Chapter 1: Building Blocks

 

"Christopher, I loved you as a child."

Mother and I sat in reverie as the Englishman River idly percolated. Soothing was the river song, a welcome backdrop to our contemplative mood. Bathed in the warm light of a crackling campfire, we silently considered my mother's heartfelt proclamation. Within this moment of revelation, even the flickering stars must have praised her loving testament. Heartily warmed, we indulged in Mother's softly uttered powerful sentiments. Evocative was the fireside moment when old dreams rose like the smoke from our campfire. Our conversation poked at childhood images that I had long coveted. Freshly repainted in the backdrop of my mind was a smitten mother who gently loved her son. 

Mother's loving pledge bridged familial bonds I desperately longed for but never realised. Generous revelatory sentiments reheated an emotional stew of unsatisfied desires. Testily sampled was the rotting meat forever simmering in the crock-pot of my dysfunctional childhood psyche. Desperate to be loved, I encouraged her steady maternal hand to breathe life into the smouldering thoughts of what might have been if she had never given me up for foster care. Impassioned appeals to my memory pushed me to replay old dreams. Awkwardly jerked were phantoms long buried in a scared little foster boy's rucksack. Leaning back on the old log, I could feel the emotional baggage easily dislodge. Mother's late-night reverie had unintentionally invited familiar old ghosts to roost in the branches of my mind. Omnipresent spectres ever-ready to whisper disquiet and fabricate emotional chaos.

Quietly contemplating Mother's affectionately sincere statement, my heart became entangled with contrasting emotions. The chaos of my youth had made it impossible for me to own Mother's tender reflections of her as a loving parent. Somewhere within my consciousness, a single memory of my birth parents should have survived. Regretfully, my history of foster care muddied any chance I might have had at retaining early childhood memories of my mother's love. Entirely lost were visions of doting parents intently dedicated to my glorious future. Sitting by the fireside, untouched tears casually streamed down my cheeks. Remarkably, at the age of fifty- five, I was gnawing on a familiar old bone. Stomach churning, I choked on the one question I never could keep buried. 

What if my parents had never put me up for foster care?

Recollections of foster life clawed at my heart. Itchy, leathery abandonment scars sucked me into childhood darkness every instance they were scratched or even gently brushed. Crashing into the bedroom door of little Christopher's mind, I used to be taunted by relentless visuals. Strips of imaginary film I hungrily devoured in the hope that I might peek at a life that could have been. Mommy and Daddy lovingly playing with me in the garden. Singing a sweet lullaby, they would proudly push my pram. Gently kissing my warm cheek, their breath lingered. Tender highlight reel events imprinted me even though they were never animated with life force. Poignant mosaics tantalised my spirit with vibrant images of an alternate reality. Like placebos for the mind, bottled by my imagination, was the emotional medicine of fabricated memories. Desperately reaching for a presence that could never manifest, each pantomime invariably slipped into the ether. Frantic to sample the grandeur of loving birthparents, dampness often warmed the cotton pillowcases of my youth.

Can a starving boy, through imagination alone, taste the sizzling steak he will never find an occasion to consume?

Sentimental portraits of a loved and protected baby were beyond my grasp. Regretfully, my earliest memories were formed at five years of age. Most of my foster care experiences were foggy or brushed entirely from my memory. Although I could not share her memories of us as a young family, I appreciated how much of a treasure those shards of our broken history must have been. With fire logs crackling under the weight of change, Mother relived tidbits of our past. Somehow, we both knew that each story carried a solemn assurance that I was deeply loved. Closing my eyes, I let the glowing fire add warmth to images of a devoted and loving mother. I can almost see her whispering to herself as she irons and then folds secret desires for my perfect life. Memories were Mother's only lifeline for managing the inconsolable pain of losing a child. Sharing the dim firelight, I could see Mother's jaw relax. Replaying images of me swaddled in her arms gifted her cause to emotionally repose. 

Within the quiet of Mother's peaceful pause, I realise how we both have lived with an insatiable need to relive past memories. Even though Mother's memories were real and mine imagined, we both floated atop the same emotional liferaft. As if cued by my thoughts, Mother regales me with another story of a happy baby, Christopher. Plated from her memory, she tosses meaty scraps of our time together to the barking wolves. Emotional twinges oozing from our conversation activated abandonment scars I had carelessly closeted. Appallingly sorrowful is the loving mother who loses her child. Bearing under the weight of the story depicting the day of our separation, emotional beasts push Mother and me to a mutual disquiet.

Nipping at our heels, the wolves snarl for another pound of flesh. 

Contemplating Mother's path, I dreaded envisioning the trials she must have faced. Tears were shed by the dancing campfire as we twisted in the wind of unresolved pain. Tender remembrances of our loving family provided my mother little comfort. Rewarmed dreams and memories could never heal the constant ache of separation she carried throughout her life. Mother's campfire words cuddled us for a fleeting moment. But, in the end, the reality of our separation was the glass of cold water that soon snapped us from the dream. Deprived of familial love, I was a boy holding a sand pail full of unanswered questions. 

