Chapter 1
The ticking of the cheap plastic clock on the wall of the office echoed in Luke’s ears, making the seconds feel longer than they should. He wished he had brought a book to distract himself with, but knew he was too wound up to read. The wait had strung his nerves torturously thin.
He looked over at Jacques, sitting in the chair next to him. He was pulling on his tie, loosening and tightening the careful windsor knot until the fabric was rumpled and uneven. Luke wanted nothing more than to reach over and fix it, but he was afraid his hands would shake.
Luke and Jacques had been trying to become foster parents for over a year. And now, after all the collecting of references, background checks, and nerve-wracking interviews, they were finally there.
Caberry, Matthew. Fifteen, born July first. Entered foster care when he was nine. That was all the information the couple had received on the sparse file that was finally thrown their way, and it had left them plenty of room for imagination. The two had sat up all the previous night imagining what their future child would be like. Would he be into sports? Or would he prefer sitting inside? Perhaps he could cook, like Jacques? Maybe, Luke had speculated, he would like reading. He couldn’t count the number of times he had sat up at night imagining sharing his favourite books with a son or daughter.
The door to the reception area opened, and their social worker walked out. Both Luke and Jacques stood up.
“Gentlemen,” said the woman, smiling benevolently. “This is Matthew.”
The boy shuffled out nervously from behind the social worker. Matthew Caberry was gangly, with overgrown auburn hair that just brushed his shoulders. His eyes were hidden behind glasses, though his persistence in his gaze at the floor meant Luke wouldn’t be able to see them even if he weren't wearing the round thick-lensed monstrosities. A dirty hockey bag hung over one scrawny shoulder.
Jacques was the first to break the silence, nodding politely and smiling just like the pamphlets said they were supposed to.
“Hello Matthew,” he said. “I’m Jacques and this is my partner, Luke.”
Matthew’s eyes didn’t leave the ground. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered, in a soft, whispery voice that Luke had to strain to catch.
“I’m sure you boys will get along fine,” said the social worker. “Now, Matthew, lets get your stuff to the Brunet-Jackson’s car, all right?”
After a deathly silent car ride, the makeshift family arrived home. Luke had agreed with Jacques that they should do a short tour first, as one book had suggested, and the couple lead Matthew into the house and immediately up the stairs.
“So, this will be your bedroom,” said Jacques, opening a door at the end of the hall. “Our room is down there -“ he pointed. “- And the bathroom’s next to your room.”
Matthew nodded, staring at the hallway rug.
“So… how about you get settled in?” asked Luke. “Jacques and I will start on dinner. Then after we eat we can give you a tour of the rest of the house.”
Matthew nodded again, and Jacques turned to head back downstairs. Luke hesitated.
“Are you sure you don’t need any help unpacking?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Luke rubbed the back of his neck, which was sore even thought the car ride had been brief. “Ah… there’s no need to call me sir, Matthew.”
“What should I call you, then?” Matthew asked in his soft, soft voice.
“Just Luke would be fine, if that’s all right with you.”
“Same for me,” piped in Jacques. “You can call me Jacques.”
Matthew nodded, and started backing slowly into his room. Luke followed his partner down the stairs, looking back over his shoulder as the door closed with a quiet click.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Jacques reaching for the wine cupboard.
“No way,” Luke said. “We have a child in the house.”
Jacques’s hand changed direction mid-air. He grabbed the french press and flipped the electric kettle on. “My God,” he said. “I didn’t realize that this would be so… tense.”
Luke sighed, fetching his mug from the cupboard and plopping a tea bag into it. “He’s a foster kid. God knows what he’s been through, or how many families he’s had. We both read the paperwork.”
“I know,” Jacques ran his hand through his hair. “I just want it to be easier. I want him to feel at home here.”
Luke gave a halfhearted smirk, and tried to fall back into the pattern of arguing he knew so well. “Well, maybe he’d feel more at home if your stupid accent wasn’t polluting the air.”
“How could you say that to me,” askedJacques, a hand over his heart and a smile growing on his face. “When I speak only ze language of love?! Eet eez your stupide American accent zhat drives ze people away!”
Luke smacked him on the shoulder. “C’mon. We have to make dinner.”
“You mean I have to make dinner, and you have to try and not let your mere presence cause the food to revolt,” muttered Jacques, jumping away and laughing when Luke swung again.
