Kern Carter - Boys and Girls Screaming

It was quiet that night. I was only five, sitting cross-legged in the corner of my bedroom with more paint on my arms and legs than there was on the paper in front of me. I could hear her pacing. Every step made its own creak, back and forth like a rusted seesaw.

I dont know what took her so long. Its not like she ever wanted me.

You shouldnt be here. I mustve been three the first time she said those words to me. If I close my eyes tight enough, I can see the black moles dotting her face. Hear the slow, deep crawl of her voice.

Im leaving, she said. You hear me? She was standing in the doorway of my bedroom holding a gym bag in one hand and a suitcase in the other. I was still holding on to that paintbrush. There was paint all over my face, on my elbows, and all over my clothes. I looked up at her, but she didnt move any closer. The last sound I remember is the click of the front door lock.

Days later I was still in my room. Still splashing paint and dusting crumbs of dry cereal off sheets of paper covered in blotches of color. That was when I heard the front door. Loud knocks. Then banging. I held my breath and tried staying still.

Candace? Candace, you in there? Were coming in, OK?

I shut my bedroom door and hustled to the corner near the window. The paper was still wet with paint when I squeezed it to my chest. Hearing the front door open made me jump back against the wall.

Go away.

All I wanted to do was keep painting.

Candace? My bedroom door opened. Candace, are you OK?

The property managers face was the first I saw. I only knew him as the man downstairs who said hi every day when I came home from school. Then I saw Mrs. Heard, her hair the same brown as my skin and draped down one shoulder. She took my hand and walked me to the bathroom while the man from downstairs stayed in the bedroom shaking his head.

I had no way of knowing my life was about to change forever. No way to stop Mrs. Heard from cleaning me up and taking me to her home. Ever wasnt in the picture yet, but that first night at Mrs. Heards house, in my own room with the lights that didnt go all the way dark, I closed my eyes and let myself dream.

And thats exactly what my life became after Mrs. Heard took me in.

She was my kindergarten teacher. After two days of leaving voice messages for my fake mom, she called my property manager and they came to my door. One night went by at Mrs. Heards, then two. Every morning I woke up thinking my fake moms face would be the one I saw when I lifted the blanket, but it was Mrs. Heard who tiptoed into my room every morning. I remember one morning after about a week, she tapped my shoulder and asked if I was a little bit hungry or really hungry.

Really hungry, was my response.

And do you want bacon with French toast or blueberry pancakes with scrambled eggs or just cereal?

Cereal and milk, please.

Oh yes, cant forget the milk. Mrs. Heard flipped her hair from her shoulder to her back with just the wave of her neck.

Is my mom coming today?

No, sweetie.

Are you going to send me back to her house? I hid my face back under the blanket, but Mrs. Heard dipped her head underneath and rubbed her nose all over my cheek before lifting the blanket and cupping my face in her hands.

My home is your home, Candace.

Their home. My home. My new bedroom was bigger than my fake moms entire apartment. It had a walkout to a balcony that overlooked the backyard and a bathroom with a silver bathtub that was separate from the shower.

Their home. My home. Mr. Heard said the same thing. He caught me spilling milk on the floor after I tried lifting the box out of the fridge with one hand. I thought I was in trouble. He picked me up from the floor with arms that were almost as pale as the shirt that covered them and told me, Dont worry, Candace. My home is your home. Were family.

Family. Its a word Id hear the teachers use at daycare. A word other kids used to talk about their mom and dad.

Heres another word. Mother. A word my fake mother told me never to call her.

Julia, she said. Thats my name. And like a nice little girl learning to recite the alphabet, thats what I did. Then one day I asked the man downstairs if he had a Julia too.

He nodded and said, We all have a Julia, princess.

My fake mom apologized and pulled me towards the elevator. When we got upstairs, she told me it was OK to call her mom, but only when we were outside. But sometimes I called her Mom inside and Julia outside. Sometimes Id go the whole day without saying her name at all.