Pinky Promise

I stretch my arms above my head, allowing my spine to crack one vertebrae at a time. I am sleeping on the floor on a thin mattress pad, with bunched up balls of cotton, making it impossible for a comfortable night's sleep. My joints ache as a reminder of my unfortunate sleeping arrangement.

I sit up and can see the small twin bed in the room. It's a thin blanket rising and falling as Jacob sleeps deeply. He looks so peaceful. I hate to wake him, but if I don’t, he’ll surely get in trouble.

“Jacob, it’s time to wake up,” I whisper.

I see his sleep rhythm change slightly, becoming aware of my voice. “Come on, man, before Mrs. Patricia comes to get you.”

This seems to do the trick, and Jacob groans and peels his tired eyes open. We make eye contact, and I perform a ‘hurry up’ gesture by sweeping my hand in fast circles in the air. This seemed to bring Jacob to attention, as he now becomes oriented to the waking world, and the memory of punishment for sleeping in is brought to his waking consciousness.

He throws off his tattered blanket and jumps out of bed, barely making a noise due to his light body. “Well, come on!” he whisper yells. “You said it, we are going to be late!”

He barrels through the room looking for clothes to put on. The floor is covered in clothes, and he picks up an item, sniffs it, and throws it back down. He continues this frantic loop spiraling around the small room. He finally finds a pair that appear to pass the sniff test. He rushes to pull the too-short and tight pants over his bony legs. In doing so, he stumbles and begins falling, knocking into the lopsided bedside table. Before he can catch himself, the old table tips, sending multiple cups of half-drunk water hurtling to the floor.

I shoot up, and we both stand there frozen as if we remain completely silent and still, it may counter for the loud crash that just took place. We wait, and just as expected, heavy, quick footfalls begin stomping up the old stairs.

We both clench our jaws and take one second to close our eyes, attempting to stretch the second of silence, before the inevitable, unpredictable punishment. The door flies open, slamming against the wall, shaking the house, threatening to knock the whole thing down. Despite us knowing what was coming, we both jump, turning our eyes quickly to the door. In the entrance stands a large figure, appearing as a dark shadow, backlit from the yellow hallway light.

“What the hell is going on up here?” Mrs. Patricia yells. She takes a second to look around the room, and then her eyes flicker over the two of us. “And why aren’t you ready for school? You have to leave in 3 minutes, or you are going to be late again, and I refuse to have another talk-” she air quotes talk, “with your school social worker.” She says ‘social worker’ in a mocking tone as if it is a fake or ridiculous job.

“I-I-I I’m sorry,” Jacob says.

“I-I-I don’t care,” responds Mrs. Patricia, mocking his speech.

I decide to jump in as Jacob, understandably so, always becomes nervous when being confronted by Mrs. Patricia, even though it is a regular occurrence at this point. “We will clean up the mess and water after school. We are ready for school, though, so if we leave now we won’t be late, and you shouldn’t have to deal with the social worker again.”

Mrs. Patricia scowls, gives one more disapproving look over the room, and turns and slams the door behind her.

We both take a deep breath, attempting to regulate our nervous systems. I then say, “Seriously though, we should go now, so we don’t get in any more trouble.”

Jacob nods, and we both run downstairs, out the door, and begin our mile walk to school.

Jacob and I have been friends and foster brothers for as long as I can remember. Jacob became a foster kid at the age of 7, after his mother passed away from a drug overdose. His father was in prison, and there were no family members who came forward to claim him. We had now been at two foster homes together. Both equally as bad as the other. There is nothing we longed for more than to get out of this place and into a real, safe, and comfortable home.

Jacob and I have spent countless nights lying in our favorite patch of grass, just a small hike away from Mrs. Patricia’s house. It is close enough to the house that if she yells to us, we can run back quickly, but far enough that our voices do not carry to the house. We would spend hours staring at the stars shining bright, unburdened by the competing town lights.

One night, as our conversation deepened into future thoughts, hopes, and possibilities, Jacob said quietly, “What happens if just one of us gets adopted or finds our forever family?”

I remained quiet for a bit because the truth is, I didn’t know. I can’t imagine my life anymore without Jacob, and the possibility of being alone or leaving him alone with another family made my stomach turn.

