When Brooke’s cell phone rang about a week after her argument with Ryan, she almost didn’t answer. But when she saw his face on her screen, she decided it was only fair to hear whatever else he might have to say. A small voice in her head even went so far as to suggest that he might have changed his mind and would support her in her decision to keep the baby, and though she was hard-pressed to admit it, this possibility was what made her pick up the phone.
“Brooke, please,” Ryan said. From the horns beeping in the background, she could tell that he was in his car, on his headset, likely on the freeway on his way to a job site. “I know you’re upset, but we need to talk about this.”
“I don’t really see what else there is to say,” she said. She tried to sound strong, unshakable, but she worried that he could still hear the tremor beneath her words.
“You can’t just make a unilateral decision,” he said. “It’s my child, too. I have a say in how we handle it.”
“It’s not an ‘it,’ ” Brooke snapped. “It’s a baby.” She had lain in bed just that morning, running her hand over her stomach again and again, marveling at the fact that there was a human being growing inside her. She’d gone online and discovered that at nine weeks, her baby was about the size of a peanut and already had earlobes, which seemed to Brooke like such a random thing for her to know. But it also made what was happening seem more real. “It’s my body,” she told Ryan now. “So it’s my decision. I don’t need anything from you except to be left alone. You’re off the hook.”
“It’s not that simple!”
“Actually,” Brooke said, “it is.” She hung up the phone, steeling herself against the rush of conflicting emotions she felt. One part of her, the part she had honed over the years to keep the men in her life at an emotionally safe distance, was determined that cutting Ryan out of her life completely was the right call. She didn’t need him, that part told her. She could do this. She’d be fine. But another part of her, the more exposed, needy part that had risen to the surface as soon as she found out she was pregnant, screamed at her to call him back, to ask him to support her, even if he didn’t agree with her decision to keep the baby. But the idea of this, the idea of admitting her weakness, made Brooke squirm. She’d learned a long time ago that it was safer never to show anyone that kind of vulnerability.
By the time Brooke was twelve, she had been in and out of ten foster homes and had been sent back to Hillcrest every time. But at the start of seventh grade, Gina took her to live in a two-bedroom apartment in North Seattle, near Green Lake. Claire, the woman who was to be her new foster parent, was different from the other people with whom Brooke had stayed. She was in her late thirties and had never been married or had any children, something she told Brooke over a dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup a few hours after Gina left the apartment. “I never thought I’d do something like this,” Claire said.
“Why did you, then?” Brooke asked in a guarded voice, looking over the main living area, where they sat at a two-person table. The room was highly feminine, decorated in pale pastels with plush furniture, silky sheer curtains, and lots of pillows. There was a big bowl of Hershey’s Kisses on the coffee table, along with a stack of fashion magazines like Glamour and Cosmopolitan. Claire was a short, curvy woman with wide hips and a big smile. Her hair was brown and straight, and that day, she wore a stretchy polka-dot headband to pull it back from her round face.
“Because I don’t have a mother,” Claire said in a quiet voice. “And I thought it would be a good thing to help take care of someone who doesn’t, either.”
Brooke wasn’t accustomed to grown-ups telling her private information about themselves—usually they just lectured her about everything they thought was wrong with her—so she blinked a few times before responding. “What happened to her?”
“She died when I was two,” Claire explained. “I was raised by my grandparents, because my father couldn’t handle taking care of me on his own.” She gave Brooke a long look. “I understand that you lost your mother, as well.”
Brooke bit her bottom lip, feeling a swell of emotion in her chest that she normally was able to keep pressed deep down inside. “I didn’t lose her,” she finally said, hoping that in taking this risk, telling Claire the truth, she wasn’t making a huge mistake. “She gave me away.” Her voice cracked on the last few words, and she dropped her eyes to the floor, unable to make eye contact. “I was only four.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “That must have hurt you so much.”
Brooke nodded, feeling a few errant tears slip down her cheeks. She never talked about her mother with anyone, and suddenly, here she was, discussing her with Claire. Maybe it was the fact that Claire hadn’t pushed her to talk; she’d simply shared a bit of her own story and made Brooke feel safe in sharing the basics of hers. And as the weeks passed by, Brooke found herself opening up more and more to Claire, and bit by bit, the weight she normally carried under her skin began to melt away. “I didn’t know how to stop myself from being bad,” she said after telling Claire about living with Jessica and Lily and how Scott had spanked her.
