By Terri Rimmer
After many placements back and and forth between my mom and dad and various other places, I continued with my third foster home in the summer of 1983.
I had just wrapped up a three-week stint with my dad who was getting ready to buy me birth control pills so he could have sex with me finally when I called my sister Cindy and she rescued me from his sick clutches once again.
This time we sat in the lobby of the Department of Family and Children's Services (DEFACS) awaiting our turn to speak with a social worker. She ushered us in professionally and told us about my soon to be new foster parent, Doris Strickland. Mrs. Strickland and her husband Bill had been foster parents for many years, had grown kids and grandkids, lived out in the country, and had several foster children living with them. Bill would soon be retiring from a trade profession and Doris never worked outside the home.
"They're on their way to come get you now," the social worker told me after a phone call. "You can just sit out in the lobby with your stuff and soon Mrs. Strickland will be here."
Surprised, my sister and I went back to the lobby and waited for the arrival of my latest foster mom. It wasn't long before the glass door opened and a heavyset woman with glasses and a ready smile pushed open the door.
"Are you Terri?" she asked me.
"Yes," I said, hesitantly, clutching my familiar bags.
"I'm Doris," she said as the social worker rounded the corner.
"Oh, Doris, you're always so prompt," the social worker said as Doris pushed her eyeglasses up on her nose.
"I'm Cindy, Terri's sister," my sister said, holding out her hand to Doris who took it, amused.
Before I knew it, we were off, me saying goodbye to Cindy once again, Cindy promising to visit, call, and write, which I knew she would, and me getting into a car with my familiar blue, battered suitcase. I don't remember if Doris and I had much of a conversation on the way to her house. I know I was shy and intimidated by her stealth and the prospect of where we were going.
After what seemed like a long drive to me, we arrived at her country home which was out in the middle of nowhere but in the same school district as my sister's high school alma mater. The house was small but had been added on to again and again to accommodate the numerous foster kids the couple had taken on through the years. I later found out The Stricklands had won numerous awards from DEFACS for their years of service.
"Okay, let's go," Doris said, gently as she helped me carry my bags in from the steep driveway.
A couple of teenage girls eyed me curiously then went back to chores. Two teenage boys, Jackie and Mark, who had been there the longest since the age of preschool, were loud and obnoxious but friendly as I entered the small doorway leading to my next home for now. Kandy, Doris' chubby granddaughter, was ten and quiet and used to all the foster kids dominating her grandparents' time. We entered through the back door and I took in the small backyard, large screened in patio that had been made into a giant rec area, and tiny kitchen with an addition for the washer and dryer on the side. The dining room was small and the house originally had only a few bedrooms but The Stricklands had added more and even opened up the attic to add another room later. The living room was tiny with a wood burning stove, tile floor, and windows that looked out over the hilly front yard. There were only two bathrooms which caused a lot of commotion in the mornings.
Two foster brothers enjoyed calling each other Faggot when they horse-played.
Later I was to live in the back bedroom with one other girl and Kandy, sleeping on a bunk bed. There was one dresser, chest of drawer, one closet, two windows, and no privacy. Turns out the girl and I got along well and Kandy was never any trouble. Doris and Bill's bedroom was right next to ours and the bathroom was across the hall that we would share with two others girls across the house and two kids who lived in the attic. Mark and Jackie, who had been abandoned by their parents in a grocery store parking lot as toddlers, had their own bathroom, thankfully. For now I was put in one of the front bedrooms with another girl who was nice and quiet. Doris put down my bags and sat on the bed across from mine, eyeing me reassuredly.
The maternal way she was looking at me fooled me and I didn't see the zinger that she threw at me next:
"So, you're here because your father molested you?" she asked, knowing the answer already.
"Yes," I said, looking at the floor, ashamed.
She heaved a heavy sigh and I thought she was going to sympathize.
"Well, did you dress a certain way? You know, like slutty? Did you make him think you wanted it?" she asked, as I looked at her, stunned.
"No," I managed to say, after a brief hesitation.