Jacob is a quiet child, and he often uses the comfort of me to gain confidence to speak. He will often stay silent until I speak, and then he may echo my words, gaining confidence from my initiation.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “I like to think that no matter what, we will always be with each other. Even if not physically, I think our souls are combined.”

With that, Jacob began snickering beside me. “You’re so weird,” he giggled.

“Shut up, no, I’m not! You are!” I yelled back, while beginning to giggle myself.

That’s just how eleven-year-old kids are. It is hard to talk about scary things or emotional topics, so typically they quickly veer into laughter and lighthearted name-calling. I guess adults are just as guilty of this as well.

That same night of the conversation, Jacob and I lost track of time. We soon realized it was well past the time we were expected to be quietly back in our rooms. We had not heard Mrs. Patricia, which added a layer of alarm on top of a matter that is already concerning.

“Oh god, we are late,” I said. “Did you hear Mrs. Patricia calling?”

Jacob stood up quickly, “shit, no. I didn’t.” He raked his thin fingers through his cropped hair. “Well, come on. Let’s go!”

With that, we began to run through the field, the blades of grass thinly slicing our bare legs. We ran full speed until we stopped suddenly, fully out of breath, at the farmhouse's broken screen door. The house stood silently, and we attempted to quiet our breath to match the stillness of the house. We looked wearily at each other. We reached our pinkies towards each other, intertwined them, and squeezed. This was our way to say ‘I got you and you got me.’

We slowly pushed the door open, attempting to avoid its creak, which, of course, is inevitable. The house was dark and still, which eased some of our tension. We walked through the kitchen, past the refrigerator and cabinets covered in locks holding the doors tightly shut. We were led down through the kitchen by the dim light above the stove. We gently put our feet on the stairs, avoiding all the known spots that groan with the slightest touch. We made our way down the dark hallway to our shared room. The door was open, and the light was on. Our hearts picked up speed, as we never left the door and lights on. Mrs. Patricia yells when the lights are left on ‘do you think I’m made of money. Turn the damn lights off unless you want to start paying the bills.’

We hesitated before the doorway, giving each other one last look and pinky squeeze. We entered the room hunched over, attempting to make ourselves smaller than we already were. On the bed sat Mrs. Patricia, her gray eyes locked on us. A cigarette lay loosely between her shriveled lips. She was dressed for bed, wearing an old, off-white nightgown with little pink flowers. Her coarse, gray hair was undone and spun in frozen loose waves surrounding her pale, bloated face. “Where have you been?” she says in a quiet, still voice.

“Um- um- um,” Jacob began.

“Um- um -um,” Mrs. Patricia mocked, contorting her face. “You know your expected time to be in bed, and here I am checking to make sure you are safe, just to find your bed empty. For another child, I would have been concerned, but since you’re such a little shit, I knew there was no need to worry. You are just out doing god knows what with no respect for me. I give you a bed, food, and warmth. And what do I get in return, a little rat with no respect. Are you trying to get me in trouble with social services?”

I shook my head violently, and Jacob said, “no, sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Mrs. Patricia rolled her eyes, “of course it won’t.” As she said it, her lip curled into a snarled smile. She lunged forward, causing both of us to jump from the quick change of her sudden change in position. She grabbed Jacob’s arm with one hand, pulled him closer to her, and then with the other hand she yanked the cigarette from her dry lips. She quickly brought the red glowing end to his thin wrist and began putting it out on his soft skin.

A guttural animalistic sound rose out of me, and I lunged forward, shoving Mrs. Patricia back. She flew back on the bed, appearing stunned and more confused than angry. She gathered her face quickly, snarled, and said, “Don’t be late again.” She then left the room without another word.

My breath heaved, and Jacob stood frozen, staring at the floor. I squeezed his pinky and said, “I’m so sorry. We need to get out of this place.”

Jacob appeared to thaw from his frozen state and gave a small smile and nodded.

“I’m serious. We are going to get out of here.”

…..

When we return to the farmhouse after school, we see a black sedan in the driveway. Jacob and I look at each other quickly, sharing a look of confusion. Mrs. Patricia never has visitors. “It is probably a new foster kid,” I say.

New foster kids and rarely the lucky ones leaving are typically the only reason for visitors. Jacob and I walk up the gravel driveway and cautiously enter the house. Mrs. Patricia is sitting on the faded floral couch. She is dressed in a pale blue shapeless dress that is creased, but clean. Her hair is pushed back in an unruly bun, and she even has a bit of lipstick on.

