Guava 14, Vinegar 18, Pistachio 22: Left
Title: Left
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Guava 14 (the best is yet to come), vinegar 18 (harmful if swallowed), pistachio 22 (caught off guard), malt (PFAH: Ivy : The Rules of the Game), caramel, fresh peaches (The mood will be a bit oppressive today), fresh blueberries (Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed. ~ Alexander Pope), pocky chain.
Word Count: 900
Rating: PG.
TRIGGER WARNING: Child abandonment.
Summary: Andy has been left too often.
Notes: Refers to Security.
He remembers shivering.
It was a cold day, the day she left. Not winter yet, but the bite of snow was in the air, and he had no coat, not even a sweater. He sat and shivered on the steps, because mommy said wait and she'd come back.
He doesn't remember how long he sat, but he remembers the stone like ice, freezing through his pants, the threatening gray clouds, the way he struggled not to cry.
The way it slowly dawned on him that mommy wasn't coming back.
He doesn't remember how long he sat before the police came.
--
If he had a name, then, he didn't remember it, because mommy never used it. She called him little man or baby, sweetie or honey. Boy, when she was angry with him. Never a name.
He doesn't know how old he is, not really. The people who found him guessed he was about two, but he didn't exactly have ID. He doesn't know his birthday, either.
He doesn't remember a father. He barely remembers mommy. A soothing, sweet-scented presence to him, a screaming voice to others, faint hurting noises in the dark.
He doesn't like to remember those days, before.
--
He doesn't like to remember the days between, either. Even then he knew what families wanted; big-eyed babies, quiet ones, white ones. Not a skinny little black kid already a toddler, who didn't meet their eyes and barely talked and kept his things packed because he knew he'd be sent back. It happened with the first family, after all, and the second, and the third.
They called him Andrew Bryant. Andrew, because some social worker liked it, and Bryant for the park by the icy steps, where they found him.
He can't imagine anything more demeaning.
He knows they tried.
--
It starts on a day in spring.
This new family has been whispering, and he's been packing, so when they come to get him, he's ready.
Except they don't tell him to get his things. Instead they tell him, "There's someone here to see you."
It's two women. One of them is pretty, with hair like copper, and one of them is beautiful, like some kind of angel.
He keeps his mouth shut and his head down, even when they introduce themselves. He doesn't know why they're here.
But he likes them, he thinks, after they go. He likes them.
--
One of the other kids finally enlightens him, two weeks later, after the women have come back twice.
"They're going to adopt you, dummy," the kid says. "You're lucky. I wish someone would adopt me."
He doesn't believe it. Nobody wants to adopt him.
But the women keep coming back. He knows their names-- Ivy and Gina. He knows they're married. He knows they talk to him.
One week later, when they take him to their apartment and show him the family pictures and the pretty furniture and the room that can be all his, he starts to believe it.
--
He doesn't call them Mom and Mama at first. He uses their names.
They said it was okay. And they aren't mommy.
Anyway, he doesn’t want to love them. They might want to adopt him now, but they don't know him. When they do they'll want to send him back. It's only a matter of time.
He's sure that time has come when a kid hits him on the plaground and he has to hit back. But Ivy gets mad at the kid's mother, defends him furiously, and on the way home he takes her hand and calls her Mom.
--
Then one year into it, Mama comes home and tells him she's pregnant, and the bottom drops out of his world.
He has to go back now. He's not really their kid, no matter what they say, and he knows they won't want him around, now that they'll have their own kid. The same thing happened at his second foster family; the mother had a baby, and he had to leave.
He's so mad at himself. He swore he wouldn't love them. He promised himself.
Guess promises made to him don't matter.
At least he can pretend not to care.
--
Really and truly, Mom said at the park. And then she said he was so her kid and made him feel even better.
The ice cream is helping a lot, too. They're sharing a banana split. But Mom is scowling at it like she wants to hit something, and he hesitates.
"Mom?" he asks. "Are you mad at me?"
"No, Andy," she says. "I'm mad, but not at you."
Mom doesn't lie about her feelings. "Who're you mad at, then?"
She doesn't answer the question. Instead, she says, "I will never, ever leave you, Andy. Not ever."
"Okay," he says.
--
He didn't believe, not really and truly, that he didn't have to leave until after Leah was born. By then he had other things to think about.
Mom told the truth. Leah's no fun. She cries all night and she looks just like all those babies that got adopted instead of him. But her three hairs are coppery and her eyes are blue, and she curls her tiny fingers around his and won't let go.
Leah's lucky. She has moms (and a brother, he guesses) who love her. She won't ever be left behind.