"Well, some girls do, you know," she said, wiping her hands on her pants. "Just wondered."
I sat there, silently not believing what I was hearing.
She stared at me for a minute.
"Well, you get settled in and I'm going to finish making dinner. There's blackberry cobbler for dessert. Do you like that?" she asked, heading to the door.
"Yes," I said, pretending to perk up.
"Good," she said, and closed the door behind her, watching me as she did so.
I slowly unpacked, shell shocked at what just took place and also at my new surroundings. I was pretty adaptable having moved so much by now but there was still a period of getting adjusted. I laid down for a few minutes and later ate dinner and had some of Doris' homemade delicious cobbler with ice cream on top. In those days I could eat what I wanted and not gain a pound. That night everyone sat around, cracking jokes, telling stories, and listening to music. The t.v. wasn't on by now because it was so late. Everyone seemed to get along well and enjoy a great camaraderie. I was quiet, taking it all in before I headed to bed.
The next day my social worker came out to see me, filled out paper work, told me where I'd be going to school in the fall, and was in and out of there in no time. I happened to have moved in Fourth of July weekend or thereabouts so the entire family went to the lake and we swam, had sandwiches, and all came back tired and tan. It was fun though rowdy.
Doris bought me clothes with the allowance provided to her as a foster mom, took me to the doctor, gave me chores to do, took me on errands with her, and generally listened. She kept her car in the road 99 percent of the time, shuffling kids to appointments, court, school; etc. She bought me a fire engine red electric typewriter after letting me use her manual blue one when she discovered I loved to write. She wanted me later to write a novel about her experiences as a foster mom but we never got it off the ground, spending more time talking about it than doing it. I wrote a lot of great things on that red typewriter, which was loud and unstable as it sat on my dresser surrounded by makeup and other peoples' belongings. I would perch precariously on a high stool, bent over, banging away at the keys as it hummed along to the tune of my imagination.
Doris said she loved the sound and after I left missed hearing it. She never complained about all the time I spent doing it and loved to read my stuff. Mark and Jackie marveled at how much time I'd spend writing and would often ask me, "How do you get your ideas?" and "How do you type so fast?" I took typing in the sixth grade and worked for my step dad in the summers between the ages of 12 and 16, typing in his office. Soon I started opening up and telling jokes with the others, cracking Doris and Bill up as they demanded more and more. I heard jokes on "Saturday Night Live" and would re-tell them to the amusement of Mark, Jackie, Doris, Bill and Kandy. It became a great outlet for forgetting what was really going on in my life.
One day one of the girls had to go to court as her parents were relinquishing their rights, something that would soon be happening to me only I didn't know it at the time. I always felt like what's the use of your parents giving you up to the state a year before you were going to turn 18 anyway? That to me was a statement.
It seemed like no time at all it was my time to go to court, only no one told me what to expect, just that my dad was going to answer to charges of the sexual abuse and I wouldn't have to see him. The social worker put me in a room with a candy bowl and I waited for what seemed like forever.
"Okay, it's all done," the social worker said, entering the room where I sat.
"What's all done?" I asked.
"Your parents signed away their rights. You're a ward of the state now," she said, matter-of-factly, and gestured me toward the exit.
I was shocked. I had no idea that's what this court date was about. As we waited to pay the parking lot attendant I saw my dad in his car ahead of us. He met my gaze in his rear view mirror and gave me a nasty look. I didn't say much on the way back to Doris' house, too stunned to speak, too upset at the trauma I just witnessed. My dad, who used to dote on me, just gave me a look like he could kill me and I couldn't comprehend it. I didn't see my mom that day or Cindy. I was numb by the time the social worker dropped me off and she told Doris to keep an eye on me. Doris nodded, knowingly and tried to force a smile.
"You want some pie?" she asked, and I obligingly took it so as not to be rude though I was far from hungry.
After awhile I asked, "So, what happens now?"
"We've got to register you for school," Doris said, sitting across from me at the tiny kitchen table.
I would be starting my fourth high school in four years, my senior year, knowing no one at North Cobb High School out in the mountains. I was scared about it but used to moving around.
