Chapter 3
Barb threw us out of the library at seven. Kind of rude if you ask me. My book was just starting to get good. We leave the library and head in the direction of our homes. Funnily enough, we are both headed in the same direction. We chit-chat a bit along the way. I decide it's safer to just walk her all the way home. You never know what creeps are lurking on the main street. We reach her house and say our goodbyes. She quickly turns and runs up the small stoop of a vacant-looking shop. As soon as she closes the door I turn around and make my way down the sidewalk. I took a left from her house and then take a shortcut through a small alleyway before crossing the following street. I dash into a tiny cafe. The warm, bitter smell of freshly ground coffee beans greets my nose as I head to the counter.
"Hey honey, how was school?" My mom, Dawn, asks as I walk behind the counter and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. The coffee shop closes between 7 and 8 every day which is typically when I make it home. Mom is already sweeping. It looks like she has done the dishes and the prep for tomorrow without my help. Must have been a slow day.
"It was good mom, not much different than usual." I shrug and steal a pastry from the display, earning a small smack to the arm. My mom hates how much of a sweet tooth I have. She always says something about needing vegetables and protein and shit to stay healthy or whatever. I chuckle but eat the snack anyway.
"I got an email from the principal about a new student in your grade. Did you get to meet him?" she says as she goes back to sweeping. I nod and go to the office, only half-listening to what she says. I open the door to the stairwell that leads to our little loft-type home. I hang my jacket on the coat rack and trudge up the stairs. I open the door to the loft and am greeted by our cat Cocoa. She is a small brown and black-striped tabby that wears a little bell around her chocolate collar. Her name is not because of her color, obviously, but because she is often trying to lick the nozzle of the hot cocoa dispenser down in the kitchen of the cafe. I kneel on one knee to pet Cocoa's head. She purrs and rubs against my legs but then rushes out the cat door, down to the cafe, trying to find a way to lick the nozzle of the hot cocoa dispenser without my mom spotting her I imagine. I chuckle and lay down on the couch. As soon as my body meets the cushions of our slightly beat-up, gray couch, my eyes close and I fall asleep.
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A large shiny silver claw hangs just above a large pile of toys. The hand opens and closes, tempting them toward the machine.
"Daddy, look at the raccoon!" six-year-old Foster says to his dad. His father pulls a quarter out of his pocket and inserts it into the coin slot. In one grab, he expertly obtains the gray and black creature and drops it down the prize chute. He bends down and grabs the raccoon from the machine and hands it to Foster with a big smile.
"Here buddy, this raccoon?" His dad says as he hands him the stuffed animal. Foster nods and before he takes the raccoon, he gives his dad a huge hug followed by a series of adorable giggles that melt his father's heart every time.
"We should get home before your mom kills me for keeping you out so late buddy." His father says. Foster grabs onto his father's large and rough hand as they walk out the door. The arcade is right across the street from their little family-owned cafe. There is a break in oncoming traffic, so they take the chance to cross the street. In the middle of the street, Foster drops his raccoon. As soon as they make it to the safety of the sidewalk, Foster notices his missing treasure and tugs on his father's pant leg.
"What is it buddy?" His dad questions, a slight worry to his tone as worry wrinkles crease his forehead.
"Daddy, I lost my raccoon." He says as he points to the animal that had been deserted in the middle of the busy city street.
"I'll get it buddy." His father, without checking for traffic, jogs across the street and bends down to grab the toy.
A drunk driver, oblivious to his surroundings, is singing along to some music as he swerves down the road. Before he had time to hit the breaks the front bumper of his car collides with Foster's father at 55 miles an hour. Instead of slamming on the breaks, the driver swerves through traffic, escaping the scene as quickly as possible, not wanting to face the repercussions of his actions.
Little Foster looks on with horror as blood leaks from his father's lifeless form, a lifeless form that still clutches the prized plushy. The small boy crumples to the ground, hugging his legs to his chest and burying his face into his knees, hyperventilating through alligator tears.
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Screams shake Dawn from her relatively silent cafe cleaning duties. As soon as she hears the screams for a second time, she drops her broom and bolts up the stairs into her loft.Foster lays on the couch, tears streaking his cheeks, eyes closed, screaming. His mother shakes him from his nightmare and envelops him in a hug. Rocking him back and forth and running her hands through his wavy, dark locks, he slowly begins to calm down.
"Shh, Shh, Foster, it's okay. I'm here. I'm here." His mother says as his tears slow. He looks at his hands. Not the floor, not his mother, not the wall, his hands. The hollow look in his eyes shatters his mother's heart.
"Why couldn't I have just kept hold of that stupid raccoon. Why couldn't I have just been careful and kept a better grasp on it?" Foster says as the tears well up again. His mother kisses his forehead and whispers soothing words to him as the pain in her heart grows.
"It's not your fault Foster. You didn't do anything wrong. You were just a kid. You still are just a kid," she says. After twenty minutes of Foster silently sobbing, Dawn slowly stands from the couch to leave Foster to his thoughts and goes back down to the cafe to clean. Cocoa hops up onto the couch and curls into Foster's lap, shaking him from those thoughts. He picks her up in his arms and carries her to his room. He sets her down in her bed and he catches a glimpse of himself in his mirror. He rubs the dried trails of tears from his face and takes his earring and other piercings out before slumping over into bed. He shuts his eyes and clutches at his chest, still feeling suffocated by his sorrow.
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'Every night. Every night he has the same damn dream. Every night for the past 11 years, he has had that dream. I have tried taking him to therapists and psychiatrists. Nothing helps end those dreams. He holds onto this regret. Andrew, he hasn't been able to cope with your death. Why couldn't you have lived? Why can't Foster just forget or at least not feel the need to take full responsibility for your death? He was 6. He was my sweet little 6-year-old Andrew Foster Jr. Now he can't even hear his first name without breaking down. What can I even do for him? What kind of mom am I?' Dawn thinks, trying to work to get away from it all.
All of these harrowing thoughts flood her mind and make it difficult for her to focus on the tasks before her. How can she help her child cope with their past in a meaningful way? It has been over a decade and she still hasn't been able to pick up the broken pieces of their small family. Foster has been shut off for too long. He says he is fine. He has 'friends.' But he never brings any of these friends home. She never sees him with anyone. He is always so alone. The devastation of their loss is one that has never and may never truly heal.