Mother's bittersweet baby-time memories provided her little comfort. Nor was I pacified by the imaginary past I cherished as reality. Pausing to contemplate the value of memories, I wonder how my life might have been different if I could have owned real memories of the time spent with my mother. Alas, there was no chance of remembering events of when I was two years old. The earliest memory I could recall was supported by a solitary old photo. The picture showed me sitting in the living room of my foster parent's home. My foster mother informed me that the photo was snapped shortly after my fourth birthday. By any reckoning, the laminated snap displayed an extremely content child. Often, we fail when judging a book by its cover or perceiving a contented child in a tattered photo. 

Portrayed in the yellowed photograph, the burly arms of a teak settee cradled me. Within reach was a motley array of colourful building blocks that attended my imagination. Do you recall the old building block learning toys? Primary colours brightly adorn sturdy wooden cubes. Each side of the cube was rich with letters or numbers designed to educate observant children. For those capable of referencing this instructional toy, a smile might arise when thinking of simpler times. Driven by the pain of uncertainty, I tirelessly tried to patch together my formative years. Foster children who cannot assemble their past must exercise patience. Many years can be spent trying to answer basic questions like, where did I come from? Neither the Children's Aid Services staff nor my foster parents provided puzzle pieces to help me solve the dilemma. Each time I tried to find the truth, my questions were cast aside with a glib reminder of how it was unhealthy to cling to the past.

Children raised within the setting of a conventional family are incapable of understanding the rigours of being fostered. Many people intricately woven into my childhood felt they understood my needs and challenges. Dealing with social and psychological decline, I felt alone. It was clear to me no one fully appreciated the inner chaos I faced daily. Futile is the hope the bits and bobs of prose I might pen today will suffice to weave a complete tapestry of the psychological fallout of my foster years. Irrespective of success or failure in describing my torment, introspection compels me to scratch out the best possible outline of an angry and broken child. 

 

 

Opening The Foster Experience Door:

 

 

Reaching into my memory banks to share an emotional tapestry of foster care, I offer impressions of a tormented youth. Regretfully, before the midpoint of my fourth year, I had no memories from which I might access or share. The story I am about to disclose opens as I address grey cement stairs to a new foster home; I am five years old. Foster care records indicate that I had lived in well over one hundred foster homes; this was one of the last stops. Cobbling together a slice of this experience is difficult. The story is sketchy, and the exchanges are fabricated from a cloudy rendition of many foster home conversations. Like many of the stories to follow, the names have been changed, and the snippets of dialogue are manufactured to reflect my feelings, anxiety, and fears.    

Mrs Beasley resolutely stood on the top step of her spartan balcony. Arms folded, she effortlessly reflected a stern, no-nonsense approach to child care. Her welcoming grin was a wryly feeble attempt at a smile. Glaring eyes and slightly parted lips revealed her slackened jaw was begging to clench anew. Holding firmly to my foster care worker's hand, a cold shiver slid down the middle of my back. I knew that, as part of the placement process, foster parents were vetted with my personality profile. I also knew that Mrs Beasley's cold eyes were her way of setting the caregiving tone for my stay. Like a trained puppy, the slight squeeze of my care worker's hand prompted me to smile as Mrs Beasley and I were introduced. Going the extra mile, I reached into my toolbox of acceptable behavioural responses and selected what I hoped was a sufficiently contrite good afternoon. After all, we only get one chance to make a respectable first impression.

With greetings cast aside, my care worker and I were ushered into the sitting room. The mood in the home was heavier than the old teak coffee table inviting our attention. Biscuits enticingly adorned a small faux-silver serving tray. Mrs Beasley had fastidiously placed the tray dead centre upon a bleached white crocheted doily. The sparse balcony, her hardened face, and especially the perfectly positioned tray were all clues. Like a hound dog on a coon's trail, the observant foster child must be a vigilant investigator. As much as I wanted to scarf down the cookies, the clues suggested it was best to not reach for a sample. Mrs Beasley excused herself to fetch a pot of tea. Returning with a large silver serving tray, a partner to the cookie dish, refreshments were efficiently served. Reaching into her large dress pocket, Mrs Beasley flashed a wooden coaster. Her eyes followed the glass of milk coldly deposited upon the pine coaster. Darting above horn-rimmed glasses, her eyes issued a silent and pernicious checkmate. Proximal to the ladies and without the admonishing flair, two steaming teacups were carefully set upon identical wooden coasters. 

For the sake of posterity, foster care regulations, or simply to be polite, the two ladies engaged in idle chit-chat. My mind wandered between the crispy cream cookies and the desire to keep abreast of the conversation. Part and parcel to the awkwardly unwelcome tete-a-tete, I anticipated that the odd question would be tossed my way. Wanting to make a good impression, I kept a firmer mental grip on the lady's repartee than the chocolate cream cookie watering my mouth with desire. Finally, I was saved by a grunting Mrs. Beasley, who slid the milk and cookies closer to my reach. With a thankful smile, I eagerly dug into the coveted cookie. 

