Staking Her Claim...: Book 1 in the Patricks' Brothers series (8 page)

Shrugging, I reply,

“Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe because no one else seems to be making the effort to get to know you, or it might be because I see you, Rob. I see something in you that no one else can.” Reaching out and grabbing his hand, I hold on tight when he tries to shake me off. “You have a big heart you know. You just have to open it up a little and let me in.”

With that, I drop his hand and walk away not knowing that would be the turning point in our soon to be friendship. From that afternoon on, I didn’t only walk home with Harper and Finn, I walked back with Rob and Thomas too.

Our friendship started out slowly but developed into one of the closest I’d ever have. He was my best friend, Harper aside, there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him. And that included pulling him out of his comfort zone no matter how much opposition he put up when I did.

Half the time we argued, the other half we laughed and confided in each other. For the most part, though, we were inseparable. Rob became fast friends with Brookes, Brandt, Finn, and Jett too. They shared a love of baseball, cars, and Nintendo, all things I could care less about.

So, when they started one of their numerous debates about which muscle car was best, I made myself scarce. I chose to hang out with Harper, who was obsessed with painting her nails, listening to what I considered to be crappy boy bands, and gossiping about boys over having a conversation I’d never know enough about to partake in.

Before long, Rob and Thomas were almost permanent fixtures in our house after school and on weekends. Not that I minded, I loved having them there, but I was more than a little curious about what their foster parents thought about them never being home. One day I made the mistake of asking him exactly that. Afterward, I realized my error and vowed not to be stupid enough to ask him something like that ever again.

“Rob, how come you never want to go home. I mean, it’s not that I don’t want you here, I do, but don’t your parents miss you seeing as you’re never there?”

If I were watching him like I usually do, I would have noticed the way his eyes darkened until the beautiful blue I loved so much was almost non-existent. I would have seen his large muscular frame turn rock solid. And I would have picked up on the intense waves of pure malice rolling off him. But I didn’t. I didn’t notice anything because I had become so comfortable with him, and being able to ask him anything that I stopped paying as close attention to his moods months prior. Mistake number two. Big mistake. The first being asking the question to begin with.

In a move so fast I never saw it coming, Rob gripped my shoulders hard. Hard enough to leave imprints of where his fingers had been for a week following. Shaking me, not gently, he snarled,

“Don’t. Don’t ever ask me about them. Not only do I never want to talk about them, but it’s not your fucking business. Do you hear me, Alysia? I don’t want you to talk about them or ask about them ever again, okay?”

I’ve never seen him this angry before, and before I can beat them back, hot tears pool in my eyes and stream unchecked down my cheeks. Humiliated and mad at myself for crying in front of him, I shake myself free of his iron grasp and run from the room before he can say another word. I heard him calling my name over and over again, but I didn’t stop running until I’d locked myself safely in the downstairs bathroom.

It took less than a minute for him to find me and start apologizing profusely through the door, but I ignored him, curling myself into a protective ball between the toilet and the sink. I stayed there until I heard him slump against the wall outside and his voice died away to a low murmur. He sat there for over an hour talking about baseball practice that day, teachers he hated, and homework he had to do later. He talked about anything and everything, but never about anything of substance.

I knew he was trying to distract me. I saw it for what it was. He was attempting to gloss over what had just happened and get us back to where we were before I dared to ask him anything personal. In hindsight, I should have known better. I should have known he had no intention of sharing his demons with me, but like always, I had to push it didn’t I?

Brookes apparently took one look at, Rob, and decided he wasn’t going to get anywhere anytime soon so he ushered him away, leaving me to my tears. Later that night, Brookes came into my room and explained that not all families are like ours. He told me that there are a lot of families, Rob and Thomas’s included that are far from idyllic, and it’s our job to show them there is a light at the end of the tunnel. To show them there are people out there that care about them, love them, will protect them regardless of what they believe. Brookes also gently, but firmly, explained it isn’t our place to ask questions. We’re there to listen when they want to open up and not judge.

After our talk, I felt better yet empty at the same time. I felt like I hadn’t been doing my job where Rob was concerned if he didn’t feel safe enough to open up to me. I mean, it had been almost fifteen months and I still knew so little about him. Did that mean he was simply humoring me? Was he friends with me out of pity? Did he see me as just another obligation because I refused to leave him alone? All those questions and more ricocheted around inside my head until I come to one startling conclusion; it didn’t matter. None of that mattered. As long as I was breathing, I would be there for him. I wouldn’t ask him questions or push him to talk to me. I would be strong and stoic for him. I would show him through my actions that he could trust me implicitly.

What I didn’t realize was, he already did.    

I spent years hiding behind a façade I built up to protect myself from people getting too close. The only person I even remotely let see a glimpse of my scars was, Alysia, but she’d claim differently. If you asked her, she’d tell you I was locked up tighter than a nun’s panties, but she’d be wrong. I might not have divulged all my secrets, confided in her my deepest, darkest fears, but I sure as hell opened up to her as much as I could back then.

