‘She’s not always like this,’ the social worker warned. ‘She’s been in the system since she was two. Like all kids who’ve had transient living situations, she’s wary, and she can be prickly. It’s hard for her to trust people.’
‘That’s totally understandable,’ the other said. ‘We’ll just love her harder.’
It was a formality, they assured me, after the fourth or fifth of these visits. ‘You’re going to be our little girl,’ one of them said, stroking my hair. ‘How do you feel about that, Cecilia?’
I’d been tongue-tied. I was trying to find the perfect thing to say so they’d still want me, and I couldn’t find it.
‘Oh, don’t cry, sweetheart!’ the other one said. ‘You’ll get used to us, I promise.’
I tried to say something, tried to open my mouth and say anything.What will I call you? I can’t call you both ‘Dad’, that’ll be so confusing.But all that came out were more tears.
I couldn’t have seen the glance they exchanged over my head. I knew that. Years later, my therapist made it very clear to me that I couldn’t have seen that (‘You had your face in your pillow and you were crying, Cece,’ she’d told me. ‘There’s no way you could have seen that.’).
But I remember it. So clearly. Them looking at each other and shaking their heads.
They never came back.
I got up the nerve to ask my foster mother about it a few weeks later. ‘I don’t know,’ she’d replied. ‘This happens sometimes. People get all excited about adopting a kid, and then something comes up or they get scared right at the last second.’
‘But they said they fell in love with me.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out, kid. Sorry.’
This wasn’t the same situation. Not even close.
But curled up in the corner of my bunk in the Convent, face buried in my knees, sleeping bag pulled tightly over my head and my fist jammed in my mouth so none of the other women would hear my sobs, I was eight years old again, crying myself to sleep because I’d made the mistake of wanting what I couldn’t have.
‘Rolling,’ Murray said. ‘Tell me about the date last night.’
‘It wasn’t a date.’
He sighed. ‘You’ve got to give me something here, Cece,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I can’t do all the work for you.’
‘I’m telling the truth,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t a date.’
‘Your eyes are red.’
‘So?’
‘So either you’ve been crying, or you’ve been smoking pot. If it’s pot, please tell me where you got it. I could use a hit myself.’
I folded my arms.
‘Cece,’ Murray said, ‘I can make great television out of what you’ve given me over the past few weeks. You’re going to be the most famous first-night-eliminated contestant of all time. But if you want more than five minutes of fame and a few Instagram deals, you’ve got to work with me here.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘You sank your own storyline last night with that whole break-up thing you did. You’ve got to give me something so we can wrap it up.’
I looked at my knees.
‘Do you know how much work you’ve been for me?’ he demanded. ‘Do you know the hours I’ve put into convincing the network to tell this story you and Dylan insisted on, even though you started out fucking useless on camera? Do you know how much time I’ve spent on you when I could be spending it on some of the other women? Women who’d leapat the chance to tell a story like this? Do you know how hard I’ve fought for you?’
‘I’m sorry, Murray.’
‘Don’t be sorry!’ he said. ‘Just stop wasting my time! I’ve set you up for one of the bestMarry Me, Julietarcs in history. Don’t throw away your shot, Cece.’
I twisted my fingers together, over and over again, as the tears started to stream down my face.
