Rattle Box Page 3

  “Call if you need anything.”

  I snort. “You took my phone, remember.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wesley are home all day. They’ll keep an eye out.”

  “I’m not a baby.”

  “You’re not exactly responsible either,” she reminds me.

  One day, two mistakes, and they’re on the verge of hiring a babysitter for me.

  “It’s a shame you are going to miss the concert.”

  My heart clenches. An afternoon concert, followed up by dinner and then tickets to the ballet. Something I was so looking forward to, but since I screwed up, they offered my tickets to my older sister, Brisa. At least she is studying something reasonable, like education. My parents may not be able to afford private lessons, or anything like that, but they’ve always made sure we took in the arts. So why the hell don’t they support my desire to go to a music school?

  On the other hand, it isn’t like Mom and Dad go out and buy the tickets. Clients are always giving them to her. Mom works at one of the biggest accounting firms in the city, with all kinds of bigwig clients who often hand out tickets for concerts, the theater, sporting events and the like. This time I’m the one losing out.

  Once the family room and living room have been dusted and vacuumed, I clean the three bathrooms, which is probably the grossest job on the planet. Especially when it’s the bathroom my little brother uses. If anything, I want a shower when I’m done, but if I do that, I won’t want to keep cleaning because I’ll get dirty again. Instead, I wash my hands until they are red, to make sure all the gross stuff my brother dripped everywhere is no longer on me and go back to the kitchen and look at the list.

  That’s when I see “In case I forgot anything, clean from top to bottom and everything in between,” at the bottom of the list.

  When did Mom put that there?

  Crap.

  Top, as in attic? Bottom as in basement? Neither place ever gets cleaned. We store stuff in the attic, and the basement is for laundry, and that’s about it. Well, Dad does have a workbench down there and a bunch of tools and stuff. It can get damp down there so Mom and Dad have never done anything else with it. The only time I remember spending anytime in the basement was when I was a kid. We used to ride bikes and little cars down there when it was too snowy, cold or icy to be outside. Sometimes we’d kick a ball around, but that was about it.

  Well, since I’m already feeling gross from cleaning the bathroom John uses, I head upstairs to the walk up attic. If I can get this place cleaned up and somehow make some room, maybe Mom and Dad will let me move up here, then I won’t have to go back to sharing a room with Savannah when Brisa is home from school. It’s not fair that Brisa got to go off to college and live in a dorm room when Mom and Dad refuse to even consider the possibility of me doing the same thing. It’s not like I’m irresponsible or wild. At least Brisa lets Savannah stay in her room when she’s away, giving me some peace from my little sister.

  The room is huge and I can stand up without fear of hitting my head. Sunlight filters in through the dirty windows and dust dances in air. My nose starts to tickle but I fight the sneeze. Slowly I turn. I am going to transform this room and organize it. Then, I’m going to clean the house like it’s never been cleaned before, and with any luck, I might just carve out a place of my own, up and away from everyone in the house.

  After getting the Christmas decorations stacked in one corner, I add the other holiday decorations next to them, not that I remember Mom getting them out for years.

  I take down clothes that no longer fit anyone and put them with the stack going to charity, along with toys that nobody plays with. The more junk I get out of here, the more room I’ll have.

  In the opposite corner are the keepsakes. Mom has tubs for all of us. From christening dresses, to our first report cards and all kinds of things she wants to hold onto as a memento from our birth to the last thing we brought home worth keeping. She practically needs a room just for the boxes and tubs. They are all marked with our names and a bit of nostalgia hits as I wonder what’s in my tubs. What did Mom and Dad want to keep? As I reach for it, I see a pink box on a separate shelf.

  Curiosity overcomes me and I pull it off the shelf. It isn’t even dusty, as if Mom or Dad had looked in it recently.

  In fine, white print, The Rattle Box, is written in the top corner. Taking it to the center of the room where the light is better, I sit down on the floor and open it.

  Nine

  Brandy,

  You aren’t even born yet, but I know you are going to be a girl and it’s the name I’ve picked for you. I’m sure your adoptive parents will pick something else, but you are Brandy to me.

  I guess I should tell you a little about myself. My name is Kelsey Fry and I’m sixteen-years-old. My mother is dead and I have no idea who my father is. I’m going to be a junior in high school.

  Wow! Whoever wrote this letter is my age? I can’t imagine being pregnant right now. I haven’t even had sex. Hell, I’ve never had a boyfriend, which sucks.

  Her mom is dead?

  Hell, mine could be dead too. At least she knows who her mom was. I don’t know who either of my real parents are.

  Birth parent, I hear my mom’s voice in my head. She’s always correcting us when we use real. To Mom and Dad, they are our real parents.

  As for your father, his name was Brandon Lange, and we were in love.

  Brandon and I met at the same foster home about three years ago. They weren’t good people, and we couldn’t stay there anymore so we ran away. They didn’t do anything to me and Brandon, but nobody would listen to me about how bad they were, so we left.

  The two of us lived on the streets and in shelters until we got jobs and could afford a place to rent by the week.

