Page 42 of Room 13: Bred By the Bears

“Okay,Shawshank.” I laughed, pulling him back into a hug. “Let us know if you need anything from us as you’re working on your plans for the resort. We’d love to help from NOLA.”

* * *

“This is a terrible idea.”Armel the chickenshit told me for the fifth time from my passenger seat. “Armel Bardot, kindly sack the fuck up. Miele needs to know about our history too. And this is the best way to ensure it gets told.”

I’d set an interview up with a local newspaper to interview Trygg the artist about growing up in St. Claude. Of course the entire neighborhood was ridiculously trendy now, but as kids we were capital P, poor.

“How did you get Miele to agree?” he asked.

“I told her that Ryker has a couple of extra pieces being consigned at an arts dealer down here, and he wanted her to see them and decide if they fit the aesthetic of the hotel.”

“And what happens if she texts Ryker instead, genius. She could easily drop a text in our group chat she is delayed and can’t go look at the art work, or she doesn’t feel like it, or ask us to just take pictures of them and send them so she can decide.”

He would try the patience of a fucking nun on Sundays.

“A little faith.”

We pulled up to the St. Claude Home for Boys. A place I hated even looking at it. We all avoided St. Claude for this exact reason. Despite it being trendy and full of art dealers that probablywouldfall over themselves to feature Ryker’s work. All the bad that happened here, drown out the new and shiny like a nuclear fallout and a violin.

“Isn’t she going suspect something when she types in the address into her Google Map and it takes her here?”

“Hopefully by that time, curiosity will pull her the rest of the way.”

I saw Ryker walking the grounds with a woman holding a microphone and a cameraman. It was a big step for him. Being this open with how we grew up. Talking about what it was like living in a group home from the time we were four. Waiting, desperately, for a family to choose us. The crushing disappointment after every “getting to know you” picnic when they passed on us. We were tooCajun. Wild.Dirty. Ill mannered. We spoke funny. The list never ended, and all culminated in us not being good enough to be wanted from the wealthy families seeking to adopt. They would whisper on the way out, things like “maybe we should reconsider working with that agency. Sure, it’s expensive, but at least we’d have ababytoraise proper.”

“Hi” Miele sauntered up to where we stood. “Good thing you two are standing here, because I had no idea where you wanted me to go.”

There was no kiss. Not even the very French air kiss to both cheeks. She simply stood there, with her arms folded under her chest. I didn’t know how it was possible, but she felt even further away.

“Who is Ryker talking to?” She motioned toward where they’d stopped in front of a fountain.

“Newscaster for WNAB,” I explained, “they’re doing a feature piece on him,‘Coming Full Circle: Foster Care to Caring for Fosters.’”

Miele nodded, half listening. But in a breath, it sunk in. What we’d said.

“This is where we grew up,” Armel told her. “The three of us. From the time I was in diapers and had barely learned to walk. And the two of them when they were older, almost five.”

“We can give you a tour of the inside while they finish the interview if you’d like. It hasn’t changed much.”

We took her around the group home. The three of us invested in some upgrades over the years. New, real beds for kids instead of those industrial bunk beds that made noise every time you moved. We’d painted, installed closets, given the kids proper resource rooms with state-of-the-art computers, and nice televisions in their common rooms. We’d filled the spaces with books, both for school and pleasure, games, gaming systems. Anything their friends at school might have. But it still didn’t change the fact that many of these kids saw and experienced horrors that no kid should. All while praying every day that someone would come and claim them as their own.

“You guys did all of this?” she asked, her voice filled with awe.

“We tried to give these kids all the things we wished we had when we were here.”

“Miele.” Ryker’s voice rumbled from behind us. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

twenty-nine

I didn’t wantto see Miele in that place. Not when it was the first time since she’d returned from Montana. St Claude’s Home for Boys gutted me. It reopened old wounds and brought old pains to the surface. I only agreed to the segment because they promised to highlight the adoption drive that was coming up. They said they’d talk about the great things these kids had going for them. Not just capitalize on heart string tugging to win the segment. The newscaster, Holly, was sent back to the studio with a binder full of these kid’s successes from being first chair in orchestra to winning the county spelling bee.

“I’m sorry.” I told her, running my hand down her cheek subconsciously. “I need to get out of here. The memories are too much.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said, following me to my car.

“We’ll see you at home,” Obi called to my retreating back.Home. Not this place. Not anymore. It hadn’t been for a long while.

“Did you drive?” Armel asked.

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