RINA'S POV
Ten Years Prior
It was late July the first time I stepped foot in Wellspring, Virginia. Though it was well past dark, the air still throbbed with the heat of the summer sun. Summer in the Southeast was always hot and muggy. But here, away from the mountains, it felt like trying to breathe with a wet washcloth over your face.
"This is it," Margaret yawned, throwing the car into park, and reaching to take off her seatbelt. Margaret was my caseworker. She was a short and stocky woman in her mid-forties with pin-straight mousy brown hair and a face that looked a little squished. She was stern and rough around the edges, but as the only constant in my life the past five years, she was the closest thing to family that I had.
She nodded up at the house, her shoulders tensed. The house was large and well-maintained—cleaner than anywhere I'd ever lived before—with a wrap-around porch and a huge oak tree out front that shadowed much of the yard. Though it was beautiful, there was something about the tiny, perfectly manicured yard and spotless exterior of the house that felt more like a museum than a home.
The couple standing outside the front door finally stepped forward into the glow of Margaret's headlights, allowing me to get my first real look at my new guardians. They were a middle-aged Caucasian couple, likely in their mid-to-late fifties. The husband was dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, his wife in a navy shift dress and heels. They both looked a little too overdressed for eleven p.m. on a Tuesday, but they wore matching smiles. As I met their gaze from the back of Margaret's car, they stared at me with a look in their eyes that I hoped was tenderness but knew from experience was more likely pity.
I'd been in foster care since I was twelve years old. That was the year my grandfather—my sole caretaker after my mother had been locked up two years prior—died of lung cancer. My grandfather was the only father-figure I'd ever known, but I never saw him gaze at me as softly as my new temporary parents were looking at me now.
I knew their names—Chet and Monica Snyder—and I knew enough about their background to guess why they were looking at me like I was their long-lost puppy. Their only child—a girl, just like me—passed away when she was a teenager. Margaret had let that slip on the drive over, and I knew why she'd done it. She wanted me to warm up to them as if they were my actual parents—to behave like I was their actual daughter in hopes that they didn't send me packing after a few months like everyone else.
I'd lived with several different types of foster parents over the years—the do-gooders, the Christian-converters, and the ones who only did it for the tax breaks—but I'd never been in a home where I felt like I had to play a character. Here, with the way Monica Snyder stared at me with a look I can only describe as longing, I was questioning if I was up for the task.
I waited for Margaret to get out of the car first just as I always did. She made it up the short driveway in four long, cumbersome strides, her short legs shaky on top of her wedge heels. Greeting the Snyders with a stiff handshake, she crossed her hands over her chest. I knew what she was doing. It was how it always started: a briefing about me, where I came from, and what they should expect from me. I cracked the door open to hear what was being said but made no move to get out of the car.
"...always a little shy the first few days," Margaret motioned back towards where I sat. "She's a good girl. Smart and not a troublemaker. But she's guarded. You should give her a few days to settle in before trying to get her to open up."
"That's what we were expecting from the books," Monica said, her smile soft and a little sad. She glanced back at me, and we locked eyes for the second time before I looked away. She was pretty in a subtle way, with thin, yellow-blonde hair cut to her shoulders and a piercing blue eyes that distinguished her otherwise plain face. She wore a pair of reading glasses on the tip of her nose, her skin a very soft shade of ivory, and her light-blonde eyebrows pinched together with worry. Her husband, Chet, stared at Margaret intently, his graying, bushy eyebrows pinched together in a similar manner to his wife. He, like Monica, looked to be in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair that was thinning on the top. He towered over his wife—even in her heels—but he seemed just as thin, with his narrow shoulders hunched as if he were nervous.
Even though both wore matching cheerful expressions, there was an aura of intense sadness about them. I wasn't sure how recently their daughter had passed but it was clear to me that they were still grieving.
"Rina," Margaret called, her voice teetering on impatience. I stepped out of the car slowly, as though I were just as shy as Margaret made me out to be. The thin black t-shirt I was wearing stuck to my sweaty skin like static cling when I stepped into the muggy air. I watched as my new temporary guardians fully took me in for the first time—a thin, lanky teenager with wild, curly brown hair, bags under my eyes, and alabaster skin. My shirt was thin, old, and too big, my jeans ripped at the knees from wear and tear, and the black high-top sneakers I wore were a cheap knockoff of Chuck Taylors. I was a far cry from the prim and polished look of the Snyders and their perfectly maintained home.
"Hi, Rina," Monica said slowly, her voice soft like a caress. She took a hesitant step towards me, like she couldn't decide whether she was supposed to hug me or not. I stepped towards her too, sticking my hand out hesitantly in greeting. She took my hand greedily, squeezing her fingers tightly around mine. When I looked up at her eyes, I noticed they were watery, like she was fighting back tears. I swallowed hard. It was an emotion I hadn't been expecting from someone I'd just met.
"Your name is Monica?" I asked slowly. "And Chet?" They nodded slowly, Monica's smile soft. I sighed and then prompted, "Is that what I should call you? Or do you prefer Mr. and Mrs. Snyder?" I'd been with foster parents that went by first name, last names, and even sir and ma'am, and I couldn't tell based off their demeanor what they would prefer to be called.