  I want you to know that even though I was a dropout, working and not going to school, I wasn’t a loser either. Neither was Brandon. We read and studied all the time. We had plans to get our GEDs and someday go to college.

  That didn’t happen. At least not for Brandon. One night while he was working at a store, it was robbed and he was shot. I found him right after, and he died in my arms. I didn’t even know I was pregnant with you at the time.

  Holy crap! He died? In her arms?

  I can’t wrap my head around this. It’s like I’m reading a story. A fictional one, but this handwriting is as real as the paper it’s on.

  I was put back into the system, and they found a place where I could finish high school and maybe even go to college. But, I can’t stay here if I keep you.

  This has not been an easy decision. You are mine. Mine and Brandon’s, but if I keep you and give up on a future, I am condemning both of us. We’d be on the streets, and I don’t know how I would support you. And, if child services doesn’t think I’m doing a good enough job, they’ll take you away from me and then you’ll be in the system. I can’t protect you in the system. Nobody is protected in the system. Caseworkers try, but it doesn’t always work out.

  So, I either keep you and risk what can happen, or I give you up. I’ve seen too much and experienced too much to expose you to the nightmare of foster care. My other choice, give you up for adoption where you will have a safe, warm home and never need anything.

  I’ve decided on adoption, and I hope you can one day forgive me for giving you up, but I did it for you, not me. It breaks my heart knowing that I’ll never get to see you grow up.

  I do love you. More than I thought it was possible to love anyone or anything, and I haven’t even met you yet.

  Kelsey,

  Your Mom

  “Wow!” I fold the letter and put it back in the box. That was the first one and there are dozens of others. How many did this woman write?

  Who the hell is Brandy? Mom and Dad didn’t adopt a Brandy. They’ve had their fair share of foster kids over the years too, but none of them were named Brandy either. Besides, Brandy was supposed to be adopted, so she wasn’t a foster kid.

  Were Mom an
d Dad holding onto these letters for someone else? My parents do belong to a group of adoptive parents. Kind of a support group, but I’ve never met the other parents, or their kids. Maybe they have a kid named Brandy.

  I know I shouldn’t read these. They aren’t mine but belong to someone else, but I can’t help myself.

  Women give up their babies all the time for all kinds of reasons. I don’t know why my mom gave me up, and I’ve tried not to think about it. Who wants to be reminded that they weren’t wanted?

  But, this Kelsey wanted Brandy, and I get why she gave her away. Though a part of me thinks she could have worked something out so she could keep her baby.

  Or, maybe not. I’m sixteen. What the hell would I do if I found out I was pregnant? Mom and Dad would freak first, but they’d keep me and the baby. This Kelsey didn’t have anyone. This Kelsey was the same age I am now. That had to have been crazy scary.

  I know I shouldn’t read these, but Mom and Dad will never know. I need to know what is in the rest of the letters.

  I fold up the one I just finished, put it back in the box and take out the next.

  * * *

  Brandy,

  I picked your parents today. They are about as perfect as can be.

  It wasn’t easy either. The lawyer had all kinds of files of couples wanting to adopt, and it took me forever to go through them. I just can’t give you over to anyone. They have to be the right people.

  Before I got to them, I read every file. I didn’t want anyone super rich. I’m sure they could give you everything, but I’m not sure everything should come easy. I also didn’t want to give you to anyone who may struggle financially, even if they could afford to pay for an adoption right now, because I don’t want you to miss out on opportunities. So, after I had a stack of families that met my first requirements, I learned everything I could about them. There are a lot of reasons some couples didn’t make the cut, and sometimes it was as simple as it didn’t feel right. It’s great to feel with your heart, but I learned long ago, that it is my gut that I trust.

  When I had the couples narrowed down to about six, I met with them. It was very important to meet the people I was giving you to. Even if I couldn’t keep you for myself, I had to find the couple that shared my values and beliefs. A couple that I would never doubt loved you as if they’d given birth to you. The couple, who in my mind just won the best gift ever—you.

  Even though it hurts knowing that I’ll never see you after you are born, I have complete confidence that you will have a full and happy life with them. And, I pray that my gut was right. They are awesome, and I wish I could see you blossom under their care.

  Love,

  Kelsey,

  Your Mom

  Who are the parents? Couldn’t she have at least have given their names?

  This is killing me not knowing.

  A mystery to be unraveled.

  I quickly fold the letter and put it back and pull out the third one.

  Brandy,

  I can’t believe how big you’re getting. Or, how big I’m getting. My stomach is huge and I need to pee every five minutes. But I don’t care. I’d keep you here forever if I could. I love how you kick so much, like you are a fighter and aren’t going to take shit from anyone. Even though your adoptive parents are awesome, I still want you to be tough because the world can be tough, and I want you to be able to stand on your own.

  Your kicking is keeping me awake. Or maybe it’s because I can’t get comfortable. But that’s okay. It’s just more time that I can spend with you.

