Page 75 of Foster

I busy myself cleaning the remnants of the coffee, milk, and cookies, handwashing the glasses and plates rather than putting them in the empty dishwasher, just to have something to do. The house is spotless and our dinner is uncomplicated, so there’s no prep there.

Because I’m nervous and it’s producing a need to expel energy, I walk over to the guitar Bowie Jane left propped against the couch. Sitting down, I prop it on my thigh, check the tuning and make a few adjustments. I pick at the strings, tiny little melodies here and there. New ideas to teach Bowie Jane circulate in my head.

I wonder why Bowie Jane didn’t play for her mom or show her what she could do? Sandra wanted to see her bedroom, but wouldn’t the guitar be more important and well… it was right there.

An unease prickles at the back of my neck and I set the guitar down. Slowly rising from the couch, I tilt my head and listen, but I can’t hear anything from upstairs. Did they close the bedroom door when they went in?

I make my way to the base of the stairs and listen again.

Nothing.

Lifting my foot to take the first step up, determined to check on Bowie Jane, I’m startled when I hear a door open. Sandra says, “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

“But I don’t want to go,” Bowie Jane whines.

Something cold sweeps through me, but not in a way that weakens me. Instead, the ice in my veins clarifies things and I brace hard when Sandra appears at the top of the stairs. She’s got Bowie Jane by the hand, pulling her along, her small rolling suitcase in her other hand.

What in the actual fuck?

Sandra halts at the top, stares down at me first with surprise to see me there, then determination.

“What are you doing?” I demand before my eyes cut to Bowie Jane. My stomach curdles when I see a mixture of confusion and fear on her face.

“I’m visiting my daughter, as is my right,” she says, lifting her chin defiantly.

“Yes, you are visiting your daughter. But only within the confines of this house. Why do you have her suitcase?”

“Because I thought she could stay at my hotel with me so we can have private mommy-daughter time.”

Another glance at Bowie Jane and her eyes lock with mine. She doesn’t say anything but gives the smallest shake of her head. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I take it to say she doesn’t want to leave. Not that I would take her wishes into consideration in this instance because no way in hell I’m letting her leave with Sandra.

“Not going to happen. You’re more than welcome to continue your visit here but Bowie Jane isn’t leaving this house with you.”

Sandra starts down the staircase, pulling on Bowie Jane, who willingly follows but looks miserable at the same time. She comes barreling at me and I step backward to give her room to get off the staircase, but the minute her foot touches the foyer floor, I reach forward and jerk the suitcase from her hand. She’s not expecting that and it pulls free easily. Not about to give up my position between Sandra and the door, I set the bag down on its wheels and give it a slight shove so it rolls off to the side.

“Get out of my way,” Sandra snarls, pulling Bowie Jane into her side and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I’m taking Bowie Jane so we can spend some private time together.”

More like taking her to the airport to heading back to Singapore, but I don’t say my worst fear out loud. I don’t want to scare Bowie Jane.

I notice that Sandra’s fingers are pressed into her daughter’s shoulder, and I can tell it hurts by the expression on Bowie Jane’s face. “You need to ease up on the way you’re holding her.” I nod at her tightened grip.

That seems to jolt Sandra out of her fight mode as she releases the little girl, turning to look down at her with concern. Bowie Jane scrambles backward up the staircase, putting three steps between herself and her mother.

“Oh, honey… I’m so sorry,” Sandra coos apologetically, holding out her arms. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Come here and give me a hug.”

Bowie Jane just stares at her mom, indecision on her face. Sandra’s tone is sincere… I believe she’s truly regretful for hurting her daughter, and I know more than anything, Bowie Jane wants to reconnect with her.

But this is a precarious situation, and I can’t worry about treading carefully for my young charge’s feelings.

“Bowie Jane,” I say firmly but with an upward lilt so that I sound positive and reassuring. Her hazel eyes, just like Foster’s, land on me. “I want you to go to your bedroom right now. I need to talk to your mom privately.”

“Bowie Jane,” Sandra exclaims, a slight hysterical lift to her voice. “You come to me.”

The poor kid is clearly torn, her gaze moving between me and her mother.

“I’m your mom,” Sandra whines. “If you love me, you need to come with me.”

I can’t compete with a child’s love for their parent, but I can remind Bowie Jane of her dad’s love. “Your dad would not want you to go. He would want you to go up to your room so I can handle this.”

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