One day my social worker called Doris and told her she had a package for me from my dad. We hurriedly went to the office to pick it up, me surprised that my dad would send me anything since he was mad at me for turning him in for abuse. I waited till we got home to open the large box and it was a good thing I did. It was one of a couple of more boxes to come in the time I lived at Doris and it devastated me. Inside the first box I received were black and dead roses, shredded baby pictures of Cindy and I, ripped up stories and poems I'd written, and a big note addressed to me from my dad that read: "Thank you for ridding me of you at last." That spun me into a depression that I must not have ever recovered from. I had no idea my dad could be so cruel.
"You need to forget him," Doris told me as she shut the trunk, leaving my stuff inside and leading me into the house.
I loved Doris and Bill even though they both had tempers and when they would flare everyone would scatter like flies and take cover.
Jackie or Mark would say, "Doris or Bill's on a rampage" to warn us ahead of time.
I only got Doris mad once that I know of and that was when another girl and I treated Kandy like a redheaded stepchild. Believe me, we never did that again. An only child, Kandy had had a rough life already, losing her father in a helicopter crash and living with her drug addicted mom who was never home. Bill, Doris' husband, later died of a heart attack after I left college.
Another day while living with Doris, she met Cindy and dropped me off at a meeting point for her to pick me up so we could visit. By this time Cindy had a different car, giving up her old "Rocky" yellow Nova and now driving a blue Chevette, a car my dad had bought her right before I escaped him this last time. We spent the day together, running around, eating, shopping, going to the beach, whatever. I hated to say goodbye to her so as always she made it not only bearable but fun. As we waited in the parking lot for Doris to pick me up again, Cindy and I were cracking up about various inside jokes and stories from our past and present.
"Hey, remember that Fig Newton commercial?" she said, suddenly inspired to be silly, and proceeded to imitate it.
"Here's the tricky part - "The big, Fig NEW-TON!" she mimicked, dancing around. "What's tricky about that?"
She had me belly laughing and soon she joined in as our laughter bounced off the black asphalt of the parking lot against the trees lining the school yard where we waited for Doris' familiar truck to round the corner.
When it did, Cindy hugged me tight.
"I'll call you tonight," she promised and I knew she would.
I had been at Doris for about a month when I started my first day of my senior year of high school. One of my electives was Child Care, a class I'd taken before but loved. However, this day my teacher came in the room in tears and the class fell silent and awkward.
"What's wrong, Ms. Patton?" someone finally asked.
She grabbed a Kleenex. and looked at us, pitifully.
"Oh, I just found out a friend of mine died," she said, trying to be professional but not able to contain herself.
"Ohhhh," the class of all females seemed to say in unison.
"Yes," she began. "Peggy Vines was a wonderful woman........."
I didn't hear the rest because I realized she was talking about my old foster mom, a woman who I lived with for two months before being placed somewhere else because of behavioral problems. Then everything seemed to go in fast forward. I cried out and ran to the bathroom as the class stared. Mrs. Patton hurried after me and gently knocked on the door for awhile before I managed to open it. I couldn't speak from sobbing uncontrollably. I had no idea Peggy had died or even that anything was wrong with her. Mrs. Patton grabbed my shoulders, maternally and waited for me to speak which seemed to take forever.
"She....She.....She," I sputtered in between sobs. "She was my foster mom. I didn't know....I didn't know."
"Oh, Terri," Mrs. Patton said, hugging me.
From there a bond was formed between us that lasted several years.
She let me take a few minutes to compose myself and explained that Peggy and Terry, her husband had just adopted a baby girl that they'd been trying to get for a long time. They only had her for three weeks but Peggy, who had a congenital heart defect, couldn't take the excitement and had a heart attack. She was only 33 when she died. To make matters worse, the social services agency, swooped in and took Baby Brittany, a newborn, back to foster care, leaving Terry to suffer two blows - the loss of his wife and daughter in the same month. I didn't tell Mrs. Patton that had I made sure the adoption letter of recommendation I was supposed to write the year before was delivered to the adoption agency, that The Vines would've had their baby sooner. I did write the letter but my mom never mailed it because she was jealous of The Vines. Peggy blamed me for this at the time and was very angry at me, refusing to believe that I ever wrote a letter. I carried that guilt with me for years though it wasn't my fault.
