Questing for a Dream, page 34
“Why don’t we do something with your hair?” Deshawn suggested. “There’s not much time, but if we blow-dry, we could be done before supper.”
Tamara raked her fingers through her limp blonde hair, disgusted with it.
“Yeah. Could we?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Deshawn agreed with emphasis. “We’ll shampoo it in the bathroom, and use leave-in conditioner…” she led the way out into the hallway, still chattering away to herself what they would do. Tamara just followed.
Tamara knelt by the tub while Deshawn used the hand-held shower attachment to quickly wet her hair down. The warm water felt so good on Tamara’s scalp, she wished she could get in for a full shower, and just luxuriate in it for hours. Three years of quick, cold showers. But Deshawn turned off the water way too soon, and applied a fruity shampoo with strong, capable fingers; working it in and then rinsing it back out. She handed Tamara a towel and while Tamara rubbed her hair, Deshawn rifled through the myriad toiletries lining the back of the counter, the medicine cabinet, and a couple of deep wicker baskets under the sink.
(iv)
“Girls! Dinner!” the impatient call came again from downstairs.
Deshawn poked her head out the door.
“Just one more minute,” she called back. “We’ll be right down!”
She returned her attention to Tamara.
“Okay, just sit still for one more minute, girl,” she instructed.
Tamara sat frozen, while Deshawn wound sections of her hair around the fat curling iron, holding it and then releasing. There was no way that she was going to be done the whole thing in another minute. But Deshawn worked quickly, sure of herself.
“That will do it for now,” she announced.
She laid the curling iron down on the counter and unplugged it from the wall. Standing Tamara up, Deshawn shuffled her over and turned her to face the mirror.
“Ta-da!”
Tamara looked with astonishment at the face in the mirror. She was amazed at what a big difference a hairstyle could make. She still didn’t have on any make-up, hadn’t changed her clothes or accessories, all she had done was let Deshawn clean and style her hair. Her image in the mirror was no longer so harsh and plain.
“You’re gorgeous,” Deshawn gushed. “You’ve got really good color and proportions. We can have a lot of fun glamming you up. For now, this will do.”
Standing behind Tamara, Deshawn used her fingers to wind and readjust a couple of curls. She lowered her head so that it was on the same level as Tamara’s, and gave her a smile.
“What do you think?”
“It’s… it’s really pretty. Thanks,” Tamara said. She cleared her throat, realizing that she was whispering. She had learned in juvie to use a strong, confident voice, not to be soft or timid. The Henson’s home was so different in atmosphere, she felt like she was in a library or something. That she needed to be quiet to avoid upsetting the peace of the place.
“Come on, we’ve got to get down to dinner, or Missus will not be happy!”
Tamara followed Deshawn back downstairs and to the dining room table that she and Nita had set. It was now covered with serving dishes, and everyone was seated, waiting for them. All eyes turned to Tamara as she looked at the three empty chairs, trying to decide which one she should take.
“Tamara, doesn’t that look lovely,” Mrs. Henson complimented. “Here, sit down. These boys will eat everything before we even get a bite, if they have to wait much longer.”
She gestured toward the empty chair nearest to her, and Tamara went over and sat down. Deshawn took what appeared to be her usual seat, beside Nita, which left one empty chair at the table of eight. Tamara looked for the first time at Mr. Henson. Slim, on the tall side. Handsome boyish face. Short-cropped curly red hair. He smiled at Tamara.
“Welcome, Tamara. I’m Jesse.”
Tamara nodded, looking down at her empty plate. Her stomach tightened and it was suddenly hard to breathe. The only men that she had been around for three years had been guards, doctors, and administrators. The last man she had lived with before that… her foster father, Mr. Baker… that had been a bad scene. A very bad scene. Tamara swallowed. She tried to slow her breathing, but it just made her breath louder in her own ears. She was sure everyone would hear how loudly and quickly she was breathing.
“Dig in,” Mrs. Henson said, and Harry and Jason acted like two Rottweilers just told to attack, diving into the serving dishes immediately. Conversation started up around the table, and rather than trying to follow any of it, Tamara just let it wash over her like white noise. She served up small portions of each of the dishes that passed her, and dutifully passed them on.
“So tell us about your last home, Tamara,” Nita said. “Where did you come here from?”
Tamara looked at Mrs. Henson. The woman just smiled and gave her a small nod, and didn’t jump in to help her out. If Tamara didn’t want to answer questions, she was going to have to be assertive and speak up. The conversations around the table quieted as the others paused to listen for her answer. Tamara swallowed a very dry mouthful of potatoes. They stuck right in the middle of her chest.
“I wasn’t at a home,” she said finally, careful to keep her voice up, not to duck her head down. She was not vulnerable and had nothing to be ashamed of. She was strong and knew how to take care of herself. She had just as much right to be here as any of them. “I was in juvie.”
There was an initial silence, and then conversations started back up again without further comment on Tamara’s answer.
“Sorry,” Nita said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” Tamara said, shaking her head. “It’s not a secret. That’s where I was.”
Nita nodded.