“Oh, honey, you’re not bad,” Claire said, pushing Brooke’s dark curls back from her face. Brooke was in bed, and Claire sat on the edge of her mattress. The only light in the room was that of the small lamp with the pink floral shade on the nightstand. “You were hurting, and sometimes, when we hurt, we lash out at other people so they will hurt, too. It doesn’t feel like that should make sense, but everyone does it at some point. Most of the time, we don’t even realize we’re doing it.”
“Really?” Brooke sniffed, allowing herself to feel a little bit better. “Have you?”
“Of course. I get lonely sometimes. And I get really sad, too. But the trick is not letting those feelings control you.”
“How do you do that?”
Claire thought for a moment, and then spoke. “Well, you know that saying ‘every cloud has a silver lining’?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Okay, good. So when I’m feeling sad or angry or lonely, I try to find something positive to think about, instead.”
“The silver lining?”
“Exactly.” Claire smiled and gave Brooke’s arm a quick rub. “I sit down and make a list of everything that I’m grateful for. All the good things I can think of. And pretty soon, before I know it, I feel better.”
Brooke pondered this. “What kinds of things?”
“That depends,” Claire said. “Sometimes it’s bigger stuff, like I’m grateful I have a job and a place to live. Other times I have to dig deeper and write down littler things, things I have to really think about to notice, like the way the sun sparkling on the lake makes me feel or how a bowl of ripe strawberries smells.” When Brooke didn’t respond, Claire screwed up her face into a funny expression. “That probably sounds weird, right? How smelly strawberries make me feel better?”
Brooke smiled and nodded. She liked how Claire wasn’t always so serious, like most of the other adults Brooke had known.
“I guess the point is forcing myself to focus on how there are so many good things in the world, even when I’m having a hard time,” Claire said. “I’ve found that the more I do it, the easier it gets, and the less often I feel bad.” She paused. “Tell me something. If you had to make a list like that right now, what would it have on it?”
“I don’t know,” Brooke said with a shrug.
“Come on. There has to be something you’re grateful for. Ice cream? Puppies? John Stamos?” Claire smiled at her, clearly teasing. She knew how much Brooke liked to watch Full House.
“I like ice cream . . . and puppies,” Brooke said, feeling her heart beating a little faster as she thought about what she wanted to say next. She looked at Claire, taking in her foster mother’s full, pink cheeks and sweet, loving smile, and suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. “But what I’m really grateful for right now is you.”
“Oh, sweetie, thank you,” Claire said, leaning down to hug Brooke. She pressed her mouth against Brooke’s ear, whispering the words “I’m grateful for you, too.”
After that conversation, Brooke felt like maybe the sad and lonely part of her life was over. Maybe Claire was the mother she was truly meant to have. Her foster mother worked as a medical transcriptionist for several different doctors, which meant she didn’t have to go to an office and was there every day when Brooke came home from school. They didn’t have a lot of money, but on Saturdays, they liked to take walks around Green Lake and feed the ducks bits of old bread; they spent their evenings playing Scrabble or watching shows like Who’s the Boss?, Growing Pains, and Cheers. Once in a while, Claire would surprise her with a copy of Tiger Beat magazine, and the two of them would spend a Friday night painting each other’s toenails and debating over who was cuter, Johnny Depp or Rob Lowe. Except for the time she’d spent with the lady who had made her clean the cat box, Brooke had always lived with at least one other kid, and she found that she liked being the only child in the house. She’d never had a grown-up’s undivided attention the way she had Claire’s. She absorbed it like a thirsty sponge. She’d learned from other kids at Hillcrest that most foster parents liked to have as many kids as they could because it meant the state gave them more money every month. Claire wasn’t like that. She was content having Brooke around, and never mentioned the possibility of taking on another child. She seemed happy.
There were times, though, when Brooke came home to find that Claire had never gotten out of bed. “I don’t feel well,” Claire told her when Brooke would sit on the side of the bed in her dark room.
“I’ll bring you some soup,” Brooke offered, but Claire refused it.
“I just need to sleep,” she said, and Brooke would leave her alone, spending the evening alone, warming up a frozen dinner, doing her homework and watching TV, worry aching in her gut. The morning after one of those days, Claire almost always was up and showered before Brooke, having made breakfast and packed Brooke a lunch, so Brooke told herself the episodes meant nothing. She told herself that everybody had bad days. Claire probably just hadn’t made a silver lining list for a while, and once she did, she’d feel better.
Brooke spent over a year with Claire, wondering when the older woman would tell her that she wanted to adopt her. “I love you,” Claire said each night when she’d tuck Brooke into bed. It took Brooke almost six months before she could tell Claire that she loved her, too. Brooke felt as though her future had been decided. She finally had the one thing she’d always wanted—a family.