The two ladies chatted for another ten minutes until it was time for my care worker to bid me farewell. The moment a foster mother gains sole possession of her charge, a social reckoning unfolds. Preliminary exchanges with a new foster mother were a time to gather information needed to assess the environmental hazards. As if stepping off a Broadway stage, the demeanour of my foster mother transformed. Knowing she was in absolute control, her taught neck muscles tempered enough to invite her stony jawline to noticeably relax. As if on cue, her square shoulders and stately back softened. Silently, I observed the remaining springs of her body uncoil. Mrs Beasley was likely unaware that I noted her confident exhale. During these inaugural moments, I steadfastly devoured intelligence. No different than a skittish door mouse, I diligently eyed the hawk perched above me. 

Abruptly turning on her heel, Mrs Beasley sternly addressed me with a long list of house rules. Satisfied that her diatribe well-positioned her intent, I was directed to quietly amuse myself in the backyard while Mrs Beasley prepared dinner. Within the expansive yard, a swing set idly accompanied an enticing sandbox. Adjacent to the sandy haven, an assortment of well-worn toys haphazardly dotted the manicured green lawn. Attracted as I was to the toy sand pails, a big yellow bulldozer, and an equally nifty front-end loader, I forced myself to stifle the desire to pounce on the toys. Mrs Beasley clearly stated the rule that prohibited me from playing with David's toys. David was Mrs Beasley's six-year-old son. Knowing he would return home from school within the hour, I was excited yet fearful of David's imminent arrival. Past foster home stays have proven how natural-born children can represent a boon or bust. 

No different than dealing with all members of a new foster family, I learned the importance of taking great care when proceeding socially with foster siblings. The mouse is best served hiding and observing. Survival often means steering clear of open fields peppered with social mines. In many ways, the first day at a new foster home was eerily similar to walking on a newly frozen river. Proceed slowly and hope to Hell that you don't end up in the drink. Pausing before the large, yellow bulldozer, I teetered between caution and pleasure. Did rule three include just the toys in David's room? Unable to contain my enthusiasm, I convinced myself that David's outdoor toys were not restricted. The sturdy yellow dozer was a thrill to operate. Leaving a perfectly flat surface underfoot, sand gushed out the sides of the big yellow blade. Magically, the great sandbox highway was being effortlessly formed. 

Mesmerised by playtime, I never took notice of Mrs Beasley storming off the back porch. Forewarning of her advance came in the form of a guttural grunt. Shifting in the damp grass, her slipper lost grip; her awkward tumble was inevitable. Any hope poor Mrs Beasley had at regaining composure was dashed as she noticed the long grass streak besmirching her pearl white sundress. Mrs Beasley's posture steeled, her anger roiled, and it was evident she would wildly pop. With unbridled passion, Mrs Beasley issued a forceful and unrelenting reprimand. Following her tirade, I was hastily shuffled off to the spare bedroom by the scruff of my neck. Regretfully, the sparse bedroom proved a de facto cell for the two subsequent days in foster purgatory.

Foster parents came in all flavours. Their capability to calmly adjust to deviant children was always a proverbial crap shoot. Uncertainty was my norm, and I often stumbled into the new world order like a dog running across wet cement. Generally speaking, the lines of good behaviour followed common sense. Problems arose when trying to steer clear of the minor pitfalls and tripwires. Most foster parents would not have lost their wig over a minor bulldozer infraction, but Mrs Beesley was a tightly-strung foster mum who demanded a higher behavioural standard. Alone in the bedroom, I found solace in unpacking my small valise. Tucked in the corner of my bag were two small Hot Wheels cars and half a dozen olive green plastic army soldiers. Three soldiers were infantry, two were snipers, and the last was a cavalry horseman with a sabre. The snipers were, by far, my favourite.   

Entranced by my game of army, I failed to hear the bedroom door open. Expectantly standing by the open door was young David. Bearing a broad smile, he was comparably taller and older. David was an only child who enthusiastically embraced the prospect of a built-in friend, foster brother, or whatever I was to him. Before long, we were lost in the pleasures of playland. Racing my Hot Wheels car across the bedspread, I was happy to find a welcome playmate. Wanting more toy bling, I asked David if we could play in his bedroom. Parroting his mother, he flatly informed me foster kids could only play in the spare bedroom or, if the weather was accommodating, the backyard. As if David was reading my mind, he casually echoed the rule three directive about me playing with his toys. David had no idea why his bedroom and toys were forbidden territory. When I asked, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said. "It's just Mum's rule." Maybe David was like most children who realise their parents are three-headed aliens they will never understand.