Like anyone who has reasons to hide behind half-truths, distractions, and white lies it became a habit. A way of life so to speak. I didn’t even realize I was still doing it until Finn sat me down and told me that if I didn’t start trusting people weren’t going to judge me for my past I’d lose them.

Specifically, he was referring to, Alysia. He didn’t have to say it in as many words, but our conversation took place mere hours after her outburst in the conference room so I’d have to have been dumb as a post not to be able to read between the lines. And I’m many things, but dumb isn’t one of them.

Finn pretty much told me he wouldn’t be averse to me dating his sister if I could get over my past, but that was something I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to do. Memories, nightmares like that weren’t easy to erase or move on from. That shit was seared onto my soul. It infiltrated my blood like poison.

The horrors I’d faced, the things I’d done it was all there ready and waiting to rear its ugly head at any moment. There were only a few distant good memories, and at times, they were almost impossible to conjure up. Like now, sitting here dumbfounded I can only vividly remember one such memory from my childhood that doesn’t involve Alysia and her family.

I was one of those kids you hear of all too often that were doomed to the foster care system for the vast majority of their childhood. There was only a barely worth mentioning period of time I wasn’t. And that time period was one I couldn’t possibly remember. It was from the time I was one week old until seven months of age.

Apparently the family I was placed with, the Jensen’s, were a lovely couple cursed with not being able to have children of their own. A middle class, hardworking couple who busted their asses to make a happy life together regardless of the fact they’d never feel one hundred percent whole.

The only reason I knew they were nice is because I’d heard some of the staff at one of the many group homes I’d lived in for a few months talking about how sad it was they couldn’t have children. The women who ran the group home went on and on about how unfair life could sometimes be, and that if there was, in fact, a God he would have left me with them.

Of the vivid dreams, I rarely remember the Jensen’s play a starring role. I still often wonder what would have happened to me if they’d have been able to keep me. Would I be an entirely different person to the man I am now? Would I have followed my passion and gotten a baseball scholarship, going on to college somewhere? Is it possible that I could be married and have kids of my own by now if I’d had role models like them?

All those questions and more plagued me when I woke up from those dreams. Some days I can’t decide if they’re not dreams but nightmares because no one should have to suffer in the knowledge that their life would have been infinitely better if the scales weren’t weighted against them.

There was a period of my life that I needed the answers to these questions more than I needed air. I was desperate to find somewhere I belonged, so when I aged out of the system at eighteen, I sought them out.

I didn’t have much to go by, only that they were located somewhere in New England, their names were Stuart and Alice Jensen, and they owned a garage. Information was spotty at best when it came to government run agencies, and the foster system was no different. A first I went back to the group home I’d been in where I first learned the Jensen’s were stand up people. Thankfully one of the women who worked there during my stay was still employed and happy to tell me what she could, not that it was a lot, but something was better than nothing in my book.

Armed with little money, even fewer prospects, and a shit ton of hope, I set out to New England on a wing and a prayer.

What I didn’t expect when I finally located them was to be accepted into their home with open arms. I mean, I knew they’d probably be willing to sit down with me and tell me about the time I’d spent with them, but never did I think they’d practically demand I stay with them until I got on my feet, longer if I wanted to. An offer I happily accepted, remaining with them for three years before I decided it was finally time for me to move on.

I had loved getting to know them, but more than that I having somewhere to call home even if it wasn’t permanent. But after three years I had the sense of peace I’d been searching for, and I knew although I hadn’t outstayed my welcome it was time to move on to another chapter in my life. A chapter I couldn’t start until I left that part of my past behind.

Not that I’d ever forget Stuart and Alice because I wouldn’t. You can’t forget people like them, it’s impossible. People like the Jensen’s ingrain themselves in your heart, they’re just that special. But I needed to leave them because every day that passed it only got harder to see myself anywhere else. And I knew I needed something more. I knew I was missing an integral part of myself. I didn’t know what that was yet, but I knew I wouldn’t find it there with them.

Among the many things I learned while I was with them was that they were genuinely good people. Sweet, kind, caring people that had been plagued for years by the decision to give me back to the unforgiving system I ended up calling home for over seventeen years.

Their decision wasn’t selfish, nor was it because they didn’t indeed want me. No, their reason for giving me back was based on the almighty dollar. Not that they were materialistic, money hungry people either, because that couldn’t be further from the truth, but they definitely weren’t financially capable of taking care of a kid with my health concerns. Concerns that didn’t make themselves known until I was five months old, they’d already bonded with me and could barely stand to say goodbye, but nevertheless, they had no choice but to.

The sad fact is I was born with a hole in my heart. It wasn’t something that was particularly concerning to doctors when I was born, in fact, they didn’t even notice at first because I didn’t have any of the tell-tale symptoms of the disease. Like I said, it wasn’t until I was five months old that my health started its downward spiral, and with the Jensen’s only making it from paycheck-to-paycheck they didn’t have the funds to care for an infant with acute medical needs that would require ongoing care. Sad, but true.