Then one afternoon when Brooke was thirteen and returned to the apartment after school, excited to tell Claire that she’d gotten an A on her algebra test, she opened their front door to find the living room empty and dark, and instantly, she was concerned.
“Claire?” Brooke called out as she set down her backpack and took off her coat. The desk where Claire normally spent her days looked as though it hadn’t been touched. Brooke hurried down the hallway to Claire’s bedroom and threw open the door. The lights were off, and her foster mother was under the covers, not moving. There was a pungent, sour scent in the room, as though someone had recently been sick.
“Claire,” Brooke repeated as she took a few steps to the side of the bed. There was vomit on Claire’s pillow. “Hey,” Brooke said, reaching out her right hand to shake Claire’s shoulder. “Wake up!”
Claire didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t move. Her skin was white.
“Claire!” Brooke said, feeling her heartbeat thudding inside her head as she climbed into bed, kneeling next to the older woman. “Please! You have to wake up!” Again, Claire didn’t respond. “Claire!” Brooke shrieked, feeling the noise she made tearing at her vocal cords. “Help! Somebody . . . I need help!” She put both hands on her foster mother’s body and rolled her over onto her back. Claire’s jaw was slack, her mouth open, her tongue lolled partway out, a sight that made Brooke’s stomach turn.
Just then, their neighbor, Mrs. Connelly, an older woman whom Claire sometimes invited to join them for dinner, appeared in the bedroom doorway wearing one of her brightly colored housecoats and fuzzy pink slippers. “What in the world are you screaming about, child?” she said as she entered. Her eyes landed on the two of them in Claire’s bed. “Oh no. What happened?”
“She won’t wake up!” Brooke cried. Hot tears wet her cheeks as she shook Claire again.
Mrs. Connelly took a few steps across the room and reached for the cordless phone.
“Please, Claire!” Brooke sobbed. She could barely hear Mrs. Connelly talking over her tears, but it sounded as though the older woman had called 911. Brooke smothered her face against Claire’s ample chest, the smell of sweat and vomit mixed in with her foster mother’s favorite lavender body wash. Brooke liked the soap so much, Claire had bought her her own bottle.
“Help’s on the way,” Mrs. Connelly said, placing a hand on Brooke’s back and then pulling it away. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“She has to be okay!” Brooke said. “She just has to!” She didn’t know what she would do if Claire died. “Where’s her list?” Brooke asked, looking up at Mrs. Connelly with stinging and swollen eyes.
“What list?” Mrs. Connelly said. Her white, finely spun hair was thin enough for her pink scalp to show through, and her face looked like tissue paper that had been crumpled and unsuccessfully smoothed back out.
“Her list!”
“Honey,” Mrs. Connelly said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She reached out to Brooke again, but Brooke batted her hand away.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, feeling as though something fragile inside her had shattered. Her heart was beating so fast, she could barely catch her breath. She wrapped herself around Claire’s body again, burying her face into Claire’s neck. This couldn’t be happening. She’d practically just found Claire; she couldn’t lose her already.
A few minutes later, the medics arrived and two men had to pry Brooke from the bed. “No!” she cried. “I won’t leave her!” She fought them, kicking and scratching and doing anything she could to stay next to Claire. In the end, one of the paramedics had to stand with his thick, muscled arms holding Brooke with her back to his chest, her arms restrained while the other medic examined Claire.
“Is she all right?” Mrs. Connelly asked in a tight, worried voice. “Is she going to be okay?”
“We need to take her to the ER,” the medic who was examining Claire said. “Can you stay with the girl?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Connelly said.
“No!” Brooke said. “I want to go with her!”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t,” the man who was holding her said. “And I need to help my partner, so if I let you go, will you promise to let us do our work?”
“Yes,” Brooke whimpered, forcing her body to relax. She would do anything, anything at all, if it meant that Claire would be okay. The man released her, and Brooke watched as the medics lifted Claire onto a yellow backboard and transferred her to the gurney they’d brought with them. One of her arms fell off to the side, looking as though she were reaching out for help, and Brooke rushed over to squeeze her hand. “I love you, Claire,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”
“Let them go,” Mrs. Connelly urged her, and Brooke released Claire’s hand, stepping aside so the medics could wheel the gurney out of the bedroom, down the hall, and out the front door. Brooke stood in the living room, feeling helpless, the tears still running down her cheeks.
“Why don’t you come sit down?” Mrs. Connelly said as she lowered herself onto the couch. When she patted the cushion next to her, the sagging jowl beneath her chin jiggled. “We need to call your social worker.”