"I saw Peggy at a church picnic about a month before she died and she spoke of you, though I didn't realize today that this was you," Mrs. Patton said now. "She told me she forgave you and that she still loved you and wondered how you were doing."
This made me cry even harder.
"Do you want me to call someone for you?" Mrs. Patton asked.
The day was almost over.
"No," I said, knowing Doris probably couldn't get away to come get me.
When I had been at Doris' about a month Doris told me of a couple in their 30s she knew who lived down the street in a much nicer house, built by the husband who was in the building business. They wanted to adopt a child. I listened, not getting her point.
"They would love you," she said. "I talked to them and they'd like to meet you. Have you come for a weekend to see how you all like each other."
I was stunned again and surprised.
"Are they foster parents?" I asked.
"No, just friends of mine," she explained. "She's a teacher and he has his own business. They can't have kids and have been trying for years. She's had several miscarriages and wants a baby so bad."
"But I'm 17," I said.
"I know but they would like to meet you," she persisted.
So one weekend she drove me to The Praters. Cindy Prater was short, had blond hair and blue eyes, and a calm personality, or so I thought at the time. David, was "her big Teddy Bear" as Cindy described her spouse, had a booming voice, and was boisterous. They had a two-bedroom, two-bath house with a fireplace, patio, garden, high ceilings, and had decorated what would be my room in all of Cindy's old teenage furniture - all white with a Princess theme. I later found out the bedroom used to be a nursery for their expected baby.
The weekend went well. We cooked, watched movies, visited her family, and got to know each other. She turned me on to Yoplait yogurt which I love today and made nachos for us with cheese as we rented movies, sitting in the nice living room with brand new carpet. They told Doris they liked me enough to be their foster child and would apply for a license. Before I knew it I was packing up to go live with them, five minutes from Doris' house.
"We'll still see each other," Doris reassured me as she helped me load the car with my belongings.
I couldn't believe what was happening but reasoned that it was a good thing. They seemed like a nice couple though I didn't know much about them. What if Mrs. Prater got pregnant though and kicked me out to make room for baby? I wondered.
The honeymoon period for The Praters and I was brief. Unfortunately, following the same pattern I pursued with The Vines in the name of fear of being loved, I sabotaged that placement and was returned to The Stricklands within two months. But before I was returned Mrs. Prater tried her best to make a home for me although she was obsessed and bitter about not having a baby of her own. A friend of hers had had twins recently, giving her little girl siblings and Mrs. Prater was vocal about her bitterness to me. In stores or at doctor's offices she would admire other people's babies and pick them up without their permission, holding them tight with a faraway look in her eyes. I felt sorry for her at the time but didn't know how to express it.
There were things I missed about living with The Stricklands - stupid things like how Mark and Jackie used to call the girls who hogged the phone "Phone Hound" as they chattered away, incessantly.
While I lived with The Praters they let me get a kitten who I named Mandy, paid for tickets for my friend and I to go to a concert, worried about me, which made me feel good and loved, and bought me school clothes. I became best friends with a girl named Suzanne, who lived down the street on a ranch, rode horses, and taught me how to ride bareback. My first time wasn't successful, however, as one of her horses dragged me through a bunch of trees and I came out all scratched up. I envied Suzanne whose parents were married. She who was popular and dating a cute football player at school who I later had a crush on named Chris.
When it came time to leave The Praters for good, Mr. Prater sat me down.
"I want you to know that this decision was mine, not my wife's," he said, repeating himself over and over to my sullen face.
I lashed out and said something along the lines of "I didn't care" and stormed off.
Years later The Praters adopted a little Korean baby girl and Mrs. Prater got pregnant less than a year later, successfully carrying her fetus to term.
I was happy for them when I heard the news from college.
