The Road to Paris (5 page)

Suddenly, Paris wasn’t so hungry anymore.

After Mr. Lincoln said grace, everybody dug in. Except Paris. She nibbled and stirred the potato salad around her plate. A few small bites was all she managed to swallow.

“Paris, what’s wrong?” asked Mrs. Lincoln.

“Nothing,” whispered Paris. Her taste buds didn’t seem to be working. They weren’t able to distract her from the cans of beer on the table, or keep her from thoughts of her mother, whose drinking binges always began with a cool can of beer.

Paris felt a rumbling in her stomach that quickly moved up into her throat. She bolted from the table and, thankfully, made it to the bathroom in time. She hung her head
over the toilet bowl and threw up until all that was left in her belly was air.

“Paris, are you all right?” Mrs. Lincoln asked through the door.

Paris rinsed her mouth out before answering. “I’m okay.”

Mrs. Lincoln cracked open the door to see for herself. “I’ll make you some tea and toast,” she said. “That’ll help settle your stomach.”

Paris smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

With her eyes on the floor, Paris returned to the kitchen and sat down. She sipped her tea and ate her toast in silence, then excused herself and went to her room. Mrs. Lincoln checked on her twice before leaving her alone for the night.

And a long night it was. Paris lay in bed for hours wondering how many beers were being guzzled, wondering when the yelling would start, wondering when Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln would storm out into the night in search of the nearest bar, wondering when she and all the other kids would be left home, alone. But the night was as quiet as any other. There were no sounds of fighting, or even arguing, to be heard anywhere in the house.

The next morning, Paris tiptoed downstairs before anyone else was up. She slipped open the refrigerator, found
three remaining cans of beer. One by one, she poured the contents down the drain of the kitchen sink. Then she took the cans to the backyard and hid them behind the shed.

When she opened the screen door to come back into the house, she found Earletta standing there.

“If they had a drinking problem,” said Earletta, “getting rid of their beer wouldn’t help. I should know. I tried that with my last stepdad.”

Paris pushed past Earletta without speaking.

“They like beer once in a while, is all. Not everybody who likes beer has a problem with it.”

“But some do,” said Paris, barely above a whisper.

Earletta sighed. “Yeah. Some do.”

Later that evening, at dinner, Mr. Lincoln said, “I could have sworn there was some beer left.” Earletta glanced at Paris, then looked away. Paris held her breath, waiting.

“Oh, well,” he said. “Guess we drank more than I thought. It was good, though. Nothing like a frosty beer with ribs or burgers straight off the grill!”

“Got that right!” said Mrs. Lincoln. And that was the end of it. The subject was never mentioned again.

Paris sighed and felt the fist inside her unclench, one finger at a time.

“L
et’s go, Paris,” Mrs. Lincoln called from downstairs. “It’s time! And remember, you have an appointment this afternoon with Dr. Stern. It’s right after school, so don’t dally. We don’t want to keep the doctor waiting.”

That’s easy for you to say
, thought Paris, retying her shoes for the fourth time that morning.
You don’t have to talk to him.

Dr. Stern was a psychologist, and Paris was in no hurry to go and see him. Who was it decided she needed to visit a psychologist, anyway? No one had asked her. And yet, an appointment had been made.

Paris sighed, and dragged herself downstairs.

“It’s a routine visit,” said Mrs. Lincoln, to soothe her. “Every foster child who’s ever lived here has been to see the psychologist.”

That didn’t make Paris feel any better. She was forced to see a psychologist at the last foster home. Malcolm, too. That first time, he’d prepared her.

“Some of these guys are okay,” he’d said. “They help you figure out your feelings and stuff. But then again, some of ‘em just want to poke around in your brain, see if they can find anything to give a name to.”

“What for?” she’d asked. But Malcolm couldn’t help her there. He’d shrugged and told her not to worry. She hadn’t. Even so, she hadn’t much liked the stupid questions they asked. “Do you miss your mom?” and “How do you feel about her drinking?” and “How do you feel about your dad leaving you?” and “Do you blame your mom for putting you in a foster home?” Paris figured those were questions the shrink could answer himself. So why waste time asking
her?

