envelope was a photo card with pictures capturing the couple in the middle of abusing their foster kids, engaging in clearly illegal activity, and sitting stoned out on the couch with crack pipes and piles of pills in full view. If that didn’t do the trick, she thought, nothing would.
She reached the house an hour later. She didn’t go in the front door. She did what she always had done when getting home this late. She used a key she kept in her shoe to go in via the back door. She tried to turn on a light, but nothing happened. This did not surprise her. It merely meant that the electricity had been turned off because the utility bill had not been paid. She felt along the walls and used the moonlight coming in through the windows to see well enough to reach her bedroom on the second floor.
Her room was unchanged. It was a dump, but it was
her
dump. A guitar, sheets of music, books, clothes, magazines were piled everywhere. There was a mattress on the floor that served as her bed, but it wasn’t easily visible under all the other stuff. She rationalized that her parents had not cleaned up her room because they knew she would be back.
They had problems. Many of them.
They would be regarded by most people as pathetic, drugged-out losers.
But they were her parents. They loved her.
And she loved them.
She wanted to take care of them.
At age fourteen, she was often the mom and dad, and her parents were often the kids. They were her responsibility, not the other way around. But that was okay.
They should be asleep by now, she knew. Hopefully not stoned.
Actually things were looking up. Her father was working on a loading dock and had been gainfully employed there for a whole two months. Her mother labored as a waitress in a diner where a two-dollar tip was the exception rather than the norm. It was true that her mom and dad were recovering addicts, but they got up every day and went to work. It was just that the drug problems and the stints in jail had led the city to sometimes deem them unfit to have custody of her.
Hence the banishment to the foster care system.
But not for her. Not anymore. Now she was home.
She fingered the piece of paper in her jacket pocket. It was a note from her mom. It had been sent to her school and left at the office. Her parents had plans to move away from the area and start over afresh. And they, of course, wanted their only child to go with them. Julie hadn’t been this excited in a long time.
She went to their bedroom across the hall to check on them, but it was empty. Their bed was like hers, simply a mattress on the floor. But the room wasn’t messy. Her mother had tidied up. Clothes were put away, albeit in baskets. They had no dressers or armoires. She sat on the bed and removed a photo of the three of them that was hanging on the wall. She couldn’t see it that well in the dark, but she knew exactly who was in it.
Her mother was tall and thin, her father shorter and even skinnier. They looked unhealthy and they were. Years of drug abuse had left permanent scars, chronic problems, lives that would be significantly shortened. Yet they had always been kind to her. Never abused her. Looked out for her when they could. Fed her, kept her warm and safe, again when they could. They never brought problems back to the house. The abuses they had committed were done away from here. She appreciated that. And every time she had gone into foster care they had worked hard to get her back.
She put the photo back on the wall and pulled out the note from her mom that had been sent to her school. She read it again. The instructions were clear. She was excited. This might be the start of something great. Just the three of them in a new life away fromhere. The only thing that bothered her was the contingency plan her mom had put in the note, if for some reason they didn’t hook up with their daughter. There had also been cash along with the note. The money was for the contingency plan. Well,