And neither will he.
Not anymore.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Guava 14 (the best is yet to come), vinegar 18 (harmful if swallowed), pistachio 22 (caught off guard), malt (PFAH: Ivy : The Rules of the Game), caramel, fresh peaches (The mood will be a bit oppressive today), fresh blueberries (Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed. ~ Alexander Pope), pocky chain.
Word Count: 900
Rating: PG.
TRIGGER WARNING: Child abandonment.
Summary: Andy has been left too often.
Notes: Refers to Security.
He remembers shivering.
It was a cold day, the day she left. Not winter yet, but the bite of snow was in the air, and he had no coat, not even a sweater. He sat and shivered on the steps, because mommy said wait and she'd come back.
He doesn't remember how long he sat, but he remembers the stone like ice, freezing through his pants, the threatening gray clouds, the way he struggled not to cry.
The way it slowly dawned on him that mommy wasn't coming back.
He doesn't remember how long he sat before the police came.
--
If he had a name, then, he didn't remember it, because mommy never used it. She called him little man or baby, sweetie or honey. Boy, when she was angry with him. Never a name.
He doesn't know how old he is, not really. The people who found him guessed he was about two, but he didn't exactly have ID. He doesn't know his birthday, either.
He doesn't remember a father. He barely remembers mommy. A soothing, sweet-scented presence to him, a screaming voice to others, faint hurting noises in the dark.
He doesn't like to remember those days, before.
--
He doesn't like to remember the days between, either. Even then he knew what families wanted; big-eyed babies, quiet ones, white ones. Not a skinny little black kid already a toddler, who didn't meet their eyes and barely talked and kept his things packed because he knew he'd be sent back. It happened with the first family, after all, and the second, and the third.
They called him Andrew Bryant. Andrew, because some social worker liked it, and Bryant for the park by the icy steps, where they found him.
He can't imagine anything more demeaning.
He knows they tried.
--
It starts on a day in spring.
This new family has been whispering, and he's been packing, so when they come to get him, he's ready.
Except they don't tell him to get his things. Instead they tell him, "There's someone here to see you."
It's two women. One of them is pretty, with hair like copper, and one of them is beautiful, like some kind of angel.
He keeps his mouth shut and his head down, even when they introduce themselves. He doesn't know why they're here.
But he likes them, he thinks, after they go. He likes them.
--
One of the other kids finally enlightens him, two weeks later, after the women have come back twice.
"They're going to adopt you, dummy," the kid says. "You're lucky. I wish someone would adopt me."
He doesn't believe it. Nobody wants to adopt him.
But the women keep coming back. He knows their names-- Ivy and Gina. He knows they're married. He knows they talk to him.
One week later, when they take him to their apartment and show him the family pictures and the pretty furniture and the room that can be all his, he starts to believe it.
--
He doesn't call them Mom and Mama at first. He uses their names.
They said it was okay. And they aren't mommy.
Anyway, he doesn’t want to love them. They might want to adopt him now, but they don't know him. When they do they'll want to send him back. It's only a matter of time.
He's sure that time has come when a kid hits him on the plaground and he has to hit back. But Ivy gets mad at the kid's mother, defends him furiously, and on the way home he takes her hand and calls her Mom.
--
Then one year into it, Mama comes home and tells him she's pregnant, and the bottom drops out of his world.
He has to go back now. He's not really their kid, no matter what they say, and he knows they won't want him around, now that they'll have their own kid. The same thing happened at his second foster family; the mother had a baby, and he had to leave.
He's so mad at himself. He swore he wouldn't love them. He promised himself.
Guess promises made to him don't matter.
At least he can pretend not to care.
--
Really and truly, Mom said at the park. And then she said he was so her kid and made him feel even better.
The ice cream is helping a lot, too. They're sharing a banana split. But Mom is scowling at it like she wants to hit something, and he hesitates.
"Mom?" he asks. "Are you mad at me?"
"No, Andy," she says. "I'm mad, but not at you."
Mom doesn't lie about her feelings. "Who're you mad at, then?"
She doesn't answer the question. Instead, she says, "I will never, ever leave you, Andy. Not ever."
"Okay," he says.
--
He didn't believe, not really and truly, that he didn't have to leave until after Leah was born. By then he had other things to think about.
Mom told the truth. Leah's no fun. She cries all night and she looks just like all those babies that got adopted instead of him. But her three hairs are coppery and her eyes are blue, and she curls her tiny fingers around his and won't let go.
Leah's lucky. She has moms (and a brother, he guesses) who love her. She won't ever be left behind.
And neither will he.
Not anymore.