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“And you ain’t gonna touch Dominic or nothin’?”
“Bert!” Patty shrieked.
Otter felt me beginning to rise up next to him, ready to smash the cheap coffee table in front of us over Bert’s head, wanting to make the splinters go in his eyes and to watch him bleed. I have been accused of being many things in my life: a jerk, a liar, an indecisive asshole. But I’ve never been asked with such nonchalance if I’m a pedop
hile. I wanted to break his face open just to see what was underneath. But Otter, ever the voice of sanity and reason, grabbed my arm and pulled me back down before I had a chance to do anything, telling Bert rather coldly that no, we weren’t going to touch Dominic.
Bert nodded as if satisfied, completely unaware of his bigoted mouth.
“Georgia says it’s good for him, then I guess that’s enough for me. It’ll be nice to get him out of the house. He’s got emotional issues, you know.”
“Don’t we all?” I bit out.
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t rightly know about that. I just know he’s a creepy little shit. Can’t blame him, though, not after what he’s been through. Stabbed his dad seven times, in case you didn’t know. And least with the other kids, it’s usually physical. With Dom, it’s mental, and that’s the worst kind. But we get paid by the state just the same, so as long as he doesn’t think about slitting my throat while I sleep, then we’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you will,” Otter said, keeping his cool. “We just wanted to make sure you knew where he’d be if he wasn’t here.”
“And Tyson’s welcome here anytime he wants,” Patty said, trying to recover from her husband’s faux pas. She blushed again. “I know a thing or two about kids.”
“Thank you,” I said, all the while thinking that there was no way in hell the Kid would ever be allowed to come over to Dominic’s house. His friend can come over to our house, fine. But Tyson needs to stay clear of a man who just asked Otter and me if we wanted to fuck around with a fifteen-year-old. I don’t know if he’d try to drip any poison in the Kid’s ears with such blatant offhanded comments, but I wasn’t willing to take any chances.
“Dominic, get your ass out here!” Bert yelled while Patty smiled at Otter and me. Much was said in that smile, and I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of that house. These had to be good people if they were allowed to have foster kids, I kept telling myself. Georgia had said they were okay. But then I wondered what kind of people Georgia was used to dealing with, and I’m sure by comparison, Bert and Patty were Parents of the Year. I didn’t know their story, and even though I wasn’t about to ask, I wasn’t going to judge.
Too much.
Dominic and the Kid walked into the room, the Kid still chattering away about what either sounded like the Ayatollah or the 1960s space race (he was talking so fast that I couldn’t make out the difference—with the Kid, I’m not sure it matters). Dominic was grinning at him, and I could tell that he wasn’t even caring what the Kid was saying. Or rather, maybe he was, but he just liked to hear the stream of babble that is the Kid’s line of logic. I told the Kid to take a deep breath before he passed out. The Kid looked mortified as to how I could ever have suggested such a thing and muttered dark things toward my person. I told him I could still hear him. He told me I was meant to.
We told the boys that they were allowed to hang out, as long as an adult had been notified and had agreed to it. Tyson did a dance that involved air-miming a hula hoop while Dominic just smiled at him. I rolled my eyes as I looked at Otter, and he just grinned at me, that same grin he’s always had, crooked and bright.
It was weird then, that moment, feeling like I was making a parental decision as a team, as a single unit. Otter and me had discussed, decided, executed, and achieved the results we wanted. The Kid got to hang out with his friend, and I could keep an eye on Dominic.
It should have been a happy moment. A cohesive one.
So why did I feel like shit? Maybe because I thought it was just another step the Kid would take away from me. Maybe it was because Dominic had been in such a situation that I couldn’t trust him to be alone with Tyson.
Maybe it was because I still hadn’t resolved everything I felt I needed to with Otter. Maybe because I felt that I was moving forward with this family while leaving my other one behind. Maybe it was because I was no closer to figuring out where my mother was or what her motives were. So many loose threads, so many things that needed to be done and said. I wondered what it would take to tie it all together, to finally look forward and not be trapped in the past. I’ve learned that the past can overwhelm you if you let it.
Like a storm on the ocean.
There had to be a breaking point. I just didn’t know what it would be.
“YOU should consider therapy yourself, Derrick, if what Tyson told me has any indication,” the therapist tells me. His name is Eddie Egan, and I know he’s a certified counselor for the state of Oregon and he’s worked with children before, but I can’t help but feel he’s completely off his rocker and this is only going to make things worse for the Kid. And me.
Example: the beads that hang from his office doorway like you’re entering a 1970s porn den. (“Never have a closed door,” he said when we arrived. “The same philosophy applies to your heart.” I’d asked why he had a door, then, on the room he used for counseling sessions. “Privacy, Derrick,” he said, like it was totally obvious.)
Example: the two monster Persian cats that roamed his office through the entire session sounding like lawnmowers running out of gas as they undoubtedly stalked me because I looked like Fancy Feast Tuna Melt.
(“Carl Jung and B.F. Skinner,” he said, pointing at one and then the other.
“My heroes. They keep me calm and help to bring a sense of peace to the room.” I didn’t ask, only because I didn’t care.) Example: The way he eyed the Kid when Tyson sat down in front of him, his scowl evident, his arms across his chest. (“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Tyson. But I wasn’t told how shocking your aura would be. It’s like a blast of rainbows across my eyes, like liquid Skittles raining from the sky.” I had no words for this. I mean come on: liquid Skittles raining from the sky? I’m going to kill Erica for hooking us up with this whacko.) I’d sat out in the waiting room (“Lounge,” Eddie told me. “Waiting room implies you are waiting for something. Never wait, always seize. No one ever got anything by waiting.” The Kid had asked why it wasn’t called the “Seizure Room,” then. Eddie hadn’t been able to answer that) while Tyson and Eddie had talked, Eddie telling me he wanted to get to know each of us individually before moving forward. Otter had shown up partway through, apologizing for being late, but that a family in for portraits had run long when the three kids had all started throwing up at the same time.
“You must hate me,” I muttered at him as he grabbed my hand, bringing it up to his lips for a kiss.
“Why do you say that?”
“You lived in San Diego,” I reminded him. “Worked in a big studio, met famous people, everyone loved you for your work. Now you’re taking vomiting family portraits back in Seafare. Not exactly a great career trajectory. And today, you’re sitting in a therapist’s office while waiting your turn to go in and have your innermost secrets divulged for all the world to see.” I shook my head. “Bet you didn’t know what you were getting into when you signed up for this.”
“And yet,” he says with a grin, “somehow, I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”