It was what they deserved.
After many placements back and and forth between my mom and dad and various other places, I continued with my third foster home in the summer of 1983.
I had just wrapped up a three-week stint with my dad who was getting ready to buy me birth control pills so he could have sex with me finally when I called my sister Cindy and she rescued me from his sick clutches once again.
This time we sat in the lobby of the Department of Family and Children's Services (DEFACS) awaiting our turn to speak with a social worker. She ushered us in professionally and told us about my soon to be new foster parent, Doris Strickland. Mrs. Strickland and her husband Bill had been foster parents for many years, had grown kids and grandkids, lived out in the country, and had several foster children living with them. Bill would soon be retiring from a trade profession and Doris never worked outside the home.
"They're on their way to come get you now," the social worker told me after a phone call. "You can just sit out in the lobby with your stuff and soon Mrs. Strickland will be here."
Surprised, my sister and I went back to the lobby and waited for the arrival of my latest foster mom. It wasn't long before the glass door opened and a heavyset woman with glasses and a ready smile pushed open the door.
"Are you Terri?" she asked me.
"Yes," I said, hesitantly, clutching my familiar bags.
"I'm Doris," she said as the social worker rounded the corner.
"Oh, Doris, you're always so prompt," the social worker said as Doris pushed her eyeglasses up on her nose.
"I'm Cindy, Terri's sister," my sister said, holding out her hand to Doris who took it, amused.
Before I knew it, we were off, me saying goodbye to Cindy once again, Cindy promising to visit, call, and write, which I knew she would, and me getting into a car with my familiar blue, battered suitcase. I don't remember if Doris and I had much of a conversation on the way to her house. I know I was shy and intimidated by her stealth and the prospect of where we were going.
After what seemed like a long drive to me, we arrived at her country home which was out in the middle of nowhere but in the same school district as my sister's high school alma mater. The house was small but had been added on to again and again to accommodate the numerous foster kids the couple had taken on through the years. I later found out The Stricklands had won numerous awards from DEFACS for their years of service.
"Okay, let's go," Doris said, gently as she helped me carry my bags in from the steep driveway.
A couple of teenage girls eyed me curiously then went back to chores. Two teenage boys, Jackie and Mark, who had been there the longest since the age of preschool, were loud and obnoxious but friendly as I entered the small doorway leading to my next home for now. Kandy, Doris' chubby granddaughter, was ten and quiet and used to all the foster kids dominating her grandparents' time. We entered through the back door and I took in the small backyard, large screened in patio that had been made into a giant rec area, and tiny kitchen with an addition for the washer and dryer on the side. The dining room was small and the house originally had only a few bedrooms but The Stricklands had added more and even opened up the attic to add another room later. The living room was tiny with a wood burning stove, tile floor, and windows that looked out over the hilly front yard. There were only two bathrooms which caused a lot of commotion in the mornings.
Two foster brothers enjoyed calling each other Faggot when they horse-played.
Later I was to live in the back bedroom with one other girl and Kandy, sleeping on a bunk bed. There was one dresser, chest of drawer, one closet, two windows, and no privacy. Turns out the girl and I got along well and Kandy was never any trouble. Doris and Bill's bedroom was right next to ours and the bathroom was across the hall that we would share with two others girls across the house and two kids who lived in the attic. Mark and Jackie, who had been abandoned by their parents in a grocery store parking lot as toddlers, had their own bathroom, thankfully. For now I was put in one of the front bedrooms with another girl who was nice and quiet. Doris put down my bags and sat on the bed across from mine, eyeing me reassuredly.
The maternal way she was looking at me fooled me and I didn't see the zinger that she threw at me next:
"So, you're here because your father molested you?" she asked, knowing the answer already.
"Yes," I said, looking at the floor, ashamed.
She heaved a heavy sigh and I thought she was going to sympathize.
"Well, did you dress a certain way? You know, like slutty? Did you make him think you wanted it?" she asked, as I looked at her, stunned.
"No," I managed to say, after a brief hesitation.
"Well, some girls do, you know," she said, wiping her hands on her pants. "Just wondered."
