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 perf

December 2nd, 2012 Morning   When I wake, I’m not drowsy. My mind is humming with thoughts and voices. My heart prickles in my chest like a well-used pincushion. There’s a buzz running through me. I’m anxious. Roused. Restless. The sun warms me, I had forgotten to close the blind it would seem. When I roll to my side, the leg that had been bent at an angle purrs as feeling returns, it’s not a minute past six. The digital clock at my side ticks over as I watch it. Six-nought-one. I haven’t woken this early in a while. So, I find my feet. Seize the morning, if you will. Damon says it. Always awake at the crack of dawn. Bonkers, if you ask me. Positively bonkers. The night was torturous. Chloe had refused to compromise on ordering tofu in our Thai. Said she hated the taste, it fused with the sauce, she was so sure. There was no taste. Even she had said tofu was too bland to eat

December 3rd, 2012 Morning   My alarm woke me at five-thirty sharp. I usually feel a great deal better than I do today. The night had been tedious. I had released myself into a tissue after seeing Sasha, and those rancid thoughts seemed to dull to quietness. Sleep hadn’t come quite so easily. I tossed and turned, feeling rather hot despite the weather. I read into the news in depth, fearing my dreams would be plagued with her. The Taliban had launched an attack on the NATO airstrip. There was a terrorist attack in Chibok. Israel Keyes died in custody. It had all the markings of making a particularly violent and disturbing dream — yet I dreamt of her. I was sat on the couch with the paper. She had walked up slowly, wearing absolutely nothing, though part of me is sure she had a ski mask… the grim news reading to blame, I suppose. She climbed on top; I could feel it so vividly. Reached into my trousers

“Ah!” She’s looking quite chipper, a cardboard cup tray dangling from her fingertips in a way that makes me so sure she’s stabbed her nails into the bottom to hold it still. “I was hoping you lot would be up! Coffee?” She plops it down rather unceremoniously. I find myself looking closely as Damon lifts one with his name scrawled on the lid, but it doesn’t seem to have any puncture holes through the bottom. Strange, considering how perfectly she’d sat the thing on the tips of her fingers. I take one. No crows today. “What milk is it?” The thought hadn’t crossed my mind until Damon asked quietly. Now that I’ve already had a few mouthfuls and the aftertaste is rather strange, at that, I wonder if the crows have left us be not because of good fortunes but because they’re afraid of the smell after I’ve soiled my pants. “What do you mean what milk?” She’s staring up at Damon with a coy smile, slowly setting her own coffee down. “I mean what milk is in the

“You’re looking a bit better.” He’s staring at me while I settle into my seat. Eyes so keen and dark and unreadable. So closed-off to the public. To everyone, really. I haven’t a clue what’s going on in there. He doesn’t mean that he likes the way I look. For some reason, I must remind myself that. I’ve got a bit of colour, mum would say. She would pinch my cheeks and smile at the pink. If she was here, she would compliment the freshly dyed hair. Tell her I looked like grandma. We would dance and sing together about superstitions and princesses. All would be right in the world. “Did you eat yesterday?” “No, but I wasn’t up and about much, either.” I stare into the empty glass of table water. My throat is feeling rather dry. Somehow, I don’t think water will help. “Last time you were having nightmares you weren’t eating. Or sleeping.” Why is he so closed off? He stares into my eyes as though he’s talking to a patient, rather cool and matter of fact.