What? Something that’s not “Part 1” you say? Well, it’s not “Part 2,” either. But it is its own complete thing. And it’s a little creepy. Put away your wallet-sized pictures and put your wallet back in your pocket…
Before Joey came to stay with us mom and dad sat me down and
explained what being a foster parent – and by extension, a foster sister –
meant. They said Joey’s mom died. I asked how and they wouldn’t say. That made
me curious. They were talking later and I heard, “killed herself” and “can you
believe?” and “must have been so much blood” and “Joey found her.”
I tried to be extra helpful when the social worker brought
him the next day. I showed him around the house and led him to his new room
with the brightly colored “Welcome Joey” sign over the bed. I helped him
unpack. He didn’t have much – clothes, sure, but not many toys. He didn’t give
much thought to how we arranged the stuffed elephant and the toy alligator.
I noticed he kept putting his hand in his right pocket
obsessively. I asked what was in his pocket and he looked at me warily,
weighing whether I was trustworthy or not. Cautiously, he drew out a blue nylon
wallet. In faded white script on the back it read “Santa Cruz.”
“Have you been to Santa Cruz?”
He nodded.
“When?”
“Last year,” he said without making eye contact.
“Really? Who did you go with?”
“My mom,” he barely whispered. “And Dale.”
“Oh, did you have fun?” I tried to change the subject away
from his mom.
He nodded.
“What do you keep in your wallet? Millions of dollars?”
He shook his head.
“Anything special?”
He nodded.
“Wanna show me?”
He remained still for a long time then finally nodded
slightly. His hands pulled at the Velcro closure and he gently opened the
folded nylon. Joey didn’t have anything in the wallet except a picture of a
blonde woman in her early thirties in the plastic picture holder. The woman
stood at the end of a pier, her curly blonde hair tousled by the sea breeze.
“Is that your mom?”
He gave a quick nod.
“Is this when you went to Santa Cruz with your mom and
Dale?”
He nodded.
The woman in the picture stared at the camera with a smile
that seemed far too sad for a vacation in Santa Cruz. I swear I could see utter
despair in her blue eyes that contrasted with the cerulean blue sky.
“She’s sad today,” he said, breaking the spell the woman in
the picture seemed to hold me in. I turned it over in the otherwise empty
picture holder and the back read, “Santa Cruz pier, 2018” in smeared blue
handwriting.
“Oh yeah?” I said. “Are you sad?”
“No,” he said softly closing the wallet and stuffing it into
his pocket again.
“Do you like it here?”
He nodded.
“Hey,” I arched an eyebrow at him conspiratorially. “I
haven’t shown you where my mom keeps the cookies yet. Want to see?”
His eyes widened and he nodded like any 9-year-old would,
and I led him to the kitchen.
Later that week, Joey seemed anxious at breakfast – more
anxious than a boy in foster care who found his mom dead, that is.
“Something wrong,” I asked him as I poured Raisin Bran.
He looked over his shoulder to make sure my mom wasn’t
paying attention. For her part, she was busy packing a lunch for Joey. “Mom’s
mad at me.”
“Mom?” I jerked my chin towards my mom spreading mayonnaise
on white bread.
Joey shook his head. “My mom.” He looked back over his
shoulder again then hurriedly fished his blue wallet out of the pocket of his
pants and opened the Velcro as quietly as he could – mom had an NPR podcast
going on the counter, so she was oblivious. He held up the wallet so I could
see the picture. It was the same woman on the same pier with the same blue sky,
disheveled blonde hair, but the woman’s face was scowling at the camera, her
brows angrily knitted together, lips pursed into a tight line. I flipped
through the little photo holder and verified it was the only picture. On the
back side was the same smeared “Santa Cruz, 2018.” I felt the hairs on the back
of my neck stand up.
“Joey,” I said, swallowing down a knot of fear. “Do you know
why she’s mad?”
He looked around the room without meeting my eyes.
