visit     

            MJ and Fritz visit often, every other weekend and then sometimes during the week for an hour or so.  Their last name is Lazar and they are very sweet.  We often sit by the shed that houses toys and such.  I bring my notebook and pretend to write.  MJ knows that I talk now, I whisper to her all the time.  Fritz makes me laughs easily and that sound is sweet. That is something I have not done before, laugh, at least not like he does, from the belly, deep and noisy.  I love it.

            After weeks of them visiting Connie brings me into her office, and she seems agitated.  “Well, Remy the time is coming for you to start transitioning into a foster family.  Do you understand?”

            I nod. 

            “Why won’t you talk, Remy?” she asks.   Her tone is harsher than I have ever heard it before.  I still do not trust her.

            I shrug. 

            “You turned the recorder off when Fritz was first here, why?”

            I narrow my eyes at her and cross my arms over my chest.  My violet eyes stare hard at her and I do not break that gaze, I will not concede.  I will win this contest.  She will not break me.  I do not trust her and I will not talk to her.  The silence lasts heartbeats and finally Connie relents.  “Please go back to quiet time.”

            I get up and as I pass the book shelf I see a thick book there, a Bible.  I stop and look at it for a long time.  It is old and I reach out, letting my fingertips caress the worn spine.  “Do you want to borrow that?”

            I cock my head to one side and nod. 

            “Please, take it.”

            I do, wrapping my arms around it and dashing off to my room. 

read

            I become absorbed in this tale of supposed truth.  I read and read and question but who do I ask questions to?  I read and reread.  What am I looking for?  It is late one evening and I am sitting crossed legged in a chair at the far end of the common area.  I come across a word.  Nephilim.  I do not know what it is or what it means but I recognize the swoop of the lines and the pattern of the curves.        

            I gasp.  I stand on shaky legs and march to the living room where the other books are housed.  “What are you doing Remy?” asks Trace from her place loading the dishwasher.

            “Nephilim!  What is a Nephilim!” I cry out and for the first time my voice is strong reflecting my inner self.  This is the other word that my mother had written.  My name and Nephilim – is that what I am?  Is that why I could not remember?  Am I this thing?  What is it?

            “Holy…” says Jill, a new counselor coming out of the small wash room having seen me storming past her.  “I thought she didn’t talk?”

            “She doesn’t,” says Trace, her hands holding a dirty plate. “Remy?”

            I come back into the room with the book I was looking for, the dictionary.  My fingers fly through the pages finding the word.  Frantic to the point of panic and I cannot breath.  My fingers shake and I feel the sweat tricking down my back and neck.  “Nephilim, what is a…”

            “They are the children of angels and humans,” says Jill calmly.  “I’ve read some sci-fi books that have them in it.  They are walking children, meaning they are born and grow quickly, and can walk within hours of their birth, and they are born with innate knowledge, at least in some of the books I've read.  And because they cause chaos like children but live forever.  They are half-angel and half-human.”

            I back away from the table, stumbling on my own feet. 

Angels? 

Humans? 

I am just a girl. 

A girl who cannot remember. 

A girl who was covered in her mother’s blood. 

My mind shifts to those moments and I quake.  Blood. All over me.  Like a child, a baby just born.  Walking children.  “No,” I mutter.  “No, no, no, no!”  I fling the dictionary away and back up and slam into the wall.

            “Remy!” says Trace letting the plate fall to the floor.  I watch it flip once, twice then collide with the tiled floor and shatter.  “It’s okay, whatever it is, it’s okay, calm down.”  Her big brown eyes are filled with concern.

            “Blood everywhere,” I cry. “There was blood all over me!  Do you understand?  There was blood all over me!”

            “Call Connie,” says Trace edging closer to me, as if to comfort me.  Jill rushes off to the other room and I sink to the floor.  “Remy are you remembering?”

            “No,” I whisper.  I do not remember.  “I just know.”

            “What do you know?”

            I look up at her and I know my voice is as hollow as my soul.  “I killed my mother.”

living space

            It took months for me to talk again, to want to speak.  I was in a dark place in my mind, inside of my soul, locked away and unable to process what and who I was.  I had not witnessed my mother’s murder, because that day, that awful day of blood, had been my day of birth. 

