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9
JASE
We flew the private jet to Topeka and I drove the rental car waiting for us at the airport to Faircross, about an hour south of the capital. Marian had already made arrangements for accommodations; we were booked into the nicest of the three motels nearby, which wasn’t saying much. As I pulled into the parking lot, it reminded me of the motels we’d stayed in when we could afford it after we’d fled Kansas for a better life.
The irony was not lost on me.
Emilia checked us in while I removed our suitcases from the trunk. We’d traveled light, only intending to stay a few days in the place that had such mixed memories for us. Living in foster care had sucked. We’d known from the first day we’d arrived at the Johnson house that it wasn’t forever. There were no guarantees as to how long we’d remain. I’d never seen the point of getting attached to anyone or anything.
Until the day Emilia arrived, and I knew the moment I saw her for the first time that she’d become the most important person in my life.
I’d been right.
I couldn’t explain how I’d known. It was just a bone-deep feeling that she meant something to me. That maybe I was placed in that house for one reason: to protect her.
We’d been lucky. We both knew that. Our previous foster homes had been no walks in the park. One had been particularly abusive to me; the father had been a drunk and the mother had allowed him to hit the kids because it meant he wasn’t hitting her. I’d tried my best to defend myself and my foster siblings, but I wasn’t old enough or strong enough to stop him. The moment I was able to fight back, they had me removed for being a disruption.
I’d landed with the Johnsons after that. At first, they’d seemed kind, but it became apparent fairly quickly that they were religious zealots and we were nothing but a means to make them look good among their peers.
Christianity was key in their household and they weren’t interested in whether we believed in God or not. We were forced to pray. Forced to say grace over meals. Forced to attend church every Sunday.
We were fed. Dressed, although everything either came from a thrift store or had been handmade by Angela, who fancied herself as a seamstress. We had a relatively safe roof over our heads, even if we were never treated to a day out or anything special. Our basic physical needs were met, but that was it.
According to them, it had been God’s calling that they not be blessed with biological children of their own so they could foster us instead.
The big guy had a strange sense of humor.
But Emilia had come into my life a year after I’d landed there, so I’d endured the indifference and neglect the Johnsons had dished out. I wasn’t special to them in any way, shape, or form. None of us were. That had been made clear repeatedly.
Emilia found it harder than the others to cope with their behavior. There were no loving hugs when we were sick or sad. No kisses when we were injured. They weren’t interested in anything we had to say if it didn’t relate directly to something they could potentially get in trouble for, such as school.
Homework was done as soon as we arrived back at the house in the afternoon. It was drilled into us that anything we did to make them look bad would be frowned upon by the Lord—and them.
Punishment was not physical, but harmful enough. Food was withheld. We were locked in our rooms—or the basement, if our transgression had been particularly bad—and not permitted to speak to our foster siblings.
Emilia had never landed herself in the basement, but I had a few times. It was dark and dank down there, and I was never given a pillow or blanket to sleep with.
She’d taken a great risk to sneak down there every time with her covers to sleep with me, so I wasn’t cold and alone. I tried to send her away each time, but she refused to budge. We made a game of it, and she would be sure to wake early enough to sneak back upstairs before our foster parents woke.
I loved her for it.
She came back outside now, where the sun was fading into the background. Streaks of light still hit the ground, but it would soon be dark. The funeral was the following day, and we had no idea if any of our former foster siblings would be in attendance. We hadn’t kept in contact with any of them after we’d left Kansas. We’d needed the complete break to restart our lives and achieve our dreams.
But that didn’t mean I hadn’t kept tabs on one in particular, something not even Emilia knew. I wondered if he’d be at the funeral.
“Jase?” She laid her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
I took her hand and brought it up to my lips. “Yeah, sorry.” I kissed the back of her hand and kept hold of it, weaving my fingers through hers. “I was just thinking.”
“I know.” Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “It’s hard being back here.”
“Yes, it is.” I pulled her closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “We don’t have to stay, Em. We can go straight back to the airport and head home.”
When she tipped her head back to look at me, I saw the tears welling in her eyes and wrapped my arms around her. “We have to go to the funeral, Jase. I need closure.”
I couldn’t say I completely understood that. Closure for me had happened the night of Emilia’s eighteenth birthday when she’d run into my arms in the dead of night and we’d left Kansas in the dust. I knew she’d found living under their roof with all their rules as hard as I had, and I bet if I asked her why she wouldn’t have been able to give me an answer.
But since I’d do anything for her, we were back in Faircross.