“Joey?” I bent my neck to get directly in front of him. “Why
is she mad?”
“She doesn’t like that I’m happy.”
“She doesn’t…” I couldn’t believe his words. “Joey, of
course she likes that you’re happy!”
He shook his head vigorously.
“Eat your breakfast, you two,” my mom called as she packed
the sandwich into baggies.
“She was in my dream,” he whispered to me. “She wants me
with her.”
I was speechless. Fortunately, my mom came over with the
Avengers lunch box my dad had picked up for Joey. “Are you ready for school?”
she asked.
Joey nodded as he caught my eyes. His shone with fear.
After that Joey seemed really clingy. Whether it was helping
my mom with the dishes without being asked, or sitting on the couch as my dad
watched stupid reruns of Seinfeld, Joey didn’t leave them until they forced him
to go to sleep.
The next day at breakfast I could see dark circles under his
eyes as he ate his cereal. “Did you sleep?”
He shrugged.
“Your mom?”
He shone a weary, pained gaze on me.
“The picture?”
He checked over his shoulder before drawing out the wallet
and opening it. The woman stared fiercely into the camera, blonde hair wild
behind her. Her right arm extended, she had her index finger crooked in a
come-here gesture. Her crazed eyes caused me to shiver in the warm morning
sunlight.
“Did she visit you in your dream last night?”
He shook his head “I didn’t sleep.”
The sadness in his eyes melted something in me and I reached
out and hugged him. He hugged me back ferociously, like I would keep him
afloat.
“Aww,” my mom said. “Good to see you two getting along.”
Joey cried when my dad said he had to go to sleep that
night. It was the first time I saw him cry. My dad thought he was just being
stubborn and insisted, carrying him to his room. Joey padded softly into my
room later that night. “Jenny,” he whispered. “Can I stay with you?”
“Yeah, buddy. Come on up.” He climbed into my bed. He felt
freezing cold even in his long sleeve pajamas. “Everything okay?”
He shook his head and nuzzled into my pillow.
“Talk about it in the morning?”
The pillow nodded.
It was my turn to stay awake watching him. He was asleep
almost instantly, breathing in little snores.
Even a little bleary-eyed at the breakfast table, I was glad
to see Joey seemed rested for the first time since he arrived.
His hand rested in his pocket.
“Have you checked on your mom?”
He shook his head.
“Should we?”
“Can… can you look?” he pleaded.
I nodded and he handed me the blue Santa Cruz wallet. I
opened the Velcro and dropped it out of pure shock. The wallet fell open on the
table. The woman’s arm reached straight out towards the camera, her finger
pointing straight at the lens, accusingly. She scowled down the length of her
arm like she was sighting a rifle shot, her blue eyes maniacal. I recovered as
quickly as I could and folded the wallet closed.
“She’s mad?” Joey asked, his eyes wide.
Before I thought I said, “She’s pissed.”
“Language!” mom barked from the counter.
“Sorry, mom!”
That night Joey came into my room again and I watched him
until he fell asleep. This time, I dozed pretty soon after.
Joey’s mom was waiting for me on the pier in Santa Cruz.
Seagulls cawed as the surf pounded the sand below. I saw her immediately
walking towards me, her blonde hair blowing about her face even though the wind
wasn’t blowing strong enough to cause it.
“He’s my son!” she hissed.
“I know! He’s a good boy!”
“He should be here with me!” she said angrily.
“He’s a good boy,” I repeated. “He should grow up.”
“No!” she said as blood welled from a slit on her neck. “He
should be with me!”
I shook my head and backed up, “No! He needs to grow up!”
The blood now poured down her neck onto her blouse and down
her chest. “He will be here with me!” she yelled as I turned to run…
I sat bolt upright in bed.
Joey opened his eyes. “You saw her.”
I nodded. “Joey,” I said gently, “What happened… that day?”
He looked away.
