The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove (2 page)

I’m scared and alone.

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

WHEN
I was seven, I became a ward of the state and was entered into the foster

care system.

At first, I hoped. I’d hope that my mother’s death was a nightmare and I

would wake and find that she was alive and well. I hoped that my real father,

wherever and whoever he was, would come to take me home. I’d dream about a

family adopting me and loving me.

My need for love was piercing pain that lived on the left side of my narrow

child’s chest, by the scar that was still healing.

No one ever came for me. I learned to extinguish my hope like you

extinguish a fire, by piling dirt atop it, depriving it of oxygen until it suffocates.

When human children lose our families, we learn that the world is a place

where love has no power, except to break our hearts. We can’t trust adults who

tell us to believe that there is a reason for everything. They haven’t lived in hell

and seen that it is being alone in a heartless universe.

We revert to our essence, our animal selves, to survive. Some kids were

like cobras, rising large and hissing loud to scare off threats. Some were like

possums, so still they didn’t attract attention. Some were chameleons, mimicking

those around them.

Some young creatures have spotted fur, allowing them to blend in with

dappled light and dark, hiding in plain sight. The girl I had been was lost, and I

became a shadow, slipping quietly in those dark places where no one noticed me.

My very plainness, my straight brown hair and brown eyes, my smallness,

was my camouflage. I saw others, but was not seen.

No one wants a plain, small seven-year-old child. I was moved from place

to place for years, and finally I was put in a group home. It was like the army,

except that I had never signed up. It was like jail, except that I had committed no

crime.

I shared a room with three other girls, and two boys shared a smaller room

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

down the hall. The house was in a run-down neighborhood where security bars

covered windows and front yards were paved over for parking.

The Eskimos have over one hundred words to describe snow, and we

should have had as many to describe gray, because everything in our landscape

was gray, from the dirty cement sidewalks to the grimy cinderblock walls to

primer on beat-up cars.

We had regimented meal times and lots of rules, all of which started with

“no.” No cursing. No radios. No talking back. No raising our voices. No dating.

No slang. No friends visiting and no visiting friends. No chewing gum. No

sleeping in. No popular music or television shows. It seemed easier to sit and do

nothing than do something and get screamed at.

We had to call adults sir or ma’am, turn our lights out at 9:30 p.m. and get

up at 5:30 a.m. except on weekends when we could sleep in until 7:00. We

couldn’t wear makeup, and we each had one pair of jeans, one pair of “nice”

pants, three t-shirts, and a few sweaters.

Our foster mother, Mrs. Richards, claimed she was strict because otherwise

we’d follow in the ways of our parents, who were so irresponsible that they died

or were imprisoned.

“There’s bad blood running through your veins,” she told me. “You’ll

never come to anything. Good thing you’re nothing to look at and the boys won’t

be chasing you.”

No, the boys didn’t chase me. I could see all the pretty, laughing girls

living real lives and the boys who sought their attention, but no one saw me

moving in the shadows by the walls.

When I think of myself then, I see an almost feral creature, without the

words to understand or describe her emotions. My only goal was to survive day

by day.

My obedience didn’t matter to Mrs. Richards. She took the money the state

gave her for our care and gave us the cheapest of everything. We had no treats or

money to go out, yet she bought new clothes, ate out often, and had regular

appointments to bleach her hair and maintain her fake tan.

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

“Nobody likes a spoiled child,” Mrs. Richards said. “Besides when you’re

18 and age-out of the system, you’ll have to know how to do without.”

She was a miserable excuse for a human being, but I had no where else to

go.

When I was fourteen, an older boy moved into the home, and I gravitated

toward him as naturally as a satellite moves into orbit around a significant planet.

Hosea’s mother was in prison for drugs, and I liked him because he didn’t chatter.

He spent his days thinking about the purpose of life.

I often found him lying on his bunk bed reading the Bible. I’d sit on the

thin carpeting by his bed and hear him sigh. “Hosea, what are you reading now?”

“
Leviticus
. Why did he hate things that crawl on the earth? Why did he

hate pigs? He thought faith was hating.” Hosea sighed again. His skin was the

color of melted chocolate, and his voice was a compelling low rumble. “God

made all creatures. I love me some spareribs.”

“I’ve never had them. I smelled them at the block party, but Mrs. Bitchards

wouldn’t give me any fucking money for a dinner plate.”

“Don’t cuss, Jane – it’s ugly,” he said. “They’re like heaven in your mouth,

all spicy and meaty. Someday, I’m going to take you out to a rib joint and feed

you so many that you have to sleep for two days after.”

I smiled and said, “Why do you need to understand why Levit…that guy

hated things? How is an old book supposed to tell you anything?”

I chewed off a hangnail while I waited for Hosea to answer.

“This is like a game of telephone, where the story gets far away from the

honest truth. But God gave us a brain to figure out things,” he said. “It dishonors

Him if we don’t use it. You’ve got a fine brain, little sis, and you should use it

and step into the Lord’s sunshine instead of hiding in the dark like a crazy, angry

little mouse.”

“I wish I was a rabid mouse, because at least then I could bite,” I said with

a laugh. “If I stepped into the sunshine, someone bigger would step right on me,

because that’s how they do.”

“That’s what I mean – crazy. If you was rabid, that would kill you. Hate

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

kills.” He patted my arm with his warm, thick hand. “Jesus loves the poor, Jane,

and your reward will come if you let out the kindness I know you got in you.”

I shook my head and said, “All I feel inside me is mad, Hosea. You be

good for the both of us.”

