Denial - Stephanie Wilson (bts book recommendations TXT) 📗

I saw it - a white ute which looked suspiciously similar to the one sitting outside the Abbott’s garage when we first arrived. I was too far away to see who was in the driver’s seat, but I suddenly began to feel a little nervous.

Surely it was ridiculous to contemplate the idea that the Abbott’s might follow me to check up on what I was doing? That definitely looked like a silhouette of a man in the driver’s seat though... No, I’m probably mistaken…surely that would be far too extreme, even for them?

For about ten minutes or so, I attempted to continue reading – but I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. Every few seconds I would glance back up to see if the ute was still there. Eventually I gave up trying to shake it and began making my way back to the Abbott’s. The trip out had been far too short for my liking, and my feet felt heavier on the way back than it had leaving.

As I walked into the Abbots driveway, the site of the ute greeted me – exactly where it was when I left. I stepped around it precariously, looking for signs of disturbances, but nothing stood out. When I entered the house, I found Mr Abbott was sitting at dining room table as though he hadn’t moved. A small part of me laughed at the silliness of the whole thing – I was getting paranoid.

Mr Abbott asked how it had gone, I told him that I had got a job. I told him it was the second hand book store and he didn’t react one way or the other about it. But he did turn his attention to the brown paper bag I had in my hand.

“I got some stationary for school, and a few books to read,” I said in a way of an explanation. Normally I wouldn’t offer up this information unless someone had asked me straight out, but something about the way he was looking at it, made me feel like I had to inform him.

 “Can I see your books please?”    

Again, this was a request that wasn’t really a request. I mutely handed the bag over. Hoping that he was simply interested as to what it was that I bought, or checking that there wasn’t any hidden drugs.  Somehow, I knew that wasn’t the case.

He stared at the books for a few minutes. Then turned those steely grey eyes on to me.

“You cannot read these in this house. They are not suitable.”

“Not…suitable? But they’re...they’re classics.”

"They are not suitable,” he repeated, “there is a bible in the drawer of your bedside table, I think you will find that it will keep you busy for a while.”

 With that I watched in horror as he gripped the books, tearing them slowly and torturously right down the spine. Each section he ripped, he dropped deliberately into the bin, whilst I simply stared transfixed in shock.  

I looked back at his face in shock, and he stared at me with an expression that screamed “what will you do about it”. Red hot anger seeped through every inch of my body, my hands clenched involuntarily against my side.

NO!

I shook myself, turned and left without saying a word – not trusting myself to even open my mouth. Each movement was countered by an all-consuming urge to go back to his smug face and scream and hit. But that was not the plan. That was not how this was going to go.

10 months, four days.

Here was my first lesson about what life was going to be like at the Abbott’s house. And it didn’t bode well.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3            

 

I have had every other sort of foster parent so I suppose it should have only been expected that I would get religious zealots somewhere along the way. The Anderson’s wanted me to work in their grocery store every day after school for free. The Paige’s would not acknowledge my existence unless there was a social worker visit. The Carters taught me how to steal for them.

Of course, most were only dealing in shades of grey, the large majority had good points about them. But, of the twenty-two homes I had, there had only ever been one set of foster parents whom I got so very close to feeling comfortable with.

They were the Carptenter’s. Barry Carpenter I didn’t get to know very well, he had a building company, newly formed and worked late a lot of the time. When he was there he was quiet. But he would pour me a glass of orange juice, bring home a chocolate bar now and then and sneak it to me when Mrs Carpenter wasn’t looking. And his smile was genuine.

 Belinda Carpenter talked enough to make up for both of them. She chatted the entire eight months I stayed with her. She had this funny laugh too, that sounded more like a giggle but it was all in one tone. I would call it her Sponge Bob laugh. I was seven at the time, still having nightmares at night, still having meltdowns. But she took it all with a gentle touch and a forthcoming smile.

    For the first two months, I did not trust either of them overly much. I was always waiting for the other foot to drop. She spoilt me a lot though; she liked to buy me pretty little dresses and bows – she even took me to get my hair cut since going into foster care. She would even sit down and help me with my homework at nights.