Breaking the uncomfortable silence David and I had tripped into, a call from the kitchen heralded the dinner invitation. Sheepishly, like a lost puppy, I followed David. Allowing his larger stature to provide cover, I cautiously trailed. Walking around foster homes always made me feel unsettled. Within the foster home, I preferred to ferret out small spaces. The bedroom felt much safer than the hallways or common areas of the foster home. When beset by chaos, the bedroom closet was the ultimate safe haven. Privacy was found in not being seen, and security in never being touched. Spying us gaining the corner, Mrs Beasley, with finger pointing, ordered our retreat to wash hands. David's abrupt stop gave rise to a Laurel and Hardy moment as I bounced off his back. Untangling the awkwardness, I shadowed him to the bathroom. 

Navigating the dangerous open terrain from the bathroom to the dining room, I was accosted by Mr Beasley. Even though he was seated at the table, you could tell he was a monster of a man. Large, hairy and loud, his deep baritone voice was unintentionally frightful. Adding to the injury of his presence, his comically animated face and toothy smile were unsettling. Words of welcome were presumably sliding off his tongue, but I was far too gone to assimilate language. Stopping in my tracks, I cowered against the partition wall dividing the kitchen and dining room. 

 Aghast and confused, Mr Beasley beckoned me to advance. "Come here, Christopher!" "What is wrong with you, boy?" Slowly making my way to the dining table, I muttered a feebly assuring reply, "Nothing is wrong with me, sir." "Er, Mr Beasley, sir." Truth be told, men always scared the daylights out of me. The bigger the man, the more frightening the encounter. Mr Beasley was a furry giant! His voice boomed, and his attempt at a smile did little to corral my fear. Standing next to Mr Beasley, I trembled like an autumn Aspen. Wishing to calm me, his baseball mitt of a hand grabbed hold of my shoulder. What Mr Beasley delivered as an entreaty was received by me as an unwelcome invasion. Witnessing my discomfort, with a huff of disgust, he directed me to my chair. Taking a seat, I silently prayed the trickle of urine damping my leg did not find cause to soil the posh cloth dining chair.

Dedicating herself to serving the evening meal, Mrs Beasley sputtered banalities to deflect the uncomfortable exchange Mr Beasley and I recently shared. Occupying the head of the table, Mr Beasley visibly sulked. Unphased, David fenced off a heap of mashed potatoes and began earnestly shovelling. Shrinking in my seat, I hid from Mr Beasley's glare by arranging peas into ruler-straight army columns. When the winded Mrs Beasley blew empty, the dining room became morgue-silent. Saving face, Mr Beasley snapped us free of the silence by embarking upon what must have been a daily ritual of inquiring into how everyone's day had passed. Mr Beasley's exercised conversation seemed hijacked from a corny television program like The Andy Griffith Show or the famously wholesome Father Knows Best. Happy to be out of focus, I fought to impail one green soldier onto each of my four fork tines.

Mr Beasley's grunt and quizzical expression brought my attention to bear. Obviously, he had asked me a question. "Pardon me, sir?" "I said, how was your day, Christopher?" Mr Beasley was smiling, but not with his eyes. Evidently, the bulky patriarch was frustrated by my inability to keep up with his mealtime ceremony. Irrespective of my wish to be invisible, I knew I had better become more engaged. "I had a good day, sir." "I loved David's big yellow bulldozer, and we had fun playing in my room." Realising my misspeak, I froze in anticipation of the inevitable storm. Processing my declaration, Mrs Beasley turned red, her jaw tightened, and her neck muscles danced. 

Mr Beasley reflected upon his wife's agitation but seemed ill-equipped to puzzle the cause. Perhaps Mr Beasley was never told about rule number three? Diminishing in my chair, I braced for the inevitable verbal volley from the apoplectic woman. Silence ensued, and to my surprise, the steaming pot cooled with nary a rail. Mr and Mrs Beasley shared one last undefined gaze. Lips parted, breath swelled her breasts, but Mrs Beasley held fast to my earlier transgression. Piqued by the exchange, my ears noted the dental rapport initiated by Mrs Beasley's jaw snapping shut in disgust. Furtively glancing her way, I espied her quivering facial muscles. The threat was passed, but I knew heat still tickled the old kettle.

Chasing dinner, Mrs Beasley returned from the kitchen with chocolate ice cream. Miffed as Mrs B was, I was pleasantly surprised to see she carried four glass bowls. Pausing as she placed my bowl on the table, her eyes strained to expose a secret. What was her message? Was my ice cream tainted by poison or spittle? Given the chance, I would have wasted no time defiling her chocolate ice cream. Appraising the portions, I caught hold of her secretive drift. Defiantly petulant, Mrs Beasley had gifted me one scoop of the tasty treat whilst they each enjoyed two dollops. Unperturbed by the marking of my card, I happily gobbled the frozen treat. The dining room remained comfortable and silent as we hastily devoured the creamy chocolate delight. 