When he was doing the dishes that night, gazing at the soap suds and

contemplating the mysteries of the universe, Mrs. Richards screamed, “Stop

daydreaming, you dumb lazy lump, and finish your chores!”

I looked up from my sweeping and said, “Leave him alone. He didn’t do

nothing.”

“Oh, the ghost girl speaks up.” she said. “You care that much, you can wash

the dishes for the next two weeks, morning and night,
and
do all your other

chores.”

The next day at school, Hosea told me, “You gotta stop getting in trouble

for me.” We had started high school at City Central. At lunch we sat at the edge

of the loudest area of cafeteria, a zone occupied by black varsity athletes.

“I don’t give a shit,” I said. “I hate Mrs. Bitchards more than I hate going

into the gross bathrooms here. All the toilets are broke and, even if they weren’t,

homegirls in there make you pay or they slap you.”

Hosea’s Bible was on the table beside his food tray. He smoothed his hand

over the worn leather cover. “The Lord said, ‘But I say unto you, love your

enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for

them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.’”

“Why?” I asked. “Why should I forgive people who are selfish and nasty?”

“God wants us to be good to one another, Jane.”

“Maybe you should tell that to Mrs. Bitchards.”

“Don’t you worry about her soul. Worry about your own, and stop using

curse words because people will think you’re ignorant.”

A gangly basketball player walked by and said, “Head’s up, Rev!” and

tossed a juice carton to Hosea. The jocks had an affection for Hosea, whom they

called Rev for Reverend.

“Thanks, brother.” Hosea looked at me and said, “Do you want it?”

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

“That’s okay. If you get a cookie, though…” I said. I could pay for a

bathroom visit with a cookie.

“It’s all yours,” he said. “We got a place to sleep and food at Mrs.

Richard’s. She’s doing the best with what she got, bless her.”

“Eating and sleeping and not getting beat down – is that all our lives are

gonna be?”

“We’ll get through this, Jane, and we’ll move on. It’ll get better, I promise

you.”

A week later, Hosea got sick, and Mrs. Richards looked in the room at him

and said, “Get up, you faker.”

I slipped by her into his room and put my hand on his forehead. “He’s

burning up.”

She frowned and came to check for herself. “Okay, you can skip school

today, Hosea, and don’t get used to it.”

The next day, though, he didn’t get out of bed. When I tried to give him

water, he could only take a small sip before dropping his head back to the damp

pillow. “My neck hurts,” he said.

Mrs. Richards came and stood in the doorway of the room and said, “Jane,

don’t be late to school. Let Hosea be. The flu needs to run its course.”

I worried all day long, and I ran back to the house after school and found

that my friend was much worse. I dropped my backpack by his bedroom door and

touched his sweaty, hot forehead.

I tried to get Mrs. Richard’s attention while she gossiped on the phone. She

waved me away and continued blabbing. From nowhere came an indistinct image

of someone with dark hair and caring eyes, my mother, applying a cold towel to

my forehead.

I wrapped ice cubes in a washcloth and tried to cool down Hosea’s fever. I

could see his eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids. Sweat drenched his t-shirt

and I tried to comfort him, saying, “I’m here, Hosea. I’ll stay until you get better.

You’re going to get better.” Not having been comforted myself, I lacked the

expressions to soothe him, and I kept repeating myself, hoping he could hear me.

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

An hour later, Hosea opened his coffee-dark eyes, looked at me, and said,

“I’m going now, little sis. You be a good girl.” He gave me one of his beautiful

smiles and fell unconscious.

I ran to Mrs. Richards, shouting, “Hosea passed out! We need a doctor

right
now
.”

She put the phone against her shoulder and tried to push me out of her

bedroom. “I’m talking to someone, Jane!”

I grabbed the phone from her hand and jumped out of her reach. “If you

don’t take Hosea to the hospital this second, I’m calling the Baby Snatchers!” I

shouted. We always called Child Protective Services, CPS, the Baby Snatchers

because they took children from their parents.

“Don’t you threaten me, Jane Williams. I can have you sent to juvey with a

phone call.”

I didn’t have time to argue with her. Still holding the phone, I ran out of

the room and into the girls’ bedroom. I couldn’t lock the door, because none of

the doors had locks, and Mrs. Richards cornered me as I was dialing 911.

“Give it back!” she said. “I’ll take him to the hospital.”

The other foster kids helped me get Hosea to the car. His eyelids were halfopen and he didn’t seem able to focus on anything. “Lean on me, Hosea,” I said,

struggling to hold up the heavy boy. “You’re going to be all right.”

Mrs. Richards didn’t say anything when I got in the backseat with my

friend.

As soon as we got to the Emergency Room, Hosea collapsed. The nurses in

blue scrubs came right away and hefted him onto a gurney. They asked Mrs.

Richards, “Are you the parent or legal guardian?” as they rolled the gurney

through a wide set of double doors.

When I followed, a security guard stepped into my path. “Parents only,” he

said.

“His parents aren’t here. I need to be with him.”

“Sorry. Let the doctors do their job. You wait like every one else.”

I sat in a hard gray plastic chair and listened to the cries of the sick and

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injured during the night. The sounds and chemical smells awakened a memory: I

am in a white room, in a white bed, surrounded by machines, and a woman in

pink scrubs is holding my hand and talking to me.

The image flickers and vanishes, and I didn’t try to recall it. That part of

my life was over, and I never wanted to remember it.

At midnight, the security guard left his station. I waited until a woman in a

white lab coat opened the locked doors. I slipped in after her and found myself in

a hive of exam areas.

Peering between partitions, I saw patients hooked up to IVs and equipment.