“Most of us have been in trouble at one time or another.”
Tamara glanced around at their faces. None of them looked particularly troubled. They seemed happy and relaxed. At peace with themselves. Maybe they had been in trouble before, and maybe they hadn’t. You couldn’t always tell by looking at someone.
“Harry’s probably spent the most time in juvie,” Deshawn contributed, nodding to her brother. “How much time, Harry?”
“All together?” Harry questioned, laughing. “I don’t know. Longest stint was two years. But I had plenty of shorter stays before that.”
Tamara studied him more closely. He met her eyes and nodded.
“Harry’s twenty,” Mrs. Henson said without being asked. “So he’s not officially a foster child anymore. But we told him he could stay on here while he does some more schooling and gets on his feet.”
Tamara nodded, looking back down at her plate.
“That’s really nice of you.”
“It’s to our benefit too. Harry contributes a lot to the family, and since he’s working part-time, he’s also paying a bit of rent to help keep us afloat. So it works both ways.”
Tamara bit into some sort of casserole.
“I guess you’ll learn about everyone’s backgrounds gradually,” Mrs. Henson said. “We try to be open with each other. Everybody’s been through some pretty tough stuff. We don’t judge. We just try to help.”
“That’s cool,” Tamara said, pushing her dinner around on her plate. She wasn’t hungry.
She watched everyone else chow down, and conversations flowed back away from her again. Tamara watched for the appropriate time to leave the table. There was no end-of-dinner bell anymore. She had to relearn all the social graces. How to judge the end of a conversation. When one could politely leave the dinner table. How long she could look at someone before they decided she was being too aggressive. It was like living in a foreign country. A dangerous foreign country.
“Not very hungry?” Mrs. Henson observed, as dinner conversation started to peter out.
Tamara looked down at her plate, still nearly full.
“No. I’m sorry… it’s good… I just feel kind of… my stomach hurts.”
“It’s all right. It takes time to adjust. You can scrape it into the garbage. Nita can show you where. Everyone rinses their own plates and puts them in the dishwasher.”
“Sure,” Tamara agreed. She stood up, grabbing her plate, and Nita got up and led the way back into the kitchen, where they took care of their dishes. Tamara looked back at the dining table. “Do you want help with clean-up?” she asked Mrs. Henson. “Or would I be in the way?”
“Of course you can help. Usually, I’d probably tell you to go do your homework while I cleared, but you don’t have any today, so why don’t you and I clean up together?”
Tamara nodded, and she and Mrs. Henson bussed the serving dishes back to the kitchen, found lids for things, and put them into the fridge. Mrs. Henson turned the dishwasher on and wiped down the dining room table.
“You can watch some TV or take some ‘down’ time. In bed at nine, and lights out at ten.”
“Okay,” Tamara agreed.
She wandered around the house a bit, but wasn’t comfortable sitting down with anybody else, and so she made her way back to her bedroom. As she approached, the door to the other girls’ bedroom opened. Nita peeked out.
“Hey,” she said. “You need anything? Do you have pajamas?”
Tamara shook her head.
“No,” she admitted. “If I could borrow a t-shirt or something…”
“You bet. Come in.”
Nita opened the door the rest of the way for her, and Tamara went in. Tamara looked down at Nita’s feet, nails freshly painted and toes spread apart while they dried. Nita giggled and hobbled on her heels over to the dresser.
“You want to do yours?” she asked. She pulled out a handful of shirts and tossed them at Tamara.
“No. Thanks,” Tamara said, fumbling with the shirts to see what her options were. “I’m going to hit the sack.”
She found herself strangely unable to choose one of the shirts. There were three of them. They were all cute. Any one of them would work. All she had to do was decide which of the three she liked best. Nita was watching her, head cocked slightly.
“The blue one is a really good color for you,” she suggested.
Not the blue one. Tamara looked at the other two. She didn’t know which she wanted, but she had to decide before Nita made another suggestion. She had to make her own choice. Tamara tossed the blue one back to Nita, and with a knot in her stomach, tossed Nita the pink one too. Tamara looked down at the purple and blue patterned shirt in her hands.
“This one is good,” she said.
She felt a little sick. Worried that she had made the wrong choice. How silly was that, to be worried that she had picked the wrong t-shirt to wear in the privacy of her own bedroom? But she was. She had an overwhelming feeling of dread.
“Have a good sleep,” Nita said with a smile.
“Thanks.”
Tamara went back to her room. She changed into the t‑shirt, long enough to reach her mid-thighs. She lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. There would be no bell ringing to tell her when to go to sleep. Would her body know when it was time, without the bell? Would she be able to adjust to a new schedule? Not feeling the least bit tired, Tamara lay staring at the ceiling, twitching her foot and waiting for sleep.
Chapter Two
(i)
TAMARA AWOKE. SHE WAS confused at first, disoriented by the sight of a bedroom around her instead of her familiar cell. Turning her head to look at the clock beside the bed, Tamara saw that it was five forty-five on the dot. The usual time for the reveille bell. Groaning, she rolled over and slid out of bed.