Impatiently waiting to be dismissed, a satiated David and I sat idly at the dining table. Mrs Beasley obediently served two cups of steaming hot coffee as Mr B reached into his breast pocket for an individually wrapped cigar. Well-trained, Mrs B left the room and quickly returned with scissors and an ashtray. Pridefully, Mr Beasley rolled the cigar between thumb and forefinger. Bringing the brown stick to his nose, he inhaled, then nodded his satisfaction. Flashing unexpected poise and dexterity, Mr B snipped the cigar tail and snapped open an old Zippo lighter. Smoke plumed from the base of the cigar three, then four times, before a red heater guaranteed a successful ignition. All three of us watched the showmanship of his ritual. Were we supposed to clap? 

Answering our obvious impatience, Mrs Beasley excused David and me from the dining table. Passing by Mrs B, she reached out and pinched my side. Even though my cotton tee shirt furnished protection, the adept snipping action of her long fingernails left a mark and guaranteed her message was received. Although the hidden assault was painful, I knew it was payment for Mrs Beasley's silence. Exiting the dining room, I hoped David and I might play after dinner. Unfortunately, David had picked up on the uncomfortable dinner interactions. The dinnertime verbal fencing had created a lingering discomfort and a cooling of friendly spirits. Pausing by my bedroom, I absently massaged my side as David approached. Without so much as a glance, he swept by with the indifference of a wandering ant. I was saddened to glimpse David's back as he casually entered his bedroom. Flopping onto my bed, I reached for my two Hot Wheels cars and quietly amused myself with a racing game. 

Living in a stranger's foster home often made me feel like a mouse. Pushing my red Corvette across the bed, I recalled the day I saw a tiny mouse stealthily scurry along bedroom baseboards. The little critter seemed untroubled but vigilantly cautious. Like the mouse, my contented moments were punctuated by fear and caution. How long have you lived here? Do you have a mom and pop, sister and brothers? Foster homes provide a safe space, food, care and even a little love. No matter how safe I felt, I perceived danger lurking around every corner. Good mice were quiet and nearly invisible. Why could I not be quiet and invisible? Did mice know that humans hated them? Were mice afraid of being forced from their home? When laying their head down, did they worry about monsters? Whatever beasts made the little mouse fearful, at least he had a family to help him face his fears. 

I wish I was a little mouse. 

My meanderings were interrupted by David's closing door. I froze with the hope my bedroom door would creek open. Unfortunately, the moment quickly and uneventfully passed. With ears still cocked, I heard Mrs Beasley shout out to David. Her bark informed me he was playing in the backyard. Racing to the bedroom window, I slowly drew back the curtain to glimpse the yard. Sure enough, David was at play guiding his impressive big yellow bulldozer along the very road I had constructed earlier that afternoon. Beasley's rule three forced me to suppress the urge to race outside and join young David. Although rule three remained unclear, I knew better than to push my luck. This mouse needed to hug the baseboards and remain unseen.

Watching David play was a familiar experience. Many childhood memories painted me as a voyeur. Looking out windows, seeing children with family and friends. Parents holding their tot's hands, brothers and sisters laughing or haranguing each other. Always, there was a window reaching into a world where I did not belong or an event I could not capture. My spirit vicariously dances in and out of stranger's lives. Mother holds me close, and my father pats me on the head. My sister chases me through the park, and my brother teaches me to play ball. David kicks a soccer ball in the backyard as my nose steams the window with hopeful fancy. Distracted by something unseen, David departs from the yard, and I return to my red Corvette. 

Sunlight dancing on the horizon filters through the room. Dusk is a brief interlude where shadows invite amusement more than fear. Soon, the moon will cast evil shadows on a little boy's bedroom walls. Who knows what monsters lurk in the shadows? My fear is burped out of my belly by the bawl of Mrs Beasley. "Time for you boys to wash up for bed!" David and I come face to face in the hallway, I smile, and he looks askance. Even to this day, I love brushing my teeth. Minty toothpaste, a clean start, a new beginning. If only good oral hygiene could fix all our problems. If only a toothbrush could gift us the new beginning we always dreamed was possible. 

Mrs Beasley enters my bedroom, and pretending to sleep, I cringe. She bends over me, her warm breath an unwelcome assault. Gently, Mrs B kisses me lightly on the cheek. "Sleep well, young Christopher." Sensing her turn to leave, I open my eyes to see her exit the room. Finally, I exhale as a lone tear wanders down my cheek to the pillow. Fear binds us in chains until time proves the shackles were an illusion. Over and again, regardless of experience, we allow fear to tether us anew. The mouse runs along the baseboard a thousand times, and fear is its companion for every journey. Dancing shadows raise my blood pressure, so I contemplate moving to the closet for safety. Slowly, fatigue trumps fear, and I reach for the Sandman's hand.

The sun still sleeps as my eyes flutter to life. Silence fills the dark room, the quiet so encompassing that a mouse might choose to tiptoe back to bed. My bladder pushes me toward the inevitable. Pondering the arduous journey along the hallway to the bathroom, I feel wrapped in chains. This crossroads is familiar. I know there is nothing to fear. Still, I am frozen. Few things scare me more than walking through an empty house alone. Clasping my legs tighter and curling into a ball, I hope for the best. Waiting until I soil the bed is the last thing I want. Gravity wins the day, and a trickle escapes down my leg. Jumping out of bed, I race toward the only viable solution. Finally, the long-awaited pleasurable release of bowels and bladder. Reaching for whatever is at hand, I wipe my bum with the soft side of an old slipper. Ashamed and afraid, I close the closet door and return to bed. Before long, the sun introduces us to a new day.