Matthew dragged his bag to the centre of the bedroom and gave the room a once-over. The walls were a gender-neutral shade of sunny yellow, and two beds with yellow quilts sat on either side of the room. The dresser matched the bedside tables and the warm brown rug matched the curtains, making the room look like it was more ready for a photo shoot than to house a kid. It reminded Matthew of a magazine picture, like it was an example of a generic kid’s room instead of somewhere a real person with actual interests could live.
He pushed the heavy hockey bag over to the bed furthest from the door and shoved it underneath. He wasn’t really going to unpack yet. It would just be a hassle to pack back up again when he had to leave.
Matthew walked the perimeter of the room, examining but not touching anything. There was a punching bag in the corner, the bright red fabric clashing with all other decor in the room. A foster teen may need a way to express their anger in a healthy way; it is a good idea to give them a safe outlet for them to do so. Matthew had read the books and pamphlets on foster kids whenever they had been lying around, and he was smart enough to know that was code for try to prevent your foster kid from breaking your stuff by giving them something to punch.
When Matthew had confirmed all his initial findings, he sat down on his new bed. A guttural noise emerged from his gut, making him jump lightly when it interrupted the silence. He hoped dinner would be ready soon.
Flopping backwards, he thought about his new foster parents. They didn’t seem too bad. So far they hadn’t barraged him with a whole bunch of rules, but he was guessing they would wait until dinner to do that. They probably weren’t scary-religious, because there were no crosses or cross-stitched bible quotes in the room, and no one had mentioned Hell yet. That was a plus.
But the room seemed so pristine and unblemished, and they were so nervous that he guessed they were first-timers. He wasn’t sure of that was a good or bad thing.
Matthew pushed thoughts of his new predicament out of his head, trying to enjoy his newfound alone time.
Dinner was turning out to be as silent and awkward as the car ride had been. Though Jacques had prepared an incredible roast beef with all the fixings, Matthew had only taken a small portion, and seemed entirely focused on cutting up each piece of meat and chewing it very slowly.
Jacques rubbed the wedding band on his finger, twisting it around his finger. He looked sideways at Luke, who gave him a shaky smile.
Jacques took a deep breath. “So, Matthew,” he said, trying to break the silence as nonchalantly and calmly as possible.
Matthew’s eyes darted up from his plate. It was probably the first time Jacques had seen him make anything close to eye contact with him. His eyes were a surprisingly clear and watery blue in the kitchen lights.
Jacques cleared his throat. “Did you enjoy the dinner?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Jacques is a chef,” Luke offered, trying to get some conversation going. “He works at a restaurant downtown. He does most of the cooking.”
“Yes, because god help you if Luke ever cooks,” Jacques cracks a nervous grin. “The woman at poison control knows me by name now.”
Angry spots of colour bloomed on Luke’s cheeks. “The only reason she knows you is because of your stupid accent,” he snapped.
“Luke, Maureen has sent us Christmas cards for the past two years. It’s not my accent.”
Jacques could swear he saw a ghost of a smile on Matthew’s face, but it was gone before he could be sure.
“Anyways,” said Luke. “I work as an editor, so I mostly stay at home. Speaking of which, do you think you would like to start school right at the beginning of september, or would you like to wait?”
Matthew moved his hands into his lap, below the table. “Whenever is convenient,” he said.
Jacques jumped in. “Well, you certainly don’t have to decide now. We have weeks before school starts.”
Luke nodded. “Yes, that is true. Is there anything you want to do with your remaining summer, lad?”
“Nothing comes to mind sir,” Matthew’s voice had gotten even smaller.
“Come on, there must be something,” said Luke. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”
Matthew remained silent. His eyes had retreated to the tablecloth once again.
Nonono! thought Jacques. He searched his mind desperately for a way to fix the conversation.
He stretched and yawned. “Well, I do not know about you, but I am tired,” Jacques said. “Luke and I can clean up the dishes; Matthew, there is a television in the basement if you want, and a bookshelf in the den. You can do what you want until you want to go to bed, oui?”
Matthew nodded, stood up, and walked upstairs without another word. Luke watched him go, then turned to Jacques with hurt in his eyes.
“Why did you do that?” he demanded. “We were almost having a conversation.”