When the doctor told them that I’d require at least two surgeries to fix the defect, and that’s only if they were successful the first go around, Stuart said Alice was inconsolable. She cried for weeks at the thought I’d be suffering and in pain, and there was nothing she could do about it.

According to Alice, she and Stuart agonized over the decision to return me to the foster system. In the beginning, they didn’t trust I would receive the surgeries to save my life. But after dozens of reassurances from the group home I’d be placed in, one devoted to caring for post-op children, the Jensen’s made the heartbreaking choice to say goodbye to me before they got even more attached.

One of the first conversations I had with, Stuart and Alice when I first arrived was about my condition. I wasn’t given much information about it while I was in the system, and I wanted to know what had made them make their decision.

You have to remember, there are a lot of us out there that have lived in foster care their whole lives that will know little, if anything at all, about their medical histories. It’s not like the day you age out of the system you get given the complete file about your life up until that point, far from it.

All you leave with is the clothes on your back, a backpack of shit if you’re lucky enough to have any, and any tidbits of information you’ve collected along the way. That’s it. No more, and usually a whole hell of a lot less. So being able to discuss my medical history with someone who was there at the time was priceless in the eyes of an ex-foster.

What the Jensen’s told me is that most kids with ASD or VSD – atrial septal defect and ventricular septal defect – are lucky and the hole closes on its own anytime between a few weeks after birth and a few months. And more often than not those kids live to old age with very few complications arising from their earlier condition.

I on the other hand, was an entirely different case than most, and one the doctors were in awe of when I presented to the emergency room the first time.

In essence, the way ASD and VSD works is; the two chambers of the heart are separated by the septum, the inner wall separating the two sides. The right side of the heart sends oxygen-poor blood to the lungs to re-oxygenate it, and then the blood enters the left side of the heart where it’s pumped to the rest of the body. It’s pretty simple really; good and bad blood shouldn’t mix, because if it does bad shit happens. The end. Sayonara.

Now, this isn’t usually a problem if the hole is small and eventually closes on its own. No harm, no foul, all’s well that ends well. But in my case the hole was so large it had torn the septum almost entirely in half. Something that was uncommon, if not extremely rare.

My tiny body had to work too hard in the end. Specifically, the right side of my heart which was pumping double the amount blood to my lungs, which soon turned out to be too much for my already fragile frame to handle.

It wasn’t long before the right side of my heart started to fail, as did one of my valves. Then, and only then, was my condition picked up on by doctors in the emergency room, and I was rushed in for emergency surgery to try and correct the primary defect.

Eventually, after four surgeries in as many months and weeks upon weeks of recuperation afterward, it was determined that I was cured. It would apparently take upwards of two years for me to make a full and complete recovery and catch up with other kids my age, but ultimately I would.

According to the Jensen’s they called the group home regularly, like once a week, the first year after they relinquished their care of me. They wanted to know how I was doing if I was healthy and thriving. I don’t know why they tortured themselves like that. I mean, if I were them I’d have cut and run as soon as I could, but they weren’t me, and they told me they needed to know I was okay if they were to get any sleep at night.

After a year of calls with very limited information exchanged during them, (apparently it contravenes confidentiality clauses), Stuart and Alice decided it was time to stop for their peace of mind. Hearing that I was alive, healing, and meeting my milestones was enough for them to begin the slow process of moving on.

Albeit hearing that they cared enough to keep checking on me and they didn’t make the decision to give me up lightly was somewhat comforting, I still had trouble convincing the last tiny piece of my heart that held resentment toward them for giving up on me go.

Rationally, I could understand that they were in a rock and a hard place, faced with a seemingly impossible decision. But rationale doesn’t factor in matters of the heart. All I knew was, that I need space and time to reconcile what I learned from them, and what I knew of them.

So three years after I arrived, I packed everything I owned in two duffels, loaded my piece of shit car I hadn’t gotten the chance to completely repair and headed out on what ended up being one long-ass road trip.

When I left the Jensen’s were living in, Augusta, Maine, so it wasn’t a big jump to the first stop on my epically long road trip, Manchester, New Hampshire. I didn’t have a plan when I left, all I knew was that I was good at waiting tables, tending bar and fixing old cars. All jobs I’d held while I was living with Stuart and Alice.

Having bartending to fall back on meant I was easily employable almost anywhere, and I was never without a job or a place to lay my head for more than a day or two. Something I was infinitely grateful for, because living on the streets was a fucking full-time job. Take from someone who knows; that shit is not for the faint-hearted.

Six months after crash-landing in Manchester, I moved to Providence, Rhode Island, followed by, Hartford, Connecticut, and then Scranton, Pennsylvania. I pretty much went where the road took me, or wherever my finger landed on the map.

When I set out each time, I didn’t have a particular destination in mind. In fact, I liked that I was free to choose where I’d rest my duffel for a time. I’d spent so long having every facet of my life decided on by people who very rarely had my best interests at heart in foster homes that my freedom was something I valued above everything else.