Ears piqued, I attend the morning household stirrings. Mr Beasley breaks the silence with the throaty hack of a smoker's cough. Muted muttering between husband and wife speaks of a morning coffee and the breakfast agenda. The sound of slippers skating along wooden flooring announces the imminent arrival of Mrs B. Quaking in my bed, I fear the moment of reveal. David is roused from bed, and a tap on my bedroom door is accompanied by the command to prepare for the breakfast meal. Absently rubbing sleep from his eyes, David walks past my room as I follow in tow. Self-absorbed, we two brushed our teeth and combed our hair in an awkward silence.  

Mr B is the first to draw my attention. Dressed in pyjamas and a dressing robe, he appeared odd. His great belly and hairy chest argued furiously with the cotton robe charged with keeping three hundred pounds of sausage in a two hundred pound sack. In his evening wear, he looked officious and competent. Any faux-confidence that might have been acquired the prior evening was now long since replaced by a buffoonish, almost comical appearance. Clowns always scared me. Mrs B's bedroom attire highlighted tartan pyjamas covered by a fake silk Chinese dressing gown that fell just below her ample ass. If Mr B's look were described as comical, I can't imagine a word for his loving wife's disconnected appearance. Dressing the table, we each faced a plate embracing exactly two eggs, two shards of bacon, one-quarter of an orange and two slices of toast. Even a carefree Saturday morning could not keep the fastidious Mrs B from uber-managing her world.

Sitting uncomfortably on my little bedroom closet secret, I fidgeted with my morning repast. Mrs B noted my dalliance and chastised me to dig in before the food became cold. Thankfully, Mr B refrained from affecting the good father routine of commanding the dining room discussions. For the most part, we dined in silence. Likely, the breakfast quietude reflected B's desire to avoid a repeat performance of the evening meal fiasco. David, obviously a good eater, disappeared his food before any of us could manage half our order. Immediately after dropping the last morsel, he lit into his mother with a heartfelt request to leave the table and watch cartoons. David was bitterly disappointed when his mother insisted he remain at the table until dismissed by his father. Judging by his squirminess, the next ten minutes must have seemed like three hours for young David. Finally, Mr B belched, cleared his throat, and officiously directed David and me toward the basement for a cartoon festival. 

Most Canadian children can relate to the immense pleasure of Saturday morning cartoons. David's earlier reservations with me disappeared as soon as the TV lit up. Sitting proximal to the dial, he fervently switched through the three available channels. He repeated the seeker's process as if somehow the TV would submit viewing options different than it had the first run through the channels. Thankfully, David had settled on the Bugs Bunny Show. Beaming with joy, he turned to me and said, when this is over, we have the Flintstones and then a nifty new show called The Roadrunner Hour. Most of the foster homes I stayed in had no television, making this time with David a valued event. Mesmerised by black-and-white cartoon figures and comical stories, we were entirely captured. Listening to David's giggles and quips, I wondered if this is what it would be like to have a big brother. Finally, feeling comfortable, at home, and in a good place, I fully embraced the novel entertainment.

Interrupting our pleasure was a howling screech from Mrs B. "I can't believe this! Michael, come here this instance!" David looked quizzically my way, and I simply shrugged my shoulders. Mrs B's tempestuous tirade was followed by a brief interlude. Then, subdued but still very clear, I could hear Mr and Mrs B debate the incredulity of their discovery. Again, eyes wide, David queried my way. Sheepishly, I melted into the couch and attended the inevitable onslaught. Flying down the stairs, the red-faced B's raced my way. "How could you have done that to us?" screamed Mrs B. Officiating the event, the powerful clown with folded arms forcefully grunted. I was convinced he wanted to hit me, and I was sure she wanted me dead. Like a cat reaching for a ball of twine, Mrs B pounced. With my ear snatched in her firm grasp, she led me up the stairs. David presumed to follow, but Mr B sternly said, "This has nothing to do with you; watch your cartoons." 

Mrs Beasley vigorously tossed my ear into the bedroom, and my body soon followed. Knowing the destination, I detoured toward the bedroom window. With the vigour of a Denver Bronco Right Tackle, Mr B blocked my path. Mrs B immediately took action. Like a steer at the market, I was corralled and prodded into the direction of the fateful closet. Grabbing a handful of hair, she pushed me to the floor. As if chastising a dog that pooped on the carpet, she shoved my nose toward the stinky deposit. Thankfully, as my nose reached the desired port of call, Mrs B relented and released my head. Wailing uncontrollably, I was spun around on my haunches to face the proverbial music. I could see Mrs B's mouth moving but could not comprehend her words. Irrespective of her desires, the point she was attempting to address was irrelevant. Obviously, if ever a moment needed no introduction, this was such a time and place. 