The turning point for me was about three months in. We had gone out to the movies together, I can’t remember what the movie was about, but I remember she brought the largest size of popcorn and we managed to eat it all in the movie. Once we left, she had said with a giggle that we were both going to turn into popcorn. A lame joke, I know, but it had made me laugh at the time.

She had put her arm around my shoulder, hugging me to her side. It was the first time she had done so, and I was surprised by how nice it felt. It was probably the smallest of gestures to her, but to me it meant everything.

 But then I saw him.

A small boy, blonde hair so very different from my own. It stuck out in funny angles on the crown ‘like a ducks behind’ a sweet voice told me in my ear, and in my mind he even walked the same, funny little waddle on his short pudgy legs, his arms spread out wide to keep himself balanced. But I suppose all 1.5 year olds walked a bit like that.

 For a moment, I had really believed it was him. For that one moment, I was filled with a feeling that was very close to joy. Memories of giggles and calls of ‘Ann-be’ and bath adventures rolled round through my mind.

I hadn’t realized, but I had stopped still like a statue in the middle of the mall. Belinda, had to do a double take when she realized I wasn’t beside her anymore.

 But then the little boy turned around at the call of him mother, whose voice was stern and slightly panicked because he was wandering away from her at a surprising speed for such short legs. He gave a giggle and a smile. And of course it wasn’t him. No blue eyes, no rosy cheek. The voice was wrong. The smile was wrong. Wrong – wrong –wrong.

 Then it happened.

 I always imagined that the meltdowns are a results of dark waves. They were inky black, filled with scattered memories or people, smells and sounds and lingering touches and all of the thoughts I would push down and not allow myself to acknowledge. Sometimes it would be still and flat and only brush against the barrier I had created. Then sometimes it would swell, and push just a bit more firmer – testing it. Then sometimes it raged and pummelled and hit the wall, violent and angry and determined to be acknowledge – a storm raging at being pushed aside. This is the time when I would feel like the walls are closing in, that a hand was slowing creeping up to my heart, winding itself around and tensing – ready to squeeze and the slightest provocation.

Meltdowns (like what happened that day in the mall) are when the walls crumbled and fall completely because there is too much pressure. The thick black liquid would flow into every corner and crevice of my mind. Consuming everything in its wake - determined to be acknowledged, demolishing any attempt to be held in check.

My wall had broken and I had dropped to the floor and howled. Screams and violent thrashing – no tears though, never any tears. I can’t explain really how it felt physically, really, because I felt that I was stuck in my mind. I couldn’t get my breath, though I managed to scream. It was like my brain was stuck on the image of the boy, who was not the boy. Stuck and fuming and unable to move on from it and filled with fury that literally made me feel like I was boiling from the inside out. The walls are a lot more secure now than they were when I was seven years old.

Belinda had run to me. She didn’t try to ask questions. Nor did she pay attention to all the people who had stopped to stare at the crazy kid having a fit in the middle of the mall on a crowded Saturday afternoon. Instead, she got to the ground, scooped me up onto her lap – which was no small feet considering the fact I was trying to hit her. She cradled me, arms wrapped uncomfortably tight around my waist – a pressure that was oddly reassuring. She squeezed and squeezed and didn’t say a word.

When I began to gain more control over what I was doing, she loosened her grip and used one hand to stroke my hair. I was able to breathe more deeply, and still she didn’t say a word.

A man came up to ask if she needed any help, she simply told him no, that we were fine. If she was embarrassed by my display, or uncomfortable by the numerous people in the busy mall who had stopped to watch, she didn’t let on.

Once I was calm enough and I wasn’t about to hit her, she picked me up and carried me all the way back to the car. That night she stayed in my bed until I fell asleep. The next day she made me pancakes and we carried on as usual. Except that instead of leaving me be when I had nightmares, she would come in and lie down next to me – I guess she was encouraged by my reaction to her that day, so that she now felt comfortable doing so.

I grew very fond of her for that. I began to feel comfortable in their home, just a little, I began to feel like I belonged and that perhaps I could find some sort of place here.

It was Belinda who suggested