“No, we don’t!” Brooke said, shooting the older woman a hateful look. Her throat felt raw from crying; she thought about how the last time she had a cold, Claire had made her lemon tea with lots of honey and fed her cinnamon-sugar toast until Brooke felt better.
“She needs to know what’s happening,” Mrs. Connelly said. She reached for the yellow pages Claire kept on the end table. Brooke had to fight the urge to run over, take the thick book from her, and toss it out the window. Instead, she shut the front door and shuffled to the couch, slumping down in the corner farthest away from her neighbor. She held a pillow to her chest, gripping it tightly, waiting as Mrs. Connelly looked up the number for Social Services and eventually spoke with Gina, relaying what had happened. After Mrs. Connelly hung up, she picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. “Just for distraction,” she said as Bob Barker appeared on the screen, asking if the contestant on The Price Is Right wanted what was behind door number one or door number two.
But Brooke was already distracted enough. All she could think about was Claire, the way her skin had gone from white to gray in the time it took the medics to arrive. All she wanted was for her foster mother to be okay.
Two hours later, Gina knocked on the apartment door. When she entered, she had dark half-moons bruised under her eyes and her flowered, black gunnysack dress with the white lace collar was rumpled.
“I’m not leaving!” Brooke said as she took in her social worker’s unkempt appearance. Her entire body went rigid, bracing itself for whatever Gina might say or do. “You can’t make me!”
Gina glanced at Mrs. Connelly. “Thanks for staying with her. Can you give us a minute?”
“Of course,” the older woman said. She rose from the couch and headed toward the door, pausing before she went through it. “I’m in Two-B, if you need me.”
Gina thanked her again, and then joined Brooke on the couch. “I just came from the hospital,” she said.
“Is she awake?” Brooke said.
“No, honey, she’s not. She’s stable, for now, but still unconscious.”
“Why?” Brooke’s bottom lip trembled.
“Because she took too many pills.”
“Maybe it was an accident . . .”
“It wasn’t an accident, Brooke. The doctors had to pump her stomach. It was a suicide attempt.”
“She did it on purpose?” Brooke began crying again. If Claire had felt bad enough to try to kill herself, then she’d been lying to Brooke. Writing a list couldn’t make anything better; focusing on a silver lining didn’t do a damn thing to help. “Why? Was it . . . me?”
“Oh, honey,” Gina said. “You didn’t have anything to do with it. The truth is she has a history of depression that we didn’t know about, and now she needs to work on getting better. She won’t be coming home for a while.”
“But I can help her when she does!” Brooke said. Her nose began to run, and she swiped at it with the back of her hand. “I’ll take care of her! We take care of each other!”
Gina reached out a hand toward her, and Brooke pulled back. She didn’t want the other woman to touch her. The pity in Gina’s eyes only made Brooke feel worse. “That’s not how it works,” Gina said. “I have to take you back to Hillcrest. You need to pack your things.”
Brooke shook her head, pressing her lips together as hard as she could. She balled her fingers into tight fists, trying to fight off the wave of sadness that rushed over her. No, she thought. No, no, no. She couldn’t leave. Claire was the only person who ever understood her. She was the only one Brooke needed. Brooke would write silver lining lists for them both and then stand next to Claire’s hospital bed, reading them to her until she woke up.
“Come on, honey,” Gina said, reaching out for her again, and this time, feeling defeated, Brooke didn’t pull away. She knew it was pointless to resist. She let Gina put an arm around her, stand her up from the couch, and lead her to her room, where her social worker put as many clothes as she could in a black plastic bag, because Brooke still didn’t have a suitcase. Brooke stood by, numbly watching, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Can I at least go see her?” Brooke asked after they’d grabbed her backpack along with her clothes and left the apartment. Her eyes stung and were swollen.
“I’m sorry,” Gina said again. “But no.”
As they drove away from the place Brooke had thought she’d forever call home, something closed down inside her. A heavy door slammed shut. Her tears ebbed, and she felt hollow and numb. And the only thing Brooke knew for sure was that she would never put her heart at risk like that again.
Twenty-six years later, Brooke thought about that moment in Gina’s car the morning Ryan called her and she hung up on him. She reminded herself that emotional neediness was not a quality she wanted to possess. No matter what Ryan thought, she had decided to have this baby, and letting herself fall victim to pregnancy hormones and god-knew-whatever else that was causing her to feel weak toward him was the absolute last thing she wanted. Opening herself up, allowing someone else to see her messy insides, was just not something she did.
She was done with silver linings; she had learned to live with the clouds.