  I was lying in bed trying to think about all the things you need to know, and I guess the first is roots. I always knew mine but Brandon struggled with wanting to know who he was and where he’d come from. He was just found one day, wandering the streets. The only thing he knew was that he was Brandon Lange, age five and that his birthday was October 5th. He didn’t know his dad’s name. He was just Dad and Brandon couldn’t remember ever having a mom. He didn’t have a home either. He and his dad slept wherever they were that night, and they only had each other. No friends or anything. Then one night, his dad disappeared and never came back. Nobody reported Brandon missing, and he never found out what happened to his dad. That’s when your dad went into the system. I wish I could tell you more, but we never did learn anything more.

  What I can tell you is that he was a wonderful person. He protected and loved me. He kept me safe, and he had dreams of a future. He wanted an education, a steady job and a home. We both wanted that. Neither one of us knew I was carrying you when he was killed. My pregnancy would have scared him, as it did me. But, we would have faced it together, and I promise you that Brandon would have been the best dad. Because of who he was and where he’d come from, he would have made sure you were safe, protected and loved. Even if he couldn’t give you nice things, you would have never doubted how much he loved you just like I never doubted how much he loved me.

  My mom was Elizabeth Waters. She fell in love with Jason when she was fifteen. He was a high school football star. She was a cheerleader, and they both lived in a small town in Ohio. She was raised in an extremely uptight and religious home. No sinning allowed and she was punished when she stepped out of line. When she was sixteen, she got pregnant. Her parents kicked her out, and Jason was just 17 and not able to help her. His parents wouldn’t help either and blamed Elizabeth for tempting their son. Because nobody was willing to help her, she ran away to New York. She thought she’d get a job and just take care of herself. It didn’t quite work out that way. She landed with the wrong crowd, and her baby was born early. He died. But, Mom didn’t go home. It wasn’t long before she was pregnant with me. When I was four, she was involved with a drug deal that went bad and she was stabbed to death. That’s how I ended up with child services because my grandparents, the religious ones back in Ohio, didn’t want to have anything to do with their daughter’s sin.

  I guess I kind of repeated my mother’s history. Not the drugs or any of that. I won’t touch anything like that. I don’t even drink and didn’t because I wanted a better life than what I had, and I wasn’t going to screw it up.

  It’s not much, but I wanted to give you some roots. Some idea of where you came from. I wish I could tell you more, but I don’t know any more. I guess I could have tried to meet my grandparents, but after the way they treated my mom, I don’t really want to know them at all.

  Well, I guess I should finish this. I need to get up soon for class.

  Love,

  Kelsey,

  Your Mom

  Well, whoever this Brandy is, she will know more about her parents than I can ever hope to. All I’ve ever been told was that my mom loved me, but couldn’t keep me.

  I’ve never known people that would kick their own kid out, and it’s kind of appalling. I know I screwed up that day of the competition by going for ice cream and then sneaking out, but Mom and Dad would never kick me out. Just make me clean the house from top to bottom and not do anything fun.

  Even if I screwed up and got pregnant, they wouldn’t kick me out. My life might not be pleasant, but they’d still keep me.

  Poor Kelsey. Poor Kelsey’s mom.

  People suck.

  “Madison? Where are you?”

  Ten

  Shit! Mom can’t find me here, reading these. She’ll go ballistic. If they weren’t a secret, they wouldn’t be hidden up here.

  Why is she even here? Checking up on me?

  I wouldn’t put it past her, but they weren’t supposed to be back for hours.

  Quickly, I shove the letter back in the box, then pick it up and put the pink box back up on the shelf and rush to the top of the stairs.

  The door opens and Mom starts up. “What are you doing?”

  Why is she always suspicious? Okay, maybe only I think she’s being suspicious because I was almost caught doing something I probably shouldn’t be doing. If dust covered that box like everything else up here, I wouldn’t worry about it. But th
at pink box is clean. So clean that it could be sitting in the living room. Something is up. “You told me to clean from top to bottom.”

  “You know I didn’t mean the attic.”

  I just shrug. “I don’t assume anything. You know what they say, making assumptions makes an…”

  “Enough!”

  Mom comes up into the attic and looks around, pausing just a brief second when she looks at the area where the pink box is.

  Something is definitely up.

  Then she looks at me again.

  I point to the tubs of decorations. “I got those all organized, but I don’t see why you don’t get rid of all the Easter, Halloween and Thanksgiving stuff. You never put it out anymore.” I don’t want her thinking about the pink box and pretend like I didn’t even notice it.

  “So, I can get rid of the Easter baskets?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “Well, not those, of course,” I quickly say. “John would be upset.” Not that any of us are young enough to believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny.

  “Just John? Does that mean you won’t miss the chocolate?”

  We get limited amounts of chocolate in the house or any sweets for that matter, with the exception of Easter, Halloween and Christmas. I make those treats last as long as possible too. “I was hasty. We need to keep the baskets.” Mom knows me too well. “I also took down the toys and games we don’t play anymore, and old clothes.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why you put them up here anyway.”

  She sighs. “To deal with one day.”

  I brush my hands together. “Well, one day arrived.” I grin.

  “I saw,” she answers dryly. “All piled by the front door.”

  “What else was I supposed to do with it?” Really, a thank you would be nice.