Authors: P.D. Workman
“Tamara, doesn’t that look lovely,” Mrs. Henson complimented. “Here, sit down. These boys will eat everything before we even get a bite, if they have to wait much longer.”
She gestured toward the empty chair nearest to her, and Tamara went over and sat down. Deshawn took what appeared to be her usual seat, beside Nita, which left one empty chair at the table of eight. Tamara looked for the first time at Mr. Henson. Slim, on the tall side. Handsome boyish face. Short-cropped curly red hair. He smiled at Tamara.
“Welcome, Tamara. I’m Jesse.”
Tamara nodded, looking down at her empty plate. Her stomach tightened and it was suddenly hard to breathe. The only men that she had been around for three years had been guards, doctors, and administrators. The last man she had lived with before that… her foster father, Mr. Baker… that had been a bad scene. A very bad scene. Tamara swallowed. She tried to consciously slow her breathing, but it just made her breath louder in her own ears, and she was sure everyone would be conscious of how loudly and quickly she was breathing.
“Dig in,” Mrs. Henson said, and the boys acted like two Rottweilers just told to attack, diving into the serving dishes immediately. Conversation started up around the table, and rather than trying to follow any of it, Tamara just let it wash over her like white noise. She served up small portions of each of the dishes that passed her, and dutifully passed them on.
“So tell us about your last home, Tamara,” Nita said. “Where did you come here from?”
Tamara looked at Mrs. Henson. The woman just smiled and gave her a small nod, and didn’t jump in to help her out. If Tamara didn’t want to answer questions, she was going to have to be assertive and speak up. The conversations around the table quieted as the others paused to listen for her answer. Tamara swallowed a very dry mouthful of potatoes. They stuck right in the middle of her chest.
“I wasn’t at a home,” she said finally, careful to keep her voice up, not to duck her head down. She was not vulnerable and had nothing to be ashamed of. She was strong and knew how to take care of herself. She had just as much right to be here as any of them. “I was in juvie.”
There was an initial silence, and then conversations started back up again without further comment on Tamara’s answer.
“Sorry,” Nita said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” Tamara said, shaking her head. “It’s not a secret. That’s where I was.”
Nita nodded.
“Most of us have been in trouble at one time or another.”
Tamara glanced around at their faces. None of them looked particularly troubled. They seemed happy and relaxed. At peace with themselves. Maybe they had been in trouble before, and maybe they hadn’t. You couldn’t always tell by looking at someone.
“Harry’s probably spent the most time in juvie,” Deshawn contributed, nodding to her brother. “How much time, Harry?”
“All together?” Harry questioned, laughing. “I don’t know. Longest stint was two years. But I had plenty of shorter stays before that.”
Tamara studied him more closely. He met her eyes and nodded.
“Harry’s twenty,” Mrs. Henson said without being asked. “So he’s not officially a foster child anymore. But we told him he could stay on here while he does some more schooling and gets on his feet.”
Tamara nodded, looking back down at her plate.
“That’s really nice of you.”
“It’s to our benefit too. Harry contributes a lot to the family, and since he’s working part time, he’s also paying a bit of rent to help keep us afloat. So it works both ways.”
Tamara bit into some sort of casserole.
“I guess you’ll learn about everyone’s backgrounds gradually,” Mrs. Henson said. “We try to be open with each other. Everybody’s been through some pretty tough stuff. We don’t judge. We just try to help.”
“That’s cool,” Tamara said, pushing her dinner around on her plate. She wasn’t hungry.
She watched everyone else chow down, and conversations flowed back away from her again. Tamara watched for the appropriate time to leave the table. There was no end of dinner bell anymore. She had to relearn all the social graces. How to judge the end of a conversation. When one could politely leave the dinner table. How long she could look at someone before they decided she was being too aggressive. It was like living in a foreign country. A dangerous foreign country.
“Not very hungry?” Mrs. Henson observed, as dinner conversation started to peter out.
Tamara looked down at her plate, still nearly full.
“No. I’m sorry… it’s good… I just feel kind of… my stomach hurts.”
“It’s all right. It takes time to adjust. You can scrape it into the garbage. Nita can show you where. And everyone rinses their own plates and puts them in the dishwasher.”
“Sure,” Tamara agreed. She stood up, grabbing her plate, and Nita got up and led the way back into the kitchen, where they took care of their dishes. Tamara looked back at the dining table. “Do you want help with clean-up?” she asked. “Or would I be in the way?”
“Of course you can help. Usually I’d probably tell you to go do your homework while I cleared, but you don’t have any today, so why don’t you and I clean up together?”
Tamara nodded, and she and Mrs. Henson bussed the serving dishes back to the kitchen, found lids for things, and put them into the fridge. Mrs. Henson turned the dishwasher on and wiped down the dining room table.
“You can watch some TV or take some ‘down’ time. In bed at nine, and lights out at ten.”
“Okay,” Tamara agreed.
She wandered around the house a bit, but wasn’t comfortable sitting down with anybody else, and made her way back to her bedroom. As she approached, the door to the other girls’ bedroom opened. Nita peeked out.
“Hey,” she said. “You need anything? Do you have pajamas?”
Tamara shook her head.
“No,” she admitted. “If I could borrow a t-shirt or something…”
“You bet. Come in.”
Nita opened the door the rest of the way for her, and Tamara went in. Tamara looked down at Nita’s feet, nails freshly painted and toes spread apart while they dried. Nita giggled and hobbled on her heels over to the dresser.
“You want to do yours?” she questioned. She pulled out a handful of shirts and tossed them at Tamara.
“No. Thanks,” Tamara said, fumbling with the shirts to see what her options were. “I’m going to hit the sack.”
She found herself strangely unable to choose one of the shirts. There were three of them. They were all cute. Any one of them would work. All she had to do was decide which of the three she liked best. Nita was watching her, head cocked slightly.
“The blue one is a really good color for you,” she suggested.
Not the blue one. Tamara looked at the other two. She didn’t know which she wanted, but she had to decide before Nita made another suggestion. She had to make her own choice. Tamara tossed the blue one back to Nita, and with a knot in her stomach, tossed Nita the pink one too. Tamara looked down at the purple and blue patterned shirt in her hands.
“This one is good,” she said.
She felt a little sick. Worried that she had made the wrong choice. How silly was that, to be worried that she had picked the wrong t-shirt to wear in the privacy of her own bedroom? But she was. She had an overwhelming feeling of dread.
“Have a good sleep,” Nita said with a smile.
“Thanks.”
Tamara went back to her room. She changed into the t-shirt, long enough to reach her mid-thighs. She laid down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. There would be no bell ringing to tell her when to go to sleep. Would her body know when it was time, without the bell? Would she be able to adjust to a new schedule? Not feeling the least bit tired, Tamara laid staring at the ceiling, twitching her foot and waiting for sleep.
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