Matthew shut the door as quietly as he could, collapsing against it. He felt exhausted, and still hungry. He hadn’t taken enough food when he was offered, and he didn’t want to ask for more.
Either way, now he finally had some time to himself. Hopefully Luke and Jacques would now spend the rest of the night arguing, and forget about him.
Matthew pulled his bag out from under the bed and rifled through it. He pulled a bar of soap and a plastic knife. Now he could get down to business.
The one thing that had been abundant in the last home he had been in was soap. No one ever seemed to notice if one of the blocky, chemical-smelling bars went missing. Matthew discovered that the bars could be formed into the shapes of animals, people and things when he was younger, and had spent most of his free time carving ever since.
Holding the plastic knife by the very tip, he began carefully stroking the surface of the soap, peeling off shavings that fell onto the floor in a neat pile. He began by making the shape of the block softer, more ovular, before deciding what to make.
Wanting a model for this carving, he reached into his suitcase again and pulled out a worn and yellowed stuffed polar bear. Snowy had been with him no matter where he went, and Matthew refused to give him up even though he was aware he was technically too old for a stuffed toy. He posed his old friend on his floppy back legs, and continued carving.
“-but why not?!”
Luke said angrily, doing the dishes with more vigour than was necessary. Jacques sighed from the table, where he was moving the remains of the roast into a tupperware.
“My dear, I understand you were trying to make conversation, but all those questions were scaring him!”
“All I wanted to do was talk! I never asked him anything probing, or tried to pretend we were already close, or-“
“It wasn’t what you were asking him,” Jacques sighed and put the leftovers in the fridge. “Matthew seems to be a very private boy. We need to respect his boundaries, at least for a few days, before we start trying to get him out of his shell. You said yourself, God knows what he’s been through. We have to be patient.”
Luke remained silent, his shoulders hunched over the sink as the frantic washing slowed. Jacques walked over to him and wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on Luke’s shoulder. He watched Luke’s hands as they scrubbed a plate, going around the edges in slow, methodic circles.
“But for a second there… It felt like we were joking. Like everything was falling into place,” Luke said quietly. “I thought it was okay.”
Jacques wrapped Luke tighter in the hug. “My dear,” he said. “We will get there.”
Matthew worked on the soap bear until his the light from the window faded. He had managed to render the face of the little statue, with fur pushed back across it’s snout and a bewildered look in it’s tiny eyes. He looked down at the pile of soap shavings, which had grown into a small mountain. He scooped some up in one hand and let them fall back down between his fingers.
In the quiet he heard the faint creaking of feet on the stairs. Was he supposed to be in bed yet? Matthew wasn’t sure. With one sweep of his hand, he quickly brushed the shavings under the rug, and tucked Kuma under one arm like a football. Then he soundlessly vaulted into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin to hide that he was still fully clothed.
“Matthew?” Luke’s voice came through the door. “Are you all right in there?”
“Yessir,” Matthew answered, glancing around the room. He thought everything was left as he found it- no! He had left his carving on the floor! He quickly reached down and knocked it under the bed with the shavings. Matthew cringed at the slight clatter it made when it hit the ground.
Luke, though, seemed to take no notice of the sound. “You should probably turn out your lights soon. If you get hungry in the night, Jacques left some food in the fridge. You can heat it up in the microwave if you want. Do you remember where the bathroom is?”
“Yessir,” Matthew repeated. He thought he could hear the a sigh through the door, but he wasn’t sure.
“All right.”
After a slight pause Luke spoke again. “Goodnight, Matthew.”
“G’night, sir.”
Matthew listened until he could hear feet on the stairs again before he relaxed. He crawled out of the bed and retrieved the statue from the floor. One of the ears had shattered off when he had knocked it under the bed. He sighed and gently placed the bear in his bag.
It was late, and even though he wasn’t tired Matthew thought he had better go to sleep. He pulled off his favourite red hoodie and jeans, crawling into bed in his boxers and a stained white t-shirt.
The sheets were clean, and smelled faintly of lavender. Matthew guessed even though he wasn’t a fan of his “new home”, it wasn’t terrible. At least everything seemed pretty clean. And he didn’t have to fight a bunch of other kids to get at the dinner table.
If nothing else, Matthew thought as he slowly drifted off, I’ll finally get some peace and quiet.
