Foster

You know the Fosters. Everyone does. From the beautiful Victorian on the bend. A stone’s throw from the canal. Damon was a policeman, back in the day. Discharged on pension. Went on to become a cardiologist—best one within a reasonable drive. I hear they pay him a fortune.

Sasha is Sasha. Quiet. Beautiful. Flaming red hair. Skin the colour of bleached parchment. A tall one, she is. The ladies at the church told me she works reception at the hospital. Same one as her father, I think. Women like that do not have much direction. I mean, they have the looks to not need it. They will find a husband. A decent one. Marry into some money. Have a few babes. She was a Ward of Court, staying at a care home just on the edge of town. Not many people went there. The edge of town, that is. Until Damon did. And one day, Sasha crawled out of that luxury four-by-four of his. Waddled up to the door of the Victorian on the bend.

Their life seemed perfect. I suppose I was wrong. In any case, the Fosters were inseparable—even when she got older. They would waltz around town laughing; sit at cafes looking like someone ought to be photographing them for a perfume campaign. And it stayed that way for a while, mind you. Until Chloe climbed out from a Taxi—and this I saw through my kitchen window.

There was a deep evil in that woman. You could see it when you looked at her. And there is only one thing I will say and that is that hell is empty and all the devils here—though I lie, may the Lord forgive me, because I will say too that some children need a mother, and others need an exorcist. I fear we are too late to save Chloe.

***

December 1st, 2012

Midday

I woke in a panic this morning. I think it was still in my eyes when I went to the kitchen for coffee because Damon has this look about him. And I think it was all in my head, but he looked like he knew that I had something to dread and couldn’t believe that I did.

He sent me off to Gaddings dam with his car. To relax. Rain began to splatter the windshield, breaking up the saltwater fog. With swelling dots. The sound of it almost like a clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. A little too well-timed to have come from the sky.

Grace Marks had said the morning clouds looked like angels hanging their laundry. And by then I was feeling a little like Grace Marks myself, because what woman on this good earth had ever gone madder? The rain was a little like they were marching. Carrying a coffin in a funeral parade. And I didn’t have the thought that it was my coffin until a dark crow landed to preen on the hood of Damon’s car. A good omen. Except a stout magpie landed by its side. Because father used to sing to me: one for sorrow, two for mirth. Three for a funeral, four for a birth. And this perfect pair of life and death opened their beaks in the spots of clear glass I could see through. I couldn’t hear it, but they laughed at me.

And that brings us here. The lady talking about the overturn of a passenger bus in South America dies with the ignition. The garage is dark and quiet after the automatic light switches itself off. The hood ticks steadily into the silence, tick, tock, tick, tock—or left, right, left, right. An arc on the windshield is cleared from the wipers, through which I can stare into a rather untidy storage rack; boxes upon boxes of loose papers and binders line the shelves, a pile of shoes strewn about, a single sandal whose twin I’m sure I’ve lost.

A suitcase sticks out. Louis Vuitton. With the tanned leather-patch shoulders and everything. I’ve never seen it before. And Damon isn’t one to splurge on something so trivial. It’s parked at the foot of the entrance steps. Like it’s been forgotten. Now I’ve got to wonder—did he kick me out because he was concerned for me? Or because he needed the car gone to lug in a stranger’s cargo? And I have to say stranger because he certainly would have told me if some dear friend or distant relative was in town for a visit.

I must have been in here, staring at that suitcase, for quite some time because Damon pops his head through a sliver in the door. He’s got that winning, George Clooney smile. I can see it from here. It haunts me nightlong. In my more lurid dreams.

I would resist him in some way. He asks me to stack the dishes. Run the vacuum around. Help him bring the groceries in. I refuse. And he smiles that smile. Grabs me by the hair. Drags me into his bedroom. Poses me as he pleases. Last night, I was on my stomach, hands bound behind my back. He struck me a few times, like a disobedient child. Slipped a finger or two inside of me. Had me begging for forgiveness until he had his way with me. And I woke with a start. It took a while to get back to sleep, as I’m sure you could imagine.

He looks a little like he knows what I’m thinking, a look that worsens the closer I get. It can’t be the case. I’d be on the streets if he did. But now he’s so close I can smell that earthy cologne; he looks a little more nervous than anything. And he says, quietly. With a rough, voice and this look in his eye. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

He doesn’t want me to, I’m sure of it. It’s just the way he says it. But he motions for me to follow. And we’re off towards the living room.

Staring at the back of a woman gazing quietly through the front windows with lined hands clasped behind her back, she looks like mother. With the flaming, ginger hair I’ve dyed mine for years in search of some resemblance. It billows down her back like a steel factory chimney. Ivory skin spotless, at least without the wrinkles.

Damon’s voice is firm. It’s his doctor's voice. “Chloe.”

The woman spins to face me, grey hair spilling from her part. And suddenly, I’m staring into a mirror. My future, I suppose. Or a half of me thrust forward through time. Is she hiding from the likeness of her father? Does she cling to the memory of her dead mother? Has she stained her basin copper with henna too many times? Does she count her magpies, too? I don’t care for any answers. I like her a whole lot more believing it. I wouldn’t mind being whisked away by her. We could grow our hair out. Mine a light, golden brown and hers a peppery silver. “Hello, darling.” Her voice is cool, Queen’s English. A Londoner. The wealthy kind.

“Chloe, this is my daughter. Sasha.” Damon speaks again, still the doctor's voice. He rarely calls me his daughter. I’ve hardly called him my father. It’s an understanding, I would like to think. Its rarity shrivels my insides, suddenly I’m feeling rather sick. His daughter. With those dreams I’ve had. His daughter!

“How do you do?” I smile, again it feels tight. I clasp my hands behind my back, too, Chloe’s now on her hips, and I feel a little less awkward.

“Sasha, this is my wife, Chloe.” One for sorrow.