Finding London - Ellie Wade (best pdf ebook reader for android .txt) 📗

“These words are my sanity. They make me feel less alone when I am so very lonely.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I spy with my little eye…white, white, and more freaking white.

I sit at a wooden desk, surrounded by four stark white walls. This square cubicle—also called my bedroom—is just big enough to hold a twin bed and this desk. The small hand-me-down dresser—that has probably been used by more kids than I can count—sits inside the closet because the room is too small to contain it. And all of it—the desk, the bed, and the dresser—has been spray-painted…white.

I think, when one kid leaves, Glenda spray-paints everything to prepare the space for the next one. Maybe it’s her strange version of cleaning. White is known to be a sanitary color—or noncolor, I suppose. But it’s so odd to be in a room with zero color. If I were in a mental institution, I could understand it, but I’m not crazy—yet. Depending on how long I’m at this placement, I might be when I leave.

I can’t complain though. This home is much better than Dwight and Stacey’s in New Hope.

New Hope…what a joke.

I can see the irony of it all now. Boy’s parents die in a tragic car accident, and he is sent to live with a happy young couple in a town rich in new beginnings. The one thing that city didn’t have was hope—at least, until Dwight drank himself into a coma, making Stacey call an ambulance.

In the chaos before the ambulance came, there wasn’t time to tidy up the house and put on the faces of a joyful family. The paramedics got to see the home for what it was—hell. The staged joyful home that the foster care workers had been presented with at the few visits they made during the three years I was there was nowhere to be found. I’m not sure exactly who figured it all out and told the proper people, but I’m so thankful. Sometimes, I get the feeling that it was Stacey. She actually seemed mildly pleased to see me go—not in the way that she was glad to be rid of me, but in the sense that she was happy for me.

It’s surreal to think that the glugging sounds that terrified me as I cowered, hidden underneath their crappy kitchen table on my last night in the house with Dwight, were actually the means to an end for my placement there.

I moved to this home three days after Dwight had been taken to the hospital. And while this placement isn’t bursting with love, no one physically hurts me here. I live with Glenda and her five other foster kids. I’ve been here for two years now, and I’ve seen kids come and go.

To be honest, I pretty much stick to myself. I’ve tried making friends with some of the other kids, but that has never worked out for me. The few kids I’ve gotten close to have either hurt me by lying about me or stealing from me. Or they leave. Some were adopted, and others were sent to different homes for various reasons. But it doesn’t matter why they go. It hurts just the same. It’s simply easier to stick to myself and not get emotionally invested in anyone here.

If any truth has stood the test of time, it’s that those I love always leave me in one way or another.

I’m currently writing in my notebook. The words within these pages are my sanity. They make me feel less alone when I am so very lonely. I write down the stories that Dad used to tell me. He was the best storyteller. I’m constantly scribbling down memories or moments with my family that I remember so that I don’t forget them. I can never forget them.

Today, I’m writing a story that he told me about his favorite moment playing soccer. He made it sound like he was about the age I am now. I can close my eyes and still see him dribbling an invisible soccer ball across our living room floor as he gave me a play-by-play of how he’d single-handedly made the goal that won his team the game against their biggest rivals. I smile to myself as I recall how he ran around the living room, giving me and Mom chest bumps and high fives, as if we were part of his soccer team. He knew how to make Mom laugh. I realize now though that she was often sad, so maybe he was always extra goofy to cheer her up.

I’m glad that they died together. I don’t think either one could have lived without the other. I just wish I could have gone with them. It’s not fair that I was left here alone. Dad said that I was a brave warrior, and though I’m trying to be, I think I’m failing. I don’t feel brave. I feel scared all the time. But Dad said that being scared and pushing through it anyway was part of bravery. So, I hope that he is proud of me. I hope he can see that I’m trying so very hard to have courage.

It’s been five years since Mom and Dad passed away. I keep waiting for Nan and Granddad to come get me, but they haven’t. I haven’t heard from them at all. I haven’t received one letter or phone call from them in five years, and I don’t understand why. I know they love me. I felt it every time I saw or spoke to them. They called me their miracle baby, a gift. So, why haven’t they come? Why won’t they save me and take me back with them to England? We could spend half of the year in the city and the other half at the cottage. We could be happy.

Maybe they’ve been looking, but they can’t find me. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense. They aren’t familiar with the foster care system in this country and are having a hard time locating me. I just have to stay strong for a little bit longer.

I finish writing my memory and then rip the paper out of the notebook. With each hand, I grab it at the top between my index finger and thumb, and I pull, ripping the page down the middle. I repeat this process what seems like eighty more times until my writing sits in a clump of indistinguishable letters on paper shreds on the desk. Then, I lift the white plastic trash can and swoop my hand across the desk until every piece has fallen in.

This is my ritual every time I write.

A year ago, a horrible girl named Jessica stole the notebook where I had written all my recollections. She started running around the house, and in a mocking voice, she read my private moments with my family to all the other kids. It tore me apart when they made fun of my prized memories.

I can still hear the shrill of her voice when she chanted with a whine, “Daddy calls me his little warrior, and warriors are brave.” She proceeded to rip the pages out of my book, leaving them scattered all over the house.

That was the saddest I’ve been since my parents’ deaths. Even the worst moments with Dwight didn’t compare to how much her