"No one wants to make you live where you're uncomfortable," Peter continued. "Or go to school where you're unhappy," he added.
I looked at him, and he had to look away.
People who lie to themselves have a hard time looking at other people directly. They are afraid that their eyes will reveal the self-deceptions.
After my tantrum, Peter wanted to take me to a doctor, too. I refused. Actually, I felt fine, even somewhat stronger. It was as if I had thrown a weight off my shoulders. I had been trying to fit myself into a mold that simply did not fit. What I wished at this moment was that I had my old clothes back. I still wore my old ribbon around my head. I wouldn't take it off.
Peter sat back thoughtfully. The clock ticked.
Sacket appeared in the doorway. "The car has arrived for Miss Brooke, Mr. Thompson. Should I begin to load the trunk?"
"Yes, please, Sacket," Peter said.
I had told him that I didn't want my new things, but Peter insisted I take them. "What you do with them afterward is your business, Brooke, but they are yours."
I was adamant about not taking a single tube of lipstick. The way I felt, I didn't know whether I would ever put on any makeup again.
"Are you all right to travel?" Peter asked me.
I nearly laughed. I looked away and then stood up. He had hired a limousine to take me to the foster home. All I knew was it was a group foster home run by a couple who used to run it as a tourist house. Supposedly, there were at least a dozen children of various ages already there. Peter was told, and he tried to convince me, that it was only a temporary situation. Other, more personalized homes were being sought, and I would soon have another set of foster parents, maybe even adoptive parents.
I couldn't help thinking about my mother and dreaming that she was the one waiting for me outside. She had heard about my situation, and she had come from wherever she lived to claim me. Now she was waiting outside in her car, and in a moment I would set eyes on her for the first time.
It was a wonderful fantasy, one that helped me walk with determination and confidence, something Pamela would be proud to see, I thought. That brought a smile to my face and confused Peter, who watched me with a strange half-smile of his own.
"I've arranged for you to have some money," he told me at the door. "It's been deposited in the bank."
I almost said, "I earned it," but instead held my tongue and stepped outside. It was a gray, overcast day with a stiff breeze that lifted the remaining strands of my hair from my forehead. It had been Peter's idea to buy me a baseball cap. I put it on.
He had spared no expense on the limousine, I thought. It was a long, sleek black car with a driver in uniform. He stepped out and waited.
"You're an exceptional young lady, Brooke," Peter said. "Don't let anyone try to convince you otherwise.
Whatever you set your mind on doing, I'm sure you'll do. Maybe you'll become a lawyer someday and come to my firm."
"I don't think so," I said.
It wiped the smile from his face. He looked sad enough to cry. "I wanted better things for you," he said. "I hope you believe that"
I nodded. Then I looked back toward the stairway. Pamela wouldn't even know I'd left, I thought. What did it matter? We had never really become mother and daughter, not in the way I had dreamed we would.
Peter leaned forward to kiss me on the forehead. "Good-bye, Brooke," he said. "Good luck."
"Thanks," I muttered, and walked down to the car. When I looked back, Peter was still standing in the doorway. The breeze lifted his hair. He raised his hand, and then, as if hearing himself paged, he turned quickly and went back inside.
We drove off. The driver tried to make conversation, but I wouldn't answer any questions, and soon I was riding in silence, listening to my own thoughts. A little less than two hours later, we pulled up in front of the group foster home, a place named the Lakewood House. It was a very large two-story house of gray clapboard with a wraparound porch. I realized it was very quiet because all of the children were probably at school. The driver began to unload my luggage just as a tall man with dark hair that fell over his forehead came around the corner. He had a pickax over his shoulder and his shirt off. His shoulders were thick with muscle, as were his long arms. His hands looked like steel vises. The fingers easily held the tool when he paused to swing it down.
"Louise!" he shouted He stared at me. "Louise!" he screamed again, this time followed with striking the side of the building with the flat side of the pickax. I imagined it must have shaken the building and everything inside.
Suddenly, the front door opened, and a tall brunette with shoulder-length hair came hurrying out. She looked about fifty, with soft wrinkles on the sides of her eyes and over her upper lip, wrinkles that would have given Pamela the heart attack she claimed I had almost given her. Louise had young, vibrant-looking, friendly blue eyes, however.
"Sure she brought enough?" the big man asked, nodding at my pile of suitcases and bags.
"We'll find a place for everything," Louise assured me.
"Not in the room she has," he corrected.
"We'll figure it out. Hi, honey. My name's Louise. This is my husband, Gordon. He looks after the place. Did you have a long ride?"