“I’m sorry, Joey,” I felt ashamed for even asking him. “You
don’t have to talk about—”
“She had a knife.”
“She… your mom?”
He nodded. “She had the knife and said we were going to a
better place,” he sniffled. “She brought the knife close. I was scared,” his
tears started to trace down his cheek onto the pillow. “I was so scared. I said
it would hurt. She said it wouldn’t hurt for long. I was afraid of the hurt.
She brought the knife closer and it was bright and sharp and I shook and pushed
away. She grabbed for me, but I ran into my room and hid far under the bed. She
tried to reach for me but she couldn’t get me. She couldn’t get me!” He choked
back a sob. “Then she left… when it was real quiet for a long time I came out
and found all the blood.”
I reached out and hugged him tightly and let him cry himself
to sleep.
Joey had me check his wallet the next morning. I drew in a
long deep breath when I saw the woman in the picture holding a chef’s knife in
one hand, the other curled in a claw-like grip, her eyes predator-hungry. I
closed my eyes and slowly released my breath as I folded the wallet and handed
it back to him. He didn’t ask. I didn’t say anything.
Joey was restless in his sleep that night, tossing and
kicking violently. I worried that he had brought up the emotions too quickly by
talking about it so soon. His eyes popped open. “She’s coming.” He said,
pulling the blankets up over his head and burrowing hard against me. I held him
and listened.
Footsteps in the entry way. Down the hall. Pause. I heard
then start down the hallway towards our bedrooms. I heard his door creak open.
The footsteps entered. Pause. I heard them start out the room. I saw my
doorknob start to turn.
My mind wrenched itself out of the terror that gripped me
and I slammed a fist against the wall behind my headboard. “Mom! Dad!” I
screamed. Lights went on. My dad was in my room in a flash holding a baseball
bat.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, shirtless.
“I thought I heard someone breaking in!” I said.
Mom was at his side now. “Peter, should I call the police?”
My dad walked around the house flipping light switches on
ahead of him. “No, Mel, I don’t see anything…” He came back into my room. “What
did you hear?”
“Footsteps,” I said.
He stared into my eyes and I could see he believed me. “I
don’t see anything right now. Do you guys both want to come into our room tonight?”
“Yes,” I said. Part of me felt dumb because I hadn’t
scared-slept with my parents for years. But most of me was still shaking with
fear from seeing the doorknob start to turn.
Joey slept well and I even managed to get some rest for the
remainder of the night. At the breakfast table Joey held out his wallet for me
to look.
“Let’s leave it today,” I said softly.
Joey nodded with understanding.
Mom handed him his lunch and picked up his backpack. She
started out the front door and he followed. Before he left, though, he turned
around, dropped his backpack and lunch with a thud and ran at me, hugging me
tightly.
“Joey?” my mom asked when she noticed he wasn’t behind her.
I broke the hug and knelt down to be on his level. He had
tears in his eyes. “It’s okay, buddy. Let’s have a good day, okay?”
He nodded. “Thank you, Jenny,” he said.
I smiled at him. “Thank you, Joey.” I kissed him on the
forehead as I straightened up and picked up his backpack and lunch for him.
“Here you go, buddy.” He took them from me and walked to the front door,
stopped, looked back and smiled, then followed my mom to the car. I stared
after them through the open door.
“Ready, Moppet?” my dad asked.
“Yeah, dad,” said through my reverie. “Yeah.”
I never saw Joey again. The social worker was at the house
when I got home. Sitting at the table in the kitchen, she explained Joey
disappeared from school and authorities were looking for him. His teachers were
sure he couldn’t have snuck away, but… The social worker said something about how
troubled kids run away sometimes, but her tone communicated that even she
didn’t believe the words.
I left them talking and went to Joey’s room.
His Santa Cruz wallet lay on his bed.
I opened it. The face of the blonde woman in the picture
beamed in a wide grin. Her blouse was the same blood-stained red from my dream,
but her arms were wide open in a welcoming hug.