I sat there, silently not believing what I was hearing.
She stared at me for a minute.
"Well, you get settled in and I'm going to finish making dinner. There's blackberry cobbler for dessert. Do you like that?" she asked, heading to the door.
"Yes," I said, pretending to perk up.
"Good," she said, and closed the door behind her, watching me as she did so.
I slowly unpacked, shell shocked at what just took place and also at my new surroundings. I was pretty adaptable having moved so much by now but there was still a period of getting adjusted. I laid down for a few minutes and later ate dinner and had some of Doris' homemade delicious cobbler with ice cream on top. In those days I could eat what I wanted and not gain a pound. That night everyone sat around, cracking jokes, telling stories, and listening to music. The t.v. wasn't on by now because it was so late. Everyone seemed to get along well and enjoy a great camaraderie. I was quiet, taking it all in before I headed to bed.
The next day my social worker came out to see me, filled out paper work, told me where I'd be going to school in the fall, and was in and out of there in no time. I happened to have moved in Fourth of July weekend or thereabouts so the entire family went to the lake and we swam, had sandwiches, and all came back tired and tan. It was fun though rowdy.
Doris bought me clothes with the allowance provided to her as a foster mom, took me to the doctor, gave me chores to do, took me on errands with her, and generally listened. She kept her car in the road 99 percent of the time, shuffling kids to appointments, court, school; etc. She bought me a fire engine red electric typewriter after letting me use her manual blue one when she discovered I loved to write. She wanted me later to write a novel about her experiences as a foster mom but we never got it off the ground, spending more time talking about it than doing it. I wrote a lot of great things on that red typewriter, which was loud and unstable as it sat on my dresser surrounded by makeup and other peoples' belongings. I would perch precariously on a high stool, bent over, banging away at the keys as it hummed along to the tune of my imagination.
Doris said she loved the sound and after I left missed hearing it. She never complained about all the time I spent doing it and loved to read my stuff. Mark and Jackie marveled at how much time I'd spend writing and would often ask me, "How do you get your ideas?" and "How do you type so fast?" I took typing in the sixth grade and worked for my step dad in the summers between the ages of 12 and 16, typing in his office. Soon I started opening up and telling jokes with the others, cracking Doris and Bill up as they demanded more and more. I heard jokes on "Saturday Night Live" and would re-tell them to the amusement of Mark, Jackie, Doris, Bill and Kandy. It became a great outlet for forgetting what was really going on in my life.
One day one of the girls had to go to court as her parents were relinquishing their rights, something that would soon be happening to me only I didn't know it at the time. I always felt like what's the use of your parents giving you up to the state a year before you were going to turn 18 anyway? That to me was a statement.
It seemed like no time at all it was my time to go to court, only no one told me what to expect, just that my dad was going to answer to charges of the sexual abuse and I wouldn't have to see him. The social worker put me in a room with a candy bowl and I waited for what seemed like forever.
"Okay, it's all done," the social worker said, entering the room where I sat.
"What's all done?" I asked.
"Your parents signed away their rights. You're a ward of the state now," she said, matter-of-factly, and gestured me toward the exit.
I was shocked. I had no idea that's what this court date was about. As we waited to pay the parking lot attendant I saw my dad in his car ahead of us. He met my gaze in his rear view mirror and gave me a nasty look. I didn't say much on the way back to Doris' house, too stunned to speak, too upset at the trauma I just witnessed. My dad, who used to dote on me, just gave me a look like he could kill me and I couldn't comprehend it. I didn't see my mom that day or Cindy. I was numb by the time the social worker dropped me off and she told Doris to keep an eye on me. Doris nodded, knowingly and tried to force a smile.
"You want some pie?" she asked, and I obligingly took it so as not to be rude though I was far from hungry.
After awhile I asked, "So, what happens now?"
"We've got to register you for school," Doris said, sitting across from me at the tiny kitchen table.
I would be starting my fourth high school in four years, my senior year, knowing no one at North Cobb High School out in the mountains. I was scared about it but used to moving around.