A walking child: a child who is born and grows quickly once out of the womb, maybe too quickly, which is why she is dead. 

Those words came to me in my sleep when I dream.  No man had come in to that cabin and hacked her to pieces.  I had done that.  I had clawed my way out of the woman who given birth to me.  I was sure of it.  As my birthday or as I thought of it, my blood day came, Fritz and MJ visited more often and one day Fritz says, “Remy would you like to come stay with us?”

            I look up from my notebook and gasp.  “Huh?”

            “Her vocal cords still work,” says MJ with a teasing grin.  “Would you like to live with us?  It might be temporary but if you like us well enough it could be permanent.”

            I pull the small notebook that is between us and I contemplate writing down my answer.  Then I sigh.  “Why?”

            Fritz looks at his wife then back at me.  “You’re asking why we want to foster you?”

            I nod.

            “Well, sweetie,” says MJ, a finger digging into her scalp, she does this when she’s confused or unsure of something, “we adore you.  You’ve come a long way since we’ve been visiting you and we want you to come the rest of the way with us.  As a family.  We’ve never had kids, I can’t have kids and we’re older now and would love to have you as part of our family, as our daughter.”

            Family.  I trace my finger over the paper, not making words, just patterns.  Am I really a 13 year old girl?  Do 13 year olds process like I do?  I sigh again.  “Can we do it slow?”

            Fritz grins brightly, his dark hand, palm up, comes to rest on my notebook, “As slow, or as fast, as you want it, Rem.  If you don’t like us, that’s fine too.”

            “What if you don’t like me?” I ask incredulously. 

            “Fair enough,” says Fritz, his hand still there, open, inviting.  “If we don’t like you we will let you know.  How about if there is something one of us doesn’t like about the other we are quick to tell them that?”

            I nod.

            MJ puts her hand next to Fritz’s hand, pale in comparison, but as equally as inviting.  “We communicate.  We will buy stock in notebooks.”

            “Okay,” I say, “but only if we take it slow.”

            “Deal,” says Fritz.

            I place my left hand in his and my right hand in hers.  “Deal.”

teenage angst

            Living with Fritz and MJ Lazar is a breath of air that fills not only my lungs but my soul.  All of those clichés I have read in books are true.  They are clichés for a reason, they are accurate.  It is eye opening and it is good. 

I read endlessly.  I read every type of novel I can get my hands on, age appropriate or not.  Fritz is quick to buy me books and the library is our favorite get away on his days off.  MJ, who works nights often, sleeps during the day while I entertain myself with books.  I have a new obsession: comic books.  I read them all.  Gathering an endless collection.  While not rich, Fritz and MJ are well off.  MJ’s father had left them a large amount of land here in Maine when he had passed away and MJ’s mother is in a nursing home with an ailment that has left her not knowing who anyone is.  I feel for the older woman who we visit, since I too, do not know who I am.  So this is why they had moved here instead of living in a city or somewhere that would have vetted them more money. 

            Fritz claims he moved to Northern Maine for the fishing. 

            MJ claims he moved there to be with her.

            On that they can agree. 

            They have a large house on the outskirts of a small city that is home to two colleges, and it’s situated on a large lake.  I spend as much time as possible outside: fishing, walking.  Fritz shows me how to chop wood, which I take a particular liking to.  As the summer nears an end my six months with them means meetings and testing for school.  This scares me.  School.  Will all eyes be on me? 

            I’m tested and I’m placed in the appropriate grade – I’m a freshman in high school.  We still don’t know my true age.  I had spent almost two years at the treatment center so my testing seems close to the mark.  My reading has gained me knowledge but I have this underlying feeling that there are just certain things that I know.  That I was born knowing.  My new therapist calls it residual memory.  I’d call bullshit on that one sometimes, but I can’t.  I simply don’t know.  I would really prefer to just sit around the house and read and then fish when Fritz gets home, but that’s not going to happen.  So I give in.  Watch out world, here I come.

I climb the steps of the bus on the first day of school in August, yes, August because here in Northern Maine they have a three week vacation during potato harvest.  Going to school during the summer sucks, but I can’t stay home.  I visit the guidance counselor’s office and get my schedule.  I watch the floor more than where I’m going, I just want to get through this first day.  I know nothing of being friends with someone.  I’m still dealing with being close to MJ and Fritz and caring for them.  I do not think I’m very good at letting people in.