She didn’t know what time the others usually arose, but she imagined there would probably be a bottleneck waiting for the shower. Moving as quietly as possible, Tamara tiptoed across the room and opened her door. She listened for any sounds of movement. There was a light on down the stairs, but it wasn’t bright. It could just be a streetlight through a window, or a nightlight. The shower was not running, so Tamara darted into the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the light. She started the shower running and stripped down. For the first time in three years, she stepped into a warm shower. The tantalizing sample of the night before when Deshawn had helped her wash her hair didn’t even come close to the luxury of a hot, whole-body shower. Tamara took a deep breath. She could get used to this.
More out of habit than anything, Tamara very quickly soaped up and rinsed off. She forced herself to shut off the water again immediately. Even though she would have loved to have stayed in the shower for an hour, until the hot water ran out and people started banging on the door to tell her to get out, she knew she had to be considerate and leave some hot water for the others. With a family of seven, you couldn’t be selfish and use it all yourself. Shivering, Tamara grabbed the closest towel and dried herself off. She realized with dismay that she hadn’t brought in any clothes to change into. She only had the makeshift nightshirt she had just taken off. Tamara swallowed and steeled herself. She wrapped the worn towel around her body. It didn’t cover much, and wasn’t long enough to tuck it back into itself. So holding the towel with one hand, Tamara tucked her shirt under her elbow, and used the other hand to open the door.
Her room was conveniently right across the hall from the bathroom, so she only had to take three steps, and she was safe in her own room again. She heard the click of another door down the hall, and a minute later, the bathroom door closed and the water turned back on. Had whoever was in the shower now seen her in her dash from the bathroom? She hadn’t dared to look for anyone. Tamara pulled on her sad little Social-Services-provided outfit and looked for a comb. She found one in the top drawer of the dresser, along with a few other necessities. As she carelessly pulled the comb through her hair to get it in order before it finished drying, Tamara’s eyes sought out her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Did she want a prison hairdo for the first day of school, or something nice, like Deshawn had done for her last night? But the curling iron was in the currently-occupied bathroom.
Trying to breathe calmly through her anxiety, Tamara crossed the hall to the bathroom door. The shower was still running. She knocked on the door and opened it up a couple of inches.
“Can I just get the curling iron?” she asked.
She didn’t look toward the shower or the foggy mirror. She just kept her eyes down, waiting for a response.
“Sure, go ahead,” a male voice answered. The voice was deep, probably Harry, but Tamara wasn’t sure.
She opened the door far enough to rifle through the contents of the vanity and the baskets underneath, and found the curling iron, a brush, and some hairspray. Tamara retreated from the warm, misty bathroom and hurried back to her own room.
(ii)
Breakfast at juvie was served promptly at six and was over at six thirty, so by the time Tamara was finished styling her hair, she was starving. She went down to the kitchen to see what she could find to eat. Mr. Henson—Jesse—was eating a bowl of cereal on the kitchen island, reading through a newspaper. Tamara stopped short. He must have heard her footsteps on the stairs, though, because he looked up at her and smiled.
“Come on in, don’t be shy,” he invited.
Tamara approached cautiously, not getting too close. She knew foster dads. She’d dealt with a foster dad. But she’d learned how to protect herself in juvie. How to be careful and not leave herself open.
“You’re an early riser,” Jesse observed, dropping his eyes back down to his newspaper and taking another bite of cereal.
Tamara watched him for any change in attitude, any extra watchfulness. He glanced up again, then back down at his paper.
“There’s juice in the fridge. Cereal and bread in the cupboard,” he pointed. “Coffee’s fresh.”
“Thanks,” Tamara said.
She kept an eye on him while she opened a couple of cupboards to locate the mugs, and poured herself a cup of coffee. Tamara inhaled the soothing aroma while she waited for it to cool down a bit. Perhaps Jesse could feel her gaze, because he looked up at her expectantly, eyebrows up. Tamara looked away.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m a bit dopey. Still getting the engine started.”
He chuckled.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Well… okay, I guess. The bed is really comfy and everything. It’s just…”
“Somewhere new,” Jesse finished for her, nodding. “That’s perfectly understandable. It will take a while before it feels natural. Like home.”
“Yeah.”
Tamara wondered if she would ever feel like this was home. She had been warned that parole wouldn’t be easy. She knew inmates who had been back within a week of being released. Some had intended to follow the rules, and slipped. Some had never intended to follow any rules. She remembered when Mitchell had come back. Tamara had thought that she would make it. Mitchell was tough, one of the few who had managed to survive juvie without getting in with one of the gangs. She was strong-willed, and made it known that once she got out, she wasn’t going to be back. She would do whatever it took to stay on the right side of the law and make a life for herself. A straight, honest life.
On her return, Mitchell’s dark eyes were underscored by shadows. She looked almost haunted.
“I just couldn’t do it,” she told Tamara, as they both stood at the sinks in the restroom. “I felt so… exposed. I didn’t belong out there.”
She had held up a convenience store at knife point. With no mask. In full view of the security cameras. Not because she needed money, but because she wanted to go back. Back where she belonged.