One day my social worker called Doris and told her she had a package for me from my dad. We hurriedly went to the office to pick it up, me surprised that my dad would send me anything since he was mad at me for turning him in for abuse. I waited till we got home to open the large box and it was a good thing I did. It was one of a couple of more boxes to come in the time I lived at Doris and it devastated me. Inside the first box I received were black and dead roses, shredded baby pictures of Cindy and I, ripped up stories and poems I'd written, and a big note addressed to me from my dad that read: "Thank you for ridding me of you at last." That spun me into a depression that I must not have ever recovered from. I had no idea my dad could be so cruel.
"You need to forget him," Doris told me as she shut the trunk, leaving my stuff inside and leading me into the house.
I loved Doris and Bill even though they both had tempers and when they would flare everyone would scatter like flies and take cover.
Jackie or Mark would say, "Doris or Bill's on a rampage" to warn us ahead of time.
I only got Doris mad once that I know of and that was when another girl and I treated Kandy like a redheaded stepchild. Believe me, we never did that again. An only child, Kandy had had a rough life already, losing her father in a helicopter crash and living with her drug addicted mom who was never home. Bill, Doris' husband, later died of a heart attack after I left college.
Another day while living with Doris, she met Cindy and dropped me off at a meeting point for her to pick me up so we could visit. By this time Cindy had a different car, giving up her old "Rocky" yellow Nova and now driving a blue Chevette, a car my dad had bought her right before I escaped him this last time. We spent the day together, running around, eating, shopping, going to the beach, whatever. I hated to say goodbye to her so as always she made it not only bearable but fun. As we waited in the parking lot for Doris to pick me up again, Cindy and I were cracking up about various inside jokes and stories from our past and present.
"Hey, remember that Fig Newton commercial?" she said, suddenly inspired to be silly, and proceeded to imitate it.
"Here's the tricky part - "The big, Fig NEW-TON!" she mimicked, dancing around. "What's tricky about that?"
She had me belly laughing and soon she joined in as our laughter bounced off the black asphalt of the parking lot against the trees lining the school yard where we waited for Doris' familiar truck to round the corner.
When it did, Cindy hugged me tight.
"I'll call you tonight," she promised and I knew she would.
I had been at Doris for about a month when I started my first day of my senior year of high school. One of my electives was Child Care, a class I'd taken before but loved. However, this day my teacher came in the room in tears and the class fell silent and awkward.
"What's wrong, Ms. Patton?" someone finally asked.
She grabbed a Kleenex. and looked at us, pitifully.
"Oh, I just found out a friend of mine died," she said, trying to be professional but not able to contain herself.
"Ohhhh," the class of all females seemed to say in unison.
"Yes," she began. "Peggy Vines was a wonderful woman........."
I didn't hear the rest because I realized she was talking about my old foster mom, a woman who I lived with for two months before being placed somewhere else because of behavioral problems. Then everything seemed to go in fast forward. I cried out and ran to the bathroom as the class stared. Mrs. Patton hurried after me and gently knocked on the door for awhile before I managed to open it. I couldn't speak from sobbing uncontrollably. I had no idea Peggy had died or even that anything was wrong with her. Mrs. Patton grabbed my shoulders, maternally and waited for me to speak which seemed to take forever.
"She....She.....She," I sputtered in between sobs. "She was my foster mom. I didn't know....I didn't know."
"Oh, Terri," Mrs. Patton said, hugging me.
From there a bond was formed between us that lasted several years.
She let me take a few minutes to compose myself and explained that Peggy and Terry, her husband had just adopted a baby girl that they'd been trying to get for a long time. They only had her for three weeks but Peggy, who had a congenital heart defect, couldn't take the excitement and had a heart attack. She was only 33 when she died. To make matters worse, the social services agency, swooped in and took Baby Brittany, a newborn, back to foster care, leaving Terry to suffer two blows - the loss of his wife and daughter in the same month. I didn't tell Mrs. Patton that had I made sure the adoption letter of recommendation I was supposed to write the year before was delivered to the adoption agency, that The Vines would've had their baby sooner. I did write the letter but my mom never mailed it because she was jealous of The Vines. Peggy blamed me for this at the time and was very angry at me, refusing to believe that I ever wrote a letter. I carried that guilt with me for years though it wasn't my fault.