My day goes by without event.  I go to class.  I keep my head down and sit in a corner to eat.  I sit alone on the bus and when I get home I curl up and begin to read the novel assigned to us for my English class.  I can hear the whispers of some of the girls and a few of the boys about me, but I ignore it.  I shouldn’t be surprised.  I am the new girl. 

My days progress in the same way.  I go to school.  Keep my head down.  Come home and do homework.  I have dinner with MJ and Fritz, sometimes I go fishing with Fritz, and sometimes I watch movies or TV with MJ.  MJ insists that we watch comedies because I lack a sense of humor.  Ironically, I find that funny.   

Two weeks into my new routine, we are in physical education class, which is a hodge-podge of grades playing basketball.  My teacher, Miss Swan, allows me to sit back and watch for a few moments, I absently dribble a ball as I watch.  All of my teachers are aware of my lack of knowledge of certain things, including sports and social situations.  I have been lucky thus far that the teachers allow me to observe then participate.   

“Ready?” asks Miss Swan.

I nod.

She pulls out one of the other girls, who looks grateful because she’d been guarding one of the taller girls on the floor.  I take the ball and throw it in, moving swiftly towards an open position.  The ball comes back to me.  Sweeping it up with one hand I begin to dribble, twirling around another player, leaping into the air, and shooting.  The ball swishes through the hoop.  I blink in wonder.  Well.  That was easier than I had expected.   

“Hot damn!” yells one of the girls on my team.  She lifts her hand and I look at it oddly.  “You’re supposed to hit my hand, Lazar.  It’s called a high-five, girl.”

“Oh,” I say, doing as I’m told.  It is soon apparent that I’m good at this game.  Very good.  I hardly ever miss; the ball seems to go just where I want it, while I dribble, when I pass, when I shoot.  This shouldn’t surprise me.  We, MJ, Fritz, and I have noticed that is how I learn.  I watch and reproduce, mimicking actions and motions almost perfectly after one or two tries. 

The warning bell rings and we have fifteen minutes to shower and dress.  I walk impassively to the door of the locker room.  Maybe high school won’t be so bad after all. 

“Lazar!” calls out Miss Swan.

I slow my trudge and turn.  “Yes?”

“You’ve never played ball before?” she asks.

I shrug.  “I don’t remember anything except for the last few year, ma’am.  Complete amnesia.  I suppose I might have played before.”  That’s a lie.  I’ve never touched a basketball before today.  Another of the mysteries of me, I sometimes don’t like being me.  I just know that I have never done this before.  I shrug again.

“You want to try out for varsity, Lazar,” said Miss Swan.  It was more of an order than an offer.  I meet her grass green eyes, searching them to see if she thinks I’m telling the truth or not. 

“I’ll have to talk to Fr.. Er, my dad about it,” I say, “and my counselors too.  We sort of discuss all of my activities.”  I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.  “I’ll get back to you.”

“You do that!” she says gruffly.

I rush into the locker room, quickly stripping off.  I’m glad to have the clothes off me and take a fast shower.  I’m washed and dressed and out the door before the bell trills again.  Another five minutes to get to class.  A tall boy, with deep red hair and ice blue eyes falls into step with me.  “You can move,” he says.

“Huh?” I ask.  And here is the social awkwardness that I still can’t seem to get past.  No amount of watching comedies is going to fix this problem. 

He smiles.  It’s a sweet crooked smile.  Ah great, this is going to be a romantic comedy now, huh?  “I’m Vince, I play basketball too.  I came in and saw you, you’re – you’re amazing.”

My eyes flutter away from him and I walk faster.  Is this what a guy crushing on me feels like?  Mmm, interesting.  “Thanks.”

“Listen, what are you doing after class?”

“Going home.”

“Meet me at the top courts?  I want to see what you’ve got,” he says with a smile.  “A one on one game, come on, you know you can’t beat me.”

I narrow my eyes.  “No, I can’t.”

He stops short.  “Shit.”

I turn and look at him.  I’ve been looking at boys now since the first day of school, and admittedly some girls too.  He is tall, broad shouldered; his close cropped deep red hair suits his fair skin, and those eyes.  Oh those very sexy eyes.  “So, you wanted me to say that I could beat you so that I then had to stay after school and play one on one with you?”

