He was tall. Much taller than I remembered him. Round glasses were pressed onto the bridge of his nose and he wore faded jeans that bunched at the bottom because of the clunky brown boots he was wearing. The shirt and tie looked out of place and the jacket looked as if it was from a tux he wore to prom back in whatever year that might have been. How old was he anyway?
I focused on the details of his appearance instead of entertaining the fears I had spent my conscious part of the flight trying to dispel. But with every step I followed the social work towards him, towards my new reality, and there was nothing I could do to change that except stop. So I did. The wheels of my rolling suitcase scuffed to a halt on the rough carpet and a man bumped into me from behind. My heart was pounding and my palm was moist, clutching the handle of my suitcase. I closed my eyes and breathed, talking myself into moving forward again. I would not create a scene or refuse to meet him, I knew how these things worked. But it had been a long time since I had moved. I needed more time.
“Gwen?” It had taken Stephanie longer than it should have to realize I wasn’t following her anymore. I opened my eyes and saw her weaving her way back through the crowd of people leaving the plane. Frown lines marred the tight skin on her forehead. I glanced through the plastic window to where my father stood. He was holding a package in his hand and looking eagerly through the gate where we would emerge.
“What’s wrong?” Are you nervous?”
I turned to the social worker, tempted to deny my fear. What business of hers was it? But instead I nodded.
A smile brightened her face as if I had just given her a compliment. “He seems like a very nice man. Don’t worry, I’ll be by to check up on you in a few days once you get settled in.”
Her reassurance did nothing to ease my anxiety but I swallowed and tugged my suitcase forward. Stephanie walked beside me.
As we emerged from the gate and rounded the corner he spotted us. He walked forward eagerly then stopped a few feet away, letting us reach him.
“Mr. Burns,” Stephanie shook my father’s hand.
He shook the social worker’s hand then looked down at me from what seemed like an incredible height up close.
“Hi Gwen,” he said. A deep smile rounded his cheeks and flattened his lips.
“Hi.” I didn’t offer him a smile. Not yet. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. I wanted him to know I was not happy to be here.
“How was your flight?”
“It was fine.”
“Gwen got a little motion sick,” Stephanie chimed in. “But she took a long nap.”
I gritted my teeth. I wanted to tell her to shut up but Mindy’s manners prevented me from doing so.
My father didn’t seem to notice Stephanie’s anecdote. “Oh,” he said. “This is for you.” He pushed a brown package into my hands. It had a colorful bow stuck to the paper wrapping and in pencil were scrawled the words: WELCOME GWEN.
“Thank you,” said Mindy’s manners as I took the gift and tucked it under my arm.
“Here, I’ll take your suitcase.”
“Oh, don’t worry there are more,” the social worker chuckled. “Let’s head over to baggage claim.”
By the time we found my suitcases among the conveyer belt of identical luggage, it was well past noon but outside the glass exit of the airport looked nearly as dark and gloomy as it had this morning.
“Do you have a jacket?” We were getting ready to leave the building, my father carrying most of my luggage, Stephanie holding her purse and clipboard only.
I stooped and dug in my bag for the coat Mindy had packed for me. I shrugged into it. It was grey and long and much too big. It had been Mindy’s when she went to college in New York. But it was old and three sizes larger than me.
“That’s all you have?”
“It doesn’t snow in Florida.” I gave him a ‘duh’ look.
“Right, right,” he wrung his hands on the strap of one of my bags almost nervously. “We’ll go stopping this week and buy you some stuff for the cold.”
I didn’t respond. I just tightened the coat around my body and followed him and Stephanie out to the parking lot. The strength of the cold air surprised me but I tried not to let it show. We loaded my luggage into the back of his truck and Stephanie said goodbye.
“Call me if you need anything.” She slipped her card into my hand. “I’ll be by next week.”
“Thank you,” my father said, shaking her hand again.
I watched her walk back into the airport, wondering how she was getting home—wishing I was going home.
“You can hop in.” He was holding the door of the front seat open for me. “I hope you’re okay with the front…there’s not really a back.”
“It’s fine. I’m old enough.” I lie, climbing into the passenger seat. Mindy never let me or Tera sit in the front.
He shut the door and came around to his side. “How old are you?”
A pink blush came into his cheeks as he started the car. He had the same bright red hair and fair skin that plagued me when I was embarrassed.
“Eleven.”
“Right,” he smiled, steering the car out of the small airport parking lot and onto the main road. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember.” His cheeks flamed again when I didn’t reply. “I’m not really sure how to do this dad thing. But I want to.”
I just looked at him. It wasn’t like I had any advice to give. The first foster home I remember had a dad. He was gone all day (at work I assume) and when he came home, he ate the meal that Mrs. Miller had made and watched TV. By the end of the night an argument would begin between him and his wife, but in the morning, he would leave again and the cycle would repeat. I was only five so the memory is vague.
“Well, I guess we can start with this. Names are important. You don’t have to call me Dad. You can call me Harold. Or whatever you want really…”
“Harold is fine.”
He glanced at me as if surprised that I had spoken. I couldn’t help thinking that he looked nothing like a Harold. I knew that was his name from the court room but it reminded me a of a children’s book I had read in school about a bald boy with a crayon.
“Are you cold?”
I had my coat pulled tightly around myself and I my fingers were numb. “I’m fine.”
He nudged the heat knob higher. I guess my teeth chattering had given me away.
I looked out the window as we drove down quite streets lined with shops and hilly ones lined with trees. What was it like to live in a place this small, without all the noise and the people?
I was about to ask him where everyone was when he said, “You can open your present.”
I had forgotten I was holding it, clutched under my coat. I didn’t want to open it in front of him and pretend that I liked it. It was problem a stuffed animal or an awful frilly dress or something. But he was giving me that eager smile again so I said, “Okay,” and pulled it out from under my warm coat.
I pulled the bow off first then tore at the paper. The wrapping fell onto the floor as I uncovered the gift: a leather journal with a quote by Robert Frost etched into the cover. I ran my hand over it gently.
“He lived around here,” Harold said. “Frost, I mean. Got most of his inspiration from the beauty he saw in nature. I don’t know if you like to write, but there are a lot of things worth putting pen to paper about around here.”
I remember Robert Frost from a poem we had read in Elementary school about a tree. The journal reminded me of the book I had left behind with Tera. Tears pricked the back of my eyes but I blinked them away.
“Thank you,” I said. This time I wasn’t lying.