"I saw Peggy at a church picnic about a month before she died and she spoke of you, though I didn't realize today that this was you," Mrs. Patton said now. "She told me she forgave you and that she still loved you and wondered how you were doing."
This made me cry even harder.
"Do you want me to call someone for you?" Mrs. Patton asked.
The day was almost over.
"No," I said, knowing Doris probably couldn't get away to come get me.
When I had been at Doris' about a month Doris told me of a couple in their 30s she knew who lived down the street in a much nicer house, built by the husband who was in the building business. They wanted to adopt a child. I listened, not getting her point.
"They would love you," she said. "I talked to them and they'd like to meet you. Have you come for a weekend to see how you all like each other."
I was stunned again and surprised.
"Are they foster parents?" I asked.
"No, just friends of mine," she explained. "She's a teacher and he has his own business. They can't have kids and have been trying for years. She's had several miscarriages and wants a baby so bad."
"But I'm 17," I said.
"I know but they would like to meet you," she persisted.
So one weekend she drove me to The Praters. Cindy Prater was short, had blond hair and blue eyes, and a calm personality, or so I thought at the time. David, was "her big Teddy Bear" as Cindy described her spouse, had a booming voice, and was boisterous. They had a two-bedroom, two-bath house with a fireplace, patio, garden, high ceilings, and had decorated what would be my room in all of Cindy's old teenage furniture - all white with a Princess theme. I later found out the bedroom used to be a nursery for their expected baby.
The weekend went well. We cooked, watched movies, visited her family, and got to know each other. She turned me on to Yoplait yogurt which I love today and made nachos for us with cheese as we rented movies, sitting in the nice living room with brand new carpet. They told Doris they liked me enough to be their foster child and would apply for a license. Before I knew it I was packing up to go live with them, five minutes from Doris' house.
"We'll still see each other," Doris reassured me as she helped me load the car with my belongings.
I couldn't believe what was happening but reasoned that it was a good thing. They seemed like a nice couple though I didn't know much about them. What if Mrs. Prater got pregnant though and kicked me out to make room for baby? I wondered.
The honeymoon period for The Praters and I was brief. Unfortunately, following the same pattern I pursued with The Vines in the name of fear of being loved, I sabotaged that placement and was returned to The Stricklands within two months. But before I was returned Mrs. Prater tried her best to make a home for me although she was obsessed and bitter about not having a baby of her own. A friend of hers had had twins recently, giving her little girl siblings and Mrs. Prater was vocal about her bitterness to me. In stores or at doctor's offices she would admire other people's babies and pick them up without their permission, holding them tight with a faraway look in her eyes. I felt sorry for her at the time but didn't know how to express it.
There were things I missed about living with The Stricklands - stupid things like how Mark and Jackie used to call the girls who hogged the phone "Phone Hound" as they chattered away, incessantly.
While I lived with The Praters they let me get a kitten who I named Mandy, paid for tickets for my friend and I to go to a concert, worried about me, which made me feel good and loved, and bought me school clothes. I became best friends with a girl named Suzanne, who lived down the street on a ranch, rode horses, and taught me how to ride bareback. My first time wasn't successful, however, as one of her horses dragged me through a bunch of trees and I came out all scratched up. I envied Suzanne whose parents were married. She who was popular and dating a cute football player at school who I later had a crush on named Chris.
When it came time to leave The Praters for good, Mr. Prater sat me down.
"I want you to know that this decision was mine, not my wife's," he said, repeating himself over and over to my sullen face.
I lashed out and said something along the lines of "I didn't care" and stormed off.
Years later The Praters adopted a little Korean baby girl and Mrs. Prater got pregnant less than a year later, successfully carrying her fetus to term.
I was happy for them when I heard the news from college.
It was what they deserved.