Mrs. Lincoln had set the appointment for 3:30 P.M. so that Paris wouldn’t have to lose time from school. For Paris, that meant a day of watching the clock instead of the blackboard. Ashley asked more than once if Paris was feeling okay. “I’m fine,” Paris said each time, flashing a phony grin.

When the final bell rang at the end of the day, Paris gathered her books and bolted from the classroom. Mrs.

Lincoln’s car was already parked out front, and Paris climbed in without saying a word.

The drive to the doctor’s office seemed too short; before Paris knew it, Mrs. Lincoln was getting her settled in the waiting room.

“I’ll be back for you later,” said Mrs. Lincoln, leaving her in the care of the doctor’s assistant.

When her name was finally called, Paris said, “Here,” as if she were in school. The doctor’s assistant steered her in the direction of Dr. Stern’s private office.

Stern was leafing through a folder, shaking his head, conferring with a colleague who was sitting on the corner of his desk.

“Jeez! Did you see this kid’s file? Alcoholic mother, victim of child abuse, suffered abandonment—my God. There’s no telling what dark thoughts are rolling around in that little head. I better make sure those foster parents know what they’ve gotten themselves—oh! Hello there.”

Paris stood inside the door. Dr. Stern slipped the folder onto his desk and motioned his colleague out of the office.

“Come on in. Paris, isn’t it? I’m ready for you now.”

And I’m ready for you, too
, thought Paris.
Since you think you know so much.

“My name is Dr. Stern.”

Paris said nothing.

“This is your first time here, right? So I want you to relax. Most of my patients manage to leave with all their fingers and toes.” Dr. Stern smiled at his own joke. Paris did not.

“I see from your records that you’ve been to see a psychologist before.”

Paris said nothing.

“So, how are things going for you at the Lincolns’?”

“Fine,” said Paris.

“Are you getting along with the other children in the home?”

“Yes.”

“Any problems you want to discuss while you’re here?”

“Like what?” asked Paris.

“So, there are problems?”

“Like what?”

“Is anybody hurting you, in any way?”

Paris hesitated for a moment, studying the tweed carpet.

“There’s Jordan,” she said, at last.

“Yes? Jordan? What does Jordan do?” Dr. Stern leaned in close, pen poised over his pad, ready to note anything important.

“He kicks me under the table,” said Paris in her most serious voice.

“I see,” said the doctor, leaning back in his chair. “Well, that’s normal for little boys,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Anything else?”

Paris shook her head. She knew if she opened her mouth, she’d laugh out loud.

“So, basically, everything’s fine at the home,” said Dr. Stern. “Let’s move on, then.

“Today, we’re going to play a few games that will tell me something about you. Would that be all right?”

Paris nodded. She was looking forward to having a little fun.

The afternoon flew by in a whirl of tests disguised as games. Paris liked the inkblots best. As the young doctor flashed each card, Paris was to identify what she saw. When he showed her an inkblot that clearly resembled a butterfly, Paris said, “Elephant.” When she saw a dragonfly, she said, “School bus.”
Let him figure that one out
, thought Paris.

Next came a game of free association. That was even more fun. When the doctor said, “Black,” Paris said, “Ice cream.” When he said, “Mother,” she said, “Sneaker.” He scribbled notes furiously throughout, and Paris bit her lip to keep from laughing.

In the end, Stern placed an anxious call to Mrs. Lincoln, asking that she come in right away to take Paris home.

“Mrs. Lincoln,” said Dr. Stern when she arrived, “please give me a call tomorrow so we can discuss a few things.”

Mrs. Lincoln agreed, giving Paris’ shoulder a squeeze.

That evening, when Mrs. Lincoln came to say good night to Paris, she lingered in the doorway.

“I bet I know why Dr. Stern wants to talk to me,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “You were pulling that doctor’s leg today, weren’t you?”

Paris tensed up, wondering if she were in trouble. “Yes,” she whispered.

Mrs. Lincoln shook her head, and laughed. “Exactly like Earletta,” she said, more to herself than to Paris. “You’ll do just fine, sugar,” she said. “You’ll do just fine.”

Paris relaxed her shoulders, her heart beginning to thaw. “Thanks, Mom.”

Paris’ new mom switched off the light, the music of her laughter still hanging in the air.