Boiling like a steam engine, Mrs B was apoplectic. Turning a variety of different colours, she raged like a spring typhoon. Perhaps she had never found such a torment from within. Indeed, her vitriol seemed uniquely special. All the while, dutifully, Mr B stood guard. Not a peep came from the giant. I am convinced Mr B feared his wife might eat him if he ventured into the den. Even the most vicious of storms become spent. Making matters worse, as the gale relented, I wet my pants. Utterly disgusted, Mrs B yanked down my pants and pushed me back into the closet. "I will get you clean pants, a rag, and soapy water. You are going to make all of this right, mister!" There it was, the end of the tunnel. Every foul incident flashes toward a zenith. Within this moment, nature sees reason and decides to usher us back to the norm. The storm had indeed ended, and all that was left to do was clean the poop deck. Like a trusty sentry, Mr B obediently followed his wife out of the bedroom. Curled in the closet corner, my breath heaved as tears warmed my cheeks.

Short was my quiet reprieve as Mrs B stormed into the room with a pail of warm, soapy water and a few rags. Surprisingly, she pushed me aside and went about the task of cleaning my mess, all the while muttering about my lack of respect. When satisfied, she turned to me and aggressively washed my arse, torso and legs. Packed into a new set of briefs and pants, I was ordered to my bed. Dull laughter caught my attention. David must have been enjoying the cartoon festival. Reading my mind, Mrs Beasley turned on her heel and, with her index finger wagging my way, emphatically stated, "You, mister, will be going nowhere soon."

True to form, other than regular escorts to the toilet, I remained sequestered in the bedroom for the balance of my stay. Mrs B likely assumed the punishment of solitary confinement was an ordeal for me to manage. Little did she know I was pleased to be spared the minefield of social interactions. Bookended by scowls, grunts, and dismissive glances, meals were delivered to my room in a prison-like fashion. Other than spying on David at play in the backyard, I never interacted with Mr B or his son again. Amusing myself was never a problem. The weekend quickly passed. Before you could catch a lamb's tail, the peel of the doorbell announced the Monday morning visitor I had been attending. My valise was packed, and Mrs B's little snort revealed her appreciation for not having to tell me to prepare for my departure. 

Entering the living room, I silently noted the anticipated scene. My care worker was seated by the coffee table. Replete with cream cookies was the familiar faux-silver tray. Availing myself of a spot on the couch, I greeted my care worker with a forced smile. Silently, we passed a few moments while Mrs B retrieved our beverages. Flashing the pine coaster, Mrs B doubled down on her patented scowl as she coldly deposited the glass of milk. Turning to my care worker, she passed a well-fashioned smile. Carefully hiding her slight tremor, Mrs B laid the steaming tea cups onto waiting coasters. One might expect I would be forced to suffer through Mrs B's revelations of my bad behaviour. However, I knew an expose would not be rendered. In fact, the tete-a-tete went exactly as I suspected

Initial exchanges were directed toward banalities like the weather and traffic difficulties. Eventually, as was always the case, the conversation steered toward snippets highlighting my stay. Mrs B spoke of David playing with me in the bedroom. She revealed how we enjoyed Saturday morning cartoons. Squirming in her seat, Mrs B worked her clenched jaw just enough to recall my polite behaviour. Equally manufactured was the smile on my care worker's face. Occasionally nodding her head, the care worker confirmed attendance to the report. Little quips and utterances were used by both ladies to breathe life into the strained conversational loop. 

The cream cookies still bated my attention, and even though Mrs B did not surrender approval, I brazenly reached for the treat. Acquiring the prize had drawn the attention of the hawklike B'ster. Clasping our eyes together, we duked it out one last time. With her face turned away from my care worker, Mrs B purchased a most odious offering from her stink-eye arsenal. With a wry grin, I said. "Thank you for taking care of me, Mrs Beasley. I had a wonderful time staying at your home." Theft of the cookie, compounded by my petulance, proved a gutshot barely managed by the seasoned caregiver. Unable to stifle the grunt that emanated from her depths, she fakely coughed to camouflage her leaking ire. Profesionalism worthy of a stage performance, Mrs B turned to my caseworker with a broad smile. Oblivious to our emotional fencing, the children's aid worker returned a genuine grin.

Sips of tea punctuated by banal conversation carried us through the next fifteen minutes. With their tea either consumed or left cold in the cup, the ladies rose from their seats to depart. Ceasing their moment of distraction, I stuffed a handful of cookies into my coat pocket. Given the chance to see Mrs B's face when she noticed six missing cookies, I would have surrendered half of the booty. Holding my caseworker's hand as we left the Beasley home, I turned to witness Mrs B standing by the ajar door. Smiling, I waved goodbye. Muscles taught as a drum, her hand held high in a wave that never materialised. Dutiful to a fault, she pushed out a final fake smile. Forcing her to swallow one last unspent scowl was a farewell gift I could not resist the pleasure of extracting. Battle-tested and campaign-weary, I could imagine Mrs B leaning against the closed door. Her muscles relax, her breath exhales, she mutters to herself and contemptuously shakes her head.