He blinks.  “Yeah.”

“Didn’t work,” I say with a flash of a smile.  “I can’t stay.  I have to get home.  The late bus doesn’t go up by my way and I haven’t told Fritz, err, my dad that I’m staying late after school so he can pick me up after work.”

“I can drive you, I mean, if you want.  I’m sure Detective Lazar won’t mind.”

I laugh, walking backwards now towards my last class of the day.  “Really?  You think you know my dad?  He keeps a shot gun by the door for potential boyfriends.”

An amused look crosses his face.  “What does he do for guys who want to play ball with his daughter?”

“A sword,” I say without pause.

“Yeah,” says Vince, his lips twitch into a smile.  “I believe that.  Really, I’ll drive you home.  I’ll have you there at five sharp, Remy.”

“We’ll see,” I say, walking into the classroom and ending the odd conversation. 

“Remy!” calls out the girl that had high-fived me earlier.  Vanessa Wentworth.  “Was that Vince talking to you?”

I sit in my usual seat and she moves from hers and gives me an idle look, waiting for the answer that I’m sure she already knows.  “Uh-huh.”

“Wh-wha-what did he want?”

I shrug.  This is beginning to be a shrugging type of day.  “He wanted to play one on one later.”

Vanessa frowns.

“Basketball,” I say.  “Not sex.”

She laughs.  “Sure, that’s what they all say.”

I roll my eyes. Sex, that was not a place I wanted to go to anytime soon with someone who I didn’t know.  I had, in jest, asked Fritz when I could start dating.  What I’d really meant was when I could start having sex?  He said when I was fifty.  Both he and MJ explained to me that I was too young for sex.  I had to admit, my sexual urges were – well, overwhelming at times.  I think it was why I stay away from everyone all the time.  No contact, no attraction, right?

The class passed without incident and I was just about to step onto the bus when I caught a glimpse of Vince at the upper ball court.  No contact.  No attraction. 

Screw it.

I wave to the bus driver and he opens the door.  “Remy you getting on?”

“I’m going to catch a ride.  I’ll call Fritz, I promise.”

Fritz is, at times, over protective and everyone knows what my schedule is, or so it seems.  The driver nods and I jog off. 

I drop my backpack next to Vince’s after pushing open the chain-link gate and catch the ball that he tosses at me.  “Game on,” I say.

For forty-five minutes we play.  And we play hard.  Elbows, hips, shoulders banging against each other.  He doesn’t care that I’m a girl and I don’t care he’s a boy.  We just play.  No fouls are called, not like I’d know what a real foul is.  I’m almost the same height as him; at 5’9’’ I’m pretty tall for my age and he is at least six foot.  We are closely matched.  I’m wearing jeans and a tight red tee-shirt, which now clings to my sweaty body. 

Vince is sweating, his face slick and his shirt plastered to his body but at least he’s wearing shorts.  He pulls at his shirt, grasps the hem, and in one motion, yanks it over his head and off, before using it to mop his face.  A twinge of heat pulses through me; the heat that I’ve dealt with before – attraction – sexual heat that often clouds my coherent thoughts.

“So not fair that you can do that,” I say.  I bend over, hands on my knees, panting and looking away from him.

“Do what,” he asks?  “Beat you?”

“I’m winning,” I remind him between gasps of precious air.  “No, just strip your shirt off like that.  I’m stuck in this.”  I tug at my shirt and roll my eyes.

“You don’t have to be.”  I lock my gaze with his.  Those damn eyes!  And his chest, with just the hint of abs, long cords of muscles on his arms now gleam with sweat in the sunlight. 

“And have to have Fritz bail me out for indecent exposure?”  I shake my head. “Nope, I’m good; he’d kick my butt.”

Vince laughs.  “Point taken.”  He dribbles the ball, takes three steps back, and makes a run for the hoop, barely dunking it.  He bounces the ball to me.  “You win.  You’re right, you kicked my ass.”

I study the ball for a moment, cocking my head to the right, sizing up just how he’d done that.  I start at the foul line, dribbling twice and jump.  For the first time I feel free, the air around me swirls and I’m light on my feet.  Rearing both hands back, I slam the