E
arly on Thanksgiving morning, Paris went downstairs for breakfast, and was surprised to find everyone else up already, and busy as ants on a hill of sugar.

The sink held a mountain of yams. Earletta was chopping celery and onions. David was manning the toaster, putting in one slice of bread after another, then handing the toast to Jordan, who ripped them into smaller, bite-size pieces and piled them in a bowl for stuffing. Mrs. Lincoln sat at the table, snapping string beans, and Mr. Lincoln rubbed spices into the fat turkey.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Mrs. Lincoln said to Paris as she walked in.

“Can I help?” asked Paris, not really wanting to. This
many people in one space made her feel as if the walls were closing in.

“No. Not this time,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “Why don’t you check on Jet’s food dish and make sure he has some fresh water.”

Paris nodded and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on her way out.

The challenge for the day was not to get in anybody’s way. Paris managed it by playing with and feeding Jet, taking care of David’s pet rabbit, and reading a chapter book. She even raked up leaves in the yard without being asked.

At about noon, people started showing up at the door. Paris was introduced to each family member by Mr. Lincoln.

Grandma Lincoln came first, then came Mrs. Lincoln’s sister Ida, and her two girls. Mr. Lincoln’s baby brother Raymond, who was single, came next. Finally, Mrs. Lincoln’s sister Jolene arrived with her nine-year-old son, Sheldon.

“We call her ‘the mouth,’” Mr. Lincoln whispered to Paris.

The dining room table was packed. Mrs. Lincoln had used every extra leaf to make it long enough to seat everyone.

Packed or not, if anyone asked Paris, she would tell them that one person was missing from that table, and that person was Malcolm.

Mr. Lincoln said grace, then served up the turkey while Mrs. Lincoln started sending the rest of the dishes around the table. Sheldon, seated opposite Paris, stuck his tongue out at her as soon as he could catch her eye.

“Quit it, Sheldon!” snapped David. He leaned over to Paris and said, “Feel free to not like him. We don’t like him much, either.” He said it loud enough for Sheldon to hear. Paris was pretty sure Mrs. Lincoln heard it, too, yet for some reason, she let it pass without comment.

Paris concentrated on loading her plate up with candied yams, a few string beans for color, corn pudding, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and turkey. She took a swallow of eggnog before digging in.

“So,” said Sheldon’s mother, Jolene. “This is the new one, huh? My God, Sis, you collect sick kids like strays.”

Paris choked on her eggnog.

Mrs. Lincoln banged the table with her fist.

“They are not sick, and they are not strays!” she said, between tight lips.

Earletta patted Paris on the back until she stopped coughing.

“Don’t mind Aunt Jolene,” whispered Earletta. “She can’t help herself. She was raised by wolves. That’s why she knows so much about stray dogs.”

Paris managed to smile at that. She spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding Jolene and Sheldon, though. Those two were poisonous. It was hard for Paris to believe that they were part of the Lincoln clan at all.

After the main meal, the kids raced to the park at the foot of the hill and arranged a game of softball. Uncle Raymond joined them, and for once so did Earletta. David knocked at several neighbors’ doors and picked up a few more kids along the way.

When they set up teams, Sheldon decided to sit out the game. He said softball was a stupid game, but David told her the real reason was that Sheldon couldn’t play for spit, and he was the world’s sorest loser.

Paris was happy to be included. She had an okay time, too, even though she never got a home run. She couldn’t quite shake off Jolene’s comment, and Sheldon didn’t help. Everytime he caught her looking at him, he’d say, “What you lookin’ at, Foster?” He wouldn’t call her by her name, just Foster, short for
foster child.
Not once did he or his mother let her forget that she was an outsider, that she didn’t belong, that this new home of hers was borrowed.

Back at the house, Paris stuffed her feelings with fresh-baked
pumpkin pie and ice cream, having seconds, and even thirds.

Now, she was too stuffed to sleep. She lay awake for a long time, hearing Sheldon’s taunting voice in her head, calling her Foster. It was enough to give her a bellyache. And it did.

Dear Malcolm,

I miss you everyday.

I’m living in a place called Ossining. Ever hear of it? It took a long train ride to get here. Its got a famus prison. Sing Sing. What a funny name for a place where they lock you up. I bet nobody who lives there sings. I wouldn’t.