My care worker deftly navigates the busy late-morning traffic. Sounds and sights of an active world were welcome after three days cooped up in a small bedroom. We were content to quietly pass the time by recharging our batteries and pondering the day. My worker breathed deeply as if to speak, then returned still as if stifling a topic. Did Mrs B tell her about the pooping incident? Breaking the silence, "We are going to a new foster home, Christopher. You will really like Mr and Mrs Sanders." Pulling out an afterthought to seal a deal, she casually stated. "They have a cute little puppy named Spike." Turning to my care worker, we shared a sincere smile. Sincerity was a rare emotion when dealing with 'the system'. Before long, the car settled in front of another vanilla-flavoured subdivision home disquietingly similar to the Beasley residence. Slate grey cement stairs led us to a waiting Mrs Sanders. Her smile was truly authentic, and I felt warmly greeted. "Hello, Mrs Sanders, it is my pleasure to meet you." Entering the residence, we were ushered into a light rattan living area. Spying a bowl of jellybeans, my eyes lit up with excitement. Spike came bounding to my side, and he beams with a love only a puppy can expose. His warm tongue and puppy breath were a welcome distraction whilst the ladies exchanged pleasantries.

Framing my stay with the Beasley family exposes the emotions, doubts, and insecurities I faced when adapting to a new foster home. Snippets of memory confirm that in the turnstile of foster homes I lived in, an equal share of wonderfully empowering moments peppered the challenging times endured. This story was not meant to paint a tale of woe as much as it was designed to highlight the difficulty of dealing with the unknown. Imagine yourself as a child staying at a stranger's home. Now, imagine you are a child with no parents or siblings. Alone in the world, fear is the one constant you face. Bereft of family, you adapt to the rented families you are gifted. Strangers care for you until other strangers take their place. Adjusting to your environment challenges you, but the real battle is the search for a personal identity. Like a chameleon, you are always in flux. 

Who am I?

Where am I going? 

Who will love me?

Every foster child has a unique journey, yet we face similar demons. Moving from home to home takes a toll on a child. My self-esteem was shattered by serial placement, and the result was the fabrication of a broken child. You become an inauthentic being manufactured by circumstances well beyond the pale of your control. Abandoned children are not capable of stemming their declining social capacity. Cracks form in the dam, it weakens, and ruptures are inevitable. By the time I left the Beasley home, I was considered by the children's aid society and my care worker as nearly unplaceable. There comes a time when foster children are so broken that they cannot function in a family setting. Good behaviour becomes untenable, so institutionalised care remains the only viable option. Havoc wreaking chaos soon translates into fewer caregivers willing to grab hold of the tornado child. Pooping in closets was one of the milder transgressions I exhibited as a child. Perhaps the most trying of my misdeeds was my proclivity to breaking pretty or valued objects. Hitting, biting, and catastrophic tantrums were apparently a norm. Sparing the gory details, suffice it to say I was on the cusp of being unplaceable.

Warped by psychological carnage, the unplaceable child can quickly fall beyond the reach of CAS care. Children, too dysfunctional for foster placement, are often placed in halfway homes or young offender prisons. Ultimately, when coming of age, those needing a safe home and loving care are often relegated to living rough on city streets. Begging on a corner, drug-riddled teenagers with scabby faces and rotten teeth ask for a dollar. What runs through your mind when you spot their dirty cardboard placards? How do you react to their desperate pleas?

Speaking to an acquaintance one day, I broached the subject of beggars. My companion lamented how dreadful it is young teenagers and twenty-something adults are most in need. Forcefully, she asserted her position with oddly vigorous sentimentality. Paraphrasing our conversation, she stated, "Young adults are very capable of work. I always give an invalid or elderly person money but never encourage young people to beg.

I replied. "Young or old, everyone must eat."

Taking a moment to appraise the storyline, she replied. "Sure, we all need to eat. But you know, Christopher, druggies almost always find their food in garbage dumpsters. Young adult beggars will almost always use your money for drugs and cigarettes. Irresponsible bleeding hearts supporting the addictive lifestyles of vagrants should reassess the repercussions of their ill-considered actions."

The exchange speaks volumes about how disconnected the average person is from the reality encountered by a broken youth. Incapable of comprehending their path of self-depreciation, judgment is easily cast. Assuming someone can hold down a job because they can walk and talk is a careless appraisal of their reality. Becoming angry or disgusted with those incapable of meeting social norms is another short-sighted review of those most in need. Too broken to be loved is the greatest crime of fallen children. Absent the loving care of a terrific foster family, I tremble to imagine my fate. Within one month of leaving the Beasley household, I was reunited with an amazingly loving foster family who saved me from disaster. The journey to permanent care in their home was arduous and uncertain. Unravelling their story sees us step back in time seven months.