Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

"I'm going to explain some of the rules of the house to you, Sarah. Things you need to know while you're living here with us, okay?"

"Okay."

"First of all, we're not here to entertain you, understand? We're here to give you a roof over your head, to feed and clothe you, make sure you get to school and all of that--but you're going to have to keep yourself occupied. Dennis and I have our own lives, and our own things to do. We don't have time to be your playmates. Understand?"

Sarah nodded.

"Okay. Next thing, you'll have chores around the house. Get them done and you won't get in trouble. Don't get them done and you will. Bedtime is at ten. No exceptions. That means lights out and under the covers. The last rule is simple, but it's important: Don't talk back. Do what we say. We're the grown-ups, and we know what's best. We're giving you a place to live and we expect to be treated with respect. Understand?"

Another nod.

"Good. Do you have any questions for me?"

Sarah looked down at her plate. "Why am I living here? Why can't I go back home?"

Rebecca frowned, puzzled.

"Because your mom and dad are dead, honey, and there's no one else that wants you. That's what Dennis and I do. We take in kids that don't have anywhere else to go. Didn't Karen explain that to you?"

Sarah shook her head, still staring at her plate. She looked numb.

"Thank you very much for the sandwich," she said, her voice small.

"Can I go to my room now?"

"Go ahead, honey," Rebecca said, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another. "You new ones usually cry for the first few days, and that's okay. But you'll need to learn to toughen up fast. Life goes on, you know?"

Sarah stared at Rebecca for a moment, taking this in. The little girl's face crumpled and she fled the table.

Rebecca watched her go. The blonde took a long drag on her cigarette. Pretty girl. It's a shame what happened to her.

Rebecca waved her hand in dismissal, though she was alone. Her eyes were angry and miserable and surrounded by too much mascara. Well, that's too bad. It's a tough old world.

Sarah lay on her strange new bed in her strange new house and curled into herself. Tried to make herself small. To make herself (Go away)

Because maybe if she could

Go away

She'd reappear back at home, with Mommy and Daddy. Maybe--

and this idea perked her up, filled her with hope--this was all just a long, bad dream. Maybe she'd gone to sleep on the night before her birthday and never really woken up.

Her brow furrowed in thought. If that was true, then all she needed to do was go to sleep in her dream.

"Yes!" she whispered to herself.

That was it! She'd just go to sleep here (in her dream), and then she'd wake up in the real world. Buster would be there, snuggled up next to her, and her mother's painting would be there, hanging on the wall at the foot of her bed. It would be morning. She'd get up and go out and Daddy would tease her about not having any presents or cake, but there would be presents and cake . . . Sarah hugged herself in her excitement. This had to be the solution to--she looked around--all this.

Just close your eyes and go to sleep, and when you wake up, everything will be happy again. Because she was exhausted and only six, Sarah fell asleep without any effort at all.

26

"WAKE UP."

Sarah stirred. Someone was shaking her. Someone with a soft female voice.

"Hey, wake up, little girl."

Sarah's first thought was: It worked! This was Mommy, telling her to get up on her birthday!

"I had a bad dream, Mommy," she murmured.

A pause.

"I'm not your mommy, little girl. Come on, wake up. It's almost time for dinner."

Sarah opened her eyes in surprise. It took a moment for her to focus on the girl speaking to her. The girl had spoken the truth: She wasn't Mommy.

It's no dream. It's all real.

Acceptance arrived again, painful and absolute.

Mommy's dead. Daddy's dead. Buster's dead and Doreen's gone, and I'm all alone and no one is ever coming back. Something of what she was feeling must have showed on her face, because the girl talking to her frowned.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Sarah shook her head. She couldn't talk.

The girl's face softened.

"I understand. Well, anyway, my name is Theresa. I guess we're foster-sisters." She paused. "What's your name?"

"Sarah." Her voice sounded weak, faraway.

"Sarah. That's a pretty name. I'm thirteen--how old are you?"

"Six. I just had a birthday."

"That's cool."

Sarah examined this strange but friendly girl. Theresa was pretty. She looked vaguely Latin, with brown eyes and thick, dark hair that ran just past her shoulders. She had a small scar near her hairline. Full, sensual lips softened a serious face. She was pretty, but Sarah thought she looked tired too, like a nice person who'd had a hard day.

"Why are you here, Theresa?"

"My mom died."

"Oh." Sarah fell silent, unsure of what to say. "Mine did too. And my daddy."

"That sucks." A long pause. Then, soft and sorrowful: "I'm really sorry, Sarah."

Sarah nodded. She felt her face getting hot, her eyes begin to prickle.

Don't be a silly old crybaby!

Theresa didn't seem to notice. "I was eight when my mom died,"

she said, talking while Sarah listened and struggled with her tears. "A little older than you, but close enough. So I know how you feel and what you can expect. The main thing you have to understand is that for the most part, none of the people you deal with really care about you. You're alone. I know that sucks to hear, but the sooner you realize it, the better off you'll be." She grimaced. "You don't belong to any of these people. You're not their blood."

"But . . . but . . . if they don't care, why do they do it?"

Theresa gave Sarah a worn-out smile. "Money. They get paid to."

Sarah stared off, taking this in. A frightening thought occurred to her.

"Are they bad people?"

Theresa's expression was grim and sad. "Sometimes, yeah. Every now and then you'll get a good foster-family, but a lot of the time, it's bad."

"Is it bad here?"

The thing that flew across Theresa's face was bitter and dark and complex, part blackbird, part teardrops, part dirt.

"Yeah." She grew silent, looking off. She took a deep breath and smiled. "Probably not so much for you, though. Rebecca's not the one you have to watch out for. She doesn't drink the way Dennis does. As long as you do what she says and you don't cause any trouble, she'll leave you alone. I don't think they'll hit you much."

Sarah paled. "H-hit me?"

Theresa squeezed Sarah's hands. "Just keep to yourself and you'll be fine. Don't talk to Dennis when he's drunk."

Sarah listened to all of this with the pragmatism of a child, in spite of her fear. She believed what Theresa said, that these people didn't care about her, that they'd hit her, that she shouldn't talk to Dennis when he was drunk.

The world was becoming more and more terrifying, more and more solitary.

Sarah looked down at her hands. "You said we're foster-sisters. Does . . . does that mean you're my friend, Theresa?"

It was humble and plaintive and it made Theresa's breath hitch in her chest.

"Sure, Sarah." She forced conviction into her voice. "We're sisters, remember? Yeah?"

Sarah managed to smile. "Yeah."

"Good girl. Now come on, it's time for dinner." Theresa's face grew stern. "Don't ever be late for dinner. It makes Dennis mad."

Sarah was terrified of Dennis from the moment she laid eyes on him. He was a simmering volcano, full of heat, ready to erupt. This was something that anyone who met him sensed.

He felt dangerous

And