck! Please go get ready for dinner,” she says, smiling at him.
He gives me a high-five and a loud, “Bye, Birdie!” before running inside.
“Birdie, if you have a minute,” Miss Alice says, stepping onto the porch next to me, concern etched on her round, rosy face.
“Sure. Everything okay?”
She nods, one of her curly white-blonde hairs falling in her face.
“I don’t know if Huck has mentioned it, but we’ve been meeting with potential families for adoption this summer.”
What?
My mouth opens as I shake my head. “He didn’t tell me.”
“Just as well, none of them want him.” The way she says it is a punch to the gut. Like he’s a used car sitting in a lot with too many miles on the engine. “The behaviors and the food…” She shakes her head with a sad smile. “It’s a lot for someone to take on, you know?”
I nod, even though, no, I don’t know.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask .
“You’re around him so much, I just want you to be aware in case you notice his moods changing from it. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep him here.”
She must see the shocked expression on my face because she follows up quickly, “It’s Steve, my husband, he had a heart attack.”
My eyes widen, earning another quick response. “He’s fine, Birdie, nothing major, but he needs calm, quiet. We might be reaching the end of our time as being foster parents.” Then another sad smile.
Miss Alice and Mr. Steve never had kids, I never asked why, but they’ve spent the last twenty-five years taking in foster kids, never officially adopting any of them. I assume they are in their late fifties or early sixties now, and that ship has probably sailed for them.
“I’m sorry to hear about all this, Miss Alice,” I say, trying to register what she’s saying. “Of course, I’ll tell you if I notice anything, but please let me know if I can help. I’m happy to take him more for you, I’d hate to see him go.”
I can’t imagine it. I’ve only known him nine months, but it’s hard for me to picture coming home and not finding him on my doorstep. Who will walk George Strait with me? Who will I make new foods for on Saturdays?
She nods, stepping inside. “I will. And you should know, Birdie—he adores you.”
Hours later, in my own kitchen with my own plate of dinner—wild-caught salmon and sweet potatoes—I can’t stop thinking about what Miss Alice said. None of them want him. I hate it for him. Hate them for it. I want to call them all, tell them how great he is even though he’s different, and then wish them good luck finding a better kid.
Even worse, I wish there was something I could do about it. I can’t change Mr. Steve’s heart, nor do I blame them for wanting to have a house without kids. Obviously, I can’t adopt him. I’m unmarried and likely to leave him an orphan again. I couldn’t do that to him.
Like with everything else, I’m helpless.
Holding a mug of chamomile tea, I cozy into the couch with a heavy sigh, and turn on the TV, smiling when I land on The Office .
As if there’s a hidden camera watching me, my phone dings with a text from Bo.
Bo: What are you doing?
Me: You’ll never believe it—watching The Office.
Bo: Planning your next alter ego?
I laugh.
Bo: What are you doing tomorrow? Gran’s watching Lucy and I want to take you somewhere.
Me: The gym and whatever Mabel is forcing me to read.
Bo: This will be better. Wear whatever you wear to the gym. Send me your address and I’ll pick you up at 9. We’ll find something to check off your list.
I pause, terrified. Terrified of someone else being in control and of me not having a clue what is about to happen. Terrified I won’t bring something I need or will be forced to drink some kind of toxic chemicals.
No, that’s crazy, he wouldn’t do that.
Would he do that?
Somehow, my fingers type, Fine. Where are we going?
Bo: To church.