"Oh, honey, you can call us Mom and Dad," Monica blurted out, but then looked embarrassed. "If you're comfortable with that, of course. Or Mr. and Mrs. Snyder if you are not."
"I'll just call you Mr. and Mrs. Snyder," I said, but thought better of it when Monica looked sad and Margaret looked impatient. I tacked on, "For now."
Chet cleared his throat. "Well, Rina, your bedroom will be up the stairs, the first door on the left, if you would like to get settled in," Chet said slowly, putting his hand on Monica's lower back. "Margaret, I understand that we have some paperwork to fill out?"
"Yes, I have quite a bit actually, Rina?" Margaret called, searching my gaze. I knew her well enough to know she was looking for some sign of fear, as if I had some sort of foster kid sixth sense that could tell when complete strangers might be dangerous. I looked at her and smiled, letting her know for the fourth time in four years that I would be okay. I always was. "Get your bags from the car, would you?"
Margaret always used the word "bags" as if I had suitcases. I didn't have suitcases. I had trash bags full of clothes, a few books, and the toiletries my former placement let me take with me before they had to move out of state. The trac phone I paid for with the meager allowance I received from the foster care system was in my back pocket, along with the headphones I'd been given for Christmas last year. Those things, along with my grandfather's high school ring that I kept chained around my neck, were my only worldly possessions. It didn't take me long to pick up the two trash bags full of everything I owned and haul them up the front steps. The Snyders looked taken aback by the sight of my trash bags. New fosters always did. The trashbags seemed like such a fable to anyone outside of the foster world, but it had been my reality for years now.
When I stepped inside my new temporary home, I noticed that it, like the outside of their home, was spotless. It was bright white and smelled like cleaning supplies, with a perfectly decorated foyer leading up to a cherry-wood staircase. To the left was a sitting room with a grand piano and a stiff-looking leather couch that I doubted anyone ever sat on. To the right, there was a larger living room with an L-shaped sofa and matching loveseat, a flat screen TV, and more decorative pillows than I'd ever seen in one place.
I swallowed hard and headed for the stairs. Heaving my bags over either shoulder, I climbed the stairs carefully, my gaze focused on my feet out of fear I would trip. I didn't look up again until I reached the top of the stairs. That was when I saw the photos. It was like they kept them hidden from me at first, not trying to scare me away, but they were still there, visible even with the lights off.
Plastered all over the left wall of their second floor were pictures of whom I could only guess was their dead daughter in various stages of life—as a newborn in Monica's arms, as a young girl at the beach, a picture as a preteen underneath a Christmas tree, and lastly, her senior class picture. Her hair was pin-straight and thin like her mother's, but it was a shade of chestnut brown that more so favored her father. She had her mother's pale complexion and her father's deep-set eyes. They seemed to jump out at me from the photographs and seeing her—whatever her name might have been—so vibrantly alive in pictures that it made me feel uncomfortable looking at them. All of a sudden, I felt like my being there was disrespectful to this young, vibrant woman. I obviously wasn't their actual new daughter, nor did I ask to play the role, but Monica's desperation to be called Mom again made me feel like I was replacing someone who should still be here.
As I entered my new temporary bedroom, I felt a little sick. I always did when I got placed somewhere new, but this feeling was different. I felt anxiety like I'd never had before, like a hollow pit in my core that made it hard to breathe. I didn't know how I ended up here beyond the obvious—I was a ward of the state and the Snyders volunteered to be my temporary custodians—but it seemed as though they'd specifically chosen me, a teenage girl the same age as their daughter was, to be the new member of their family. The thought made me feel broken.
Working my way towards the second room on the right, I shouldered open the door, my stomach feeling like it was full of lead. Flipping the switch, I begrudgingly took in my new surroundings, praying to God they hadn't directed me to their dead daughter's room. Taking in the decorum, it didn't seem likely. This room, like the rest of the house, was immaculately clean and monochromatic, with beige carpeting and a matching dresser, bed frame, and bedside tables. The bedding was a shade of ivory only slightly lighter than the carpeting and like the living room downstairs, it was piled high with more decorative pillows than I'd ever need. To the left of the room, there was a large picture window overlooking the tiny front yard with a cushioned window seat beneath it. The walls, I was relieved to notice, were bare. No pictures of their daughter, and no signs that she'd ever resided in this room. Thank goodness for small mercies.
I laid down in on the overly stuffed mattress still fully dressed, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun around and around in slow circles. After twenty minutes or so—though it could have been longer, as I think I fell asleep—I heard the front door open with a squeak. I sprung to my feet, racing to the window to see Margaret's car backing out of the driveway. Swallowing hard, I hit the lights and stumbled back towards the bed, barely bothering to kick off my shoes. I few moments later, with my eyes closed, I heard a soft knock on the door. I pretended to be asleep when it creaked open and heard what sounded like Monica sighing softly before shutting the door.
I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of tall oak trees, tire marks, and a bloody head of chestnut-colored hair.