Ep3

I set the alarm to seven AM and switch my bedside lamp off. The room goes dark. I lay on my back, looking at the ceiling decorated by the shadows from the tree behind my window.

As tired as I am after my baseball practice, I couldn’t be any less sleepy. The house is too quiet. There was no light under the door across the hall when I came upstairs. There was some light under Catherine’s door, though, a soft yellow glow in the end of the corridor.

I should just go and talk to her. But she’s always been reluctant to tell me much about the children she fostered. She believed it was better if I approached them with an open mind.

Yet I need to know more about Raven. Why was it such a last-minute decision? Why did she act so nervous around him?

If I go to her room now, though, Raven might hear our voices and know we’re talking about him. Not that I care, but she might. She might refuse to talk.

I sigh and rub my face. Then I reach out to the night stand and grab my phone. I turn it on, and squint at it for a good half minute until my eyes adjust to the light.

‘Alseep?’ I text to Catherine.

The double “V” icon turns blue almost immediately, showing that she’s read the message.

‘No,’ she texts back.

Then there’s a pause, both of us probably staring at the screen, none of us typing.

‘What’s the deal with Raven?’ I type at last.

She starts typing, then stops. Then types some more. Then some more. I expect to get a long message, but all that comes through is:

‘What do you mean?’

I sigh. This is not going to be easy.

‘Why is he here?’ I ask.

‘He needs help.’

‘What’s happened to him?’

‘You know I’d rather not tell.’

‘You said you wouldn’t get any more kids until I’m off to college. What was so special about him?’

There’s a long pause, then she begins to type again.

‘They couldn’t find him a home. For a while now. Nobody agreed. He was to be sent to a therapeutic group home. It’s not a good place for a child.’

Without closing the chat window, I click on the browser icon and g****e the ‘therapeutic group homes’. Then, I scan the results, phrases such as “restrictive out-of-home placement option”, “children with significant emotional or behavioral problems “, “supervision and oversight of a psychiatrist or psychologist” jumping out at me like angry dogs ready to bite. The more I read, the less I like it. The boy’s a psycho. I knew it from the moment I saw him.

I switch back to the chat window. ‘Is he crazy?’ I type.

‘Not in the clinical sense,’ she replies.

What’s that supposed to mean?

‘Is he dangerous?’

She pauses before answering, and I don’t like that.

‘If only to himself.’

I hum thoughtfully. ‘You mean he’s suicidal?’

Another pause. ‘Self-destructive, more like.’

I sigh with frustration. Is she playing riddles with me?

Another message pops up. ‘You should help him, Jamie.’

She’d said that before, with other kids. And I did what I could. I taught that kid taken from a druggies family to play baseball and we played almost every day. I drove that other boy, who had back problem since his father had beaten him, to swimming lessons and therapy sessions. I helped that mute girl with her homework. But they were younger and, well, I kind of liked them. They needed help, and providing it felt good. That’s not the kind of vibe I get from Raven.

‘How can I help him if I don’t know what his problem is?’

‘Just be nice to him. He’s been betrayed and abused by the people who were meant to take care of him. We must show him that not all families are like that.’ She’s typing fast now, every sentence flying at me like a ball to be caught. ‘I rely on you, James. Just keep your eye on him and be kind and it will be all right.’

I wait, but nothing else comes. She’s waiting, too.

‘Okay,’ I type at last. ‘Night.’

‘Good night, sweetie. I love you.’

I put the phone aside and exhale, clothing my eyes. Damn. She’s picked some kid that nobody else wanted, only to prevent him from being sent to what sounds like a small-scale version of a juvenile prison. And now, instead of psychologists and psychiatrists, we’ll be handling this bundle of joy. Great. Just great.

Betrayed and abused, she said. But he didn’t look any of that. I can’t quite nail what bothers me about him, but I think he just didn’t look like a lost and confused victim, the way the other foster kids did. He seemed...in control. Perhaps even enjoying himself?

I keep thinking about it for a while longer, my thoughts getting more tangled and running in circles, until I drift into sleep. The thoughts continue, though, taking the shape of vague dreams where I’m struggling to solve some problem without knowing what it is. It’s so frustrating that I feel relieved when some noise rips me out of my sleep.

I open my eyes. It’s still dark. The shadows on the ceiling have moved and there’s deep silence outside the window, one that can only exist in the middle of night. No dogs bark, no cars pass on the road. I lay for a few seconds, trying to figure out what has woken me up. Then, I hear it again. A muffled sound, like wood hitting wood, coming from the room across the hall.

Before I know it, I’m on my feet and by the door. I open it quietly and peek into the corridor. It’s dark, and there’s no light under any of the doors. I cross the hall and stop by the guest room, listening. Nothing. I put my hand on the doorknob. Maybe he just went to the bathroom and I heard his door close on the way back?

I’ll just take a look to be sure.

I push the door and peek inside the room.

His sports bag lies on the floor. Clothes are hanging from the back of the chair by the empty bed. I open the door wider, shivering in the stream of cold air coming from the open window. I step inside and look around.

The room is empty.

Raven is gone.