Her face breaks into a forced smile, foreign to us, and her, as we enter the house. “Jacob!” she says in a fake cheery voice. Her eyes remain gray and cold, fighting her face with her crooked smile. “Someone is here to talk to you, Jacob. Come on and sit.”

Jacob warily takes a seat next to Mrs. Patricia on the couch, and I sit next to him. We face a woman in the chair opposite the couch. She appears to be in her late 30s or early 40s. Her hair is in tight, long braids pulled loosely into a large bun. She has a round face and soft, dark eyes that meet ours as we sit. “Hi, Jacob,” she says warmly.

“Hi,” Jacob returns softly.

“My name is Mya. I am a social worker, and I came here today to talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” Jacob says, his eyes slowly shifting back and forth from Mya to the floor, unsure of where to hold his gaze.

Mya’s kind smile remains as she begins speaking, “So, Jacob, I have some really interesting and exciting news to share with you. Your grandparents, your mother’s parents, contacted us the other day.” She pauses, waiting for a reaction from Jacob. His eyes are now fixed on her, but he does not say a word. I am looking back and forth between Jacob and Mya, a warm sensation beginning to fill my stomach.

“Well, your grandparents, as you may know, did not have contact with your mother for a long time, so they did not know where to find you. And when we tried contacting them a while ago,” she pauses, her smile gone, “you know, after your mother passed. We could not find them or reach them because their phone numbers seemed to have changed. The good news is, though, they found us now! And Jacob, they want to take you home with them! They want to adopt you, Jacob.”

Jacob beams, and my heart speeds up as my body fills with joy for Jacob. I start to feel a little lightheaded and move my gaze down to my lap. My hands look fuzzy, almost translucent. What is happening? I twist my hands, inspecting my palms and then the backs of them. Yes, they are definitely blurry and not opaque as hands should be.

Jacob turns to me, his bright smile twisting into confusion as his eyebrows knit together. His face then relaxes, appearing to understand something that I still have not come to. He squeezes my pinky and softly smiles, his eyes starting to fill with tears. As our pinkies touch, memories flash through me, disorientating me. Many of Jacob and me and Jacob and all the time we have spent together over the years. Then, more memories flash of other children. Some without parents, some with cruel parents, some living in cars or shelters. All the children are lonely, but I was there to help them with their loneliness, filling that void until they no longer needed me.

It comes to me now, I am not a real person, not technically at least. I am more of a shifter of sorts, turning into different things to adapt to just what that child needs. For Jacob, it was a friend and foster brother. For Juliette, it was a dog that protected her from her bullies. For Jessie, it was an older sister who showed her how to get dressed, find food, and find a safe place to sleep.

Jacob clears his throat, bringing me back to the present. “Um, I’m sorry, Miss Mya, but could I be excused for a minute?”

Mya looks confused, but quickly morphs her face into a smile, nods, and says, “Of course. I will be here when you are ready.”

Mrs. Patricia sneaks in a quick glare, but who cares, she won’t be our problem soon.

Jacob and I rush up the stairs to our room. He stares at me with amazement and sadness mixed into one expression. He shakes his head, “I’m not ready to lose you-” his voice breaks, and a tear escapes his eyes.

My hands are becoming more blurry along with the rest of me. I begin to fill with calmness, but a lingering tinge of sadness remains. This is what I am here for after all. I smile at Jacob and reach my pinky out to grab his. His warm pinky feels like a memory becoming distant, even though I am still here, “you aren’t losing me, Jacob. I will always be connected with you.”

He smiles back at me, squeezing my pinky harder, “I got you, and you got me.” His tears are streaming down his face now, but his smile grows.

We stand there facing each other, eyes wet, squeezing our pinkies, until I am fully gone.

I begin to open my eyes now, my body curled into a ball at the end of a bed. I hear a little girl squeal, reaching forward, her chubby toddler fingers raking my coat. I nuzzle my face against her hand. I move and curl up beside her, sharing my warmth, comfort, and safety with her, ready to do whatever I can to protect her. I’ll be with her, connected, until she no longer needs me. Just like I did for Jacob, and all the kids before, and all the kids to come. I think, ‘I’ve got you, and you got me.’