Note: I don't own anything, least of all Foster's Home for Imaginary Friend.
---Stale Memories---
An open fist jolted the four-year-olds face. Her cheek stung, tears welling up in her eyes. The man sauntered off in disgust, a thick bottle in his hand. The image faded. Next she saw a woman, heavy bags under her eyes, a cigarette in her fingers, and a couple of packs on the counter. The woman tossed the hungry young girl a package of Twinkies. The girl looked down at the cellophane-wrapped pair of yellow logs sadly. That image, too, melted into a darker room with sparse walls and a rough old couch. The only light was the flickering of a muted television. The young girl, clutching a cheap dollar-store teddy bear stood at the top of the stairs, watching the woman puffing a short clear pipe. The man was drinking from a brown tinted bottle. The stench was intolerable…again, the image dissolved. This time it faded from a melancholy grey to a neutral white. The sorrow of a four-year-old who tucked herself into bed yet again faded.
Frances Foster felt comfortable. She wasn't at home, the scent of old mansion and the white noise of thousands of imaginary friends was absent. Wherever she was, it was a friendly place. She smelled the faint scent of her grandmother's elegant old perfume. Madame Foster kept a secret stash of old French perfume from the 1930's in the house, and the delightfully affluent smell teased Frankie's nose. Her long-lashed eyes fluttered open, finding a sterile white room. She tilted her head to see her grandmother dozing in a generously-padded hospital chair at her left side.
"Grandma?" She asked softly, "Grandma?" The elderly woman yawned, lifted her head, and her eyes widened in surprise upon seeing the girl awake.
"Frankie!" She exclaimed, with as much relief and love as ever has been crammed into a single word. "Herriman!" she called out.
The door opened suddenly, and the six-foot grey-furred rabbit bounded in, "Miss Foster!" Frankie could hear the happiness in the voice. It was strangely warming, a tone strangely used by the stodgy and proper Mr. Herriman. The butler hopped over and gave the girl a generous hug, "Miss Frances, I…" he choked up a bit, "ahem…excuse me…" he hopped back out the door, and Frankie heard the rabbit crying with relief.
Frankie smiled weakly, "What happened to me?" She asked Madame Foster.
The old woman responded slowly, "Well dear, you were driving in a storm, the bus flipped on a sharp curve and rolled down a hillside. You've been asleep for a whole week, dearie!" the kind grandmother began to cry.
Frankie smiled again, a bit broader, "Grandma, I'm alright, don't worry."
Madame Foster smiled and dried her tears, "Yes, honey, you can come home soon."
The redheaded beauty felt a tear run down her cheek as her grandmother hugged her, "Grandma, I had the strangest dreams…" she said, in a voice reflecting a far-away feeling. As though she were straining to see a distant, hazy object across a broad snow-white beach on an azure sea, trying to find something familiar yet with a deep seeded feeling of fatigue and sorrow, the sun beating down upon her neck, blinding her eyes.
"I was a little girl, I don't know where or when, but I was seeing these two callous and unkind people around me, the same two. The man drank and beat me, the woman smoked, I think she was doing crack, even, and they totally neglected me. I felt completely alone…" She ended a bit timidly, as she realized the identities of this mysterious uncaring couple. Vocalizing the dream image opened a long-forgotten and, until now, locked door in her mind. "Grandma…were they my parents?" she asked with a note of sorrow in her voice.
Madame Foster was taken aback; she leaned back in her chair, sighing deeply. Her eyes held a familiar look. Once, when Frankie was 12 years old, she had seen that look before. They had stood outside the house, on the chilly November lawn, watching the house blazing. The look of Madame Foster conveyed a deep sense of tragedy; she wanted to bend her will towards God himself. The look was a sad one and a scared one, as if saying, "Please. Please don't let me lose this." Frankie saw the same look in the old, tired, woman's eyes as she began to respond to Frankie's' question, "Yes, Frankie, you're 22 and you should know this. Your parents, my daughter and her husband, were neglectful of you. My daughter was a drug addict, her husband an alcoholic. They started off good, Sally and Hank, high school sweethearts." She shook her head in disgust and overwhelming sorrow, "then they lost a baby, and it devastated them. They both turned to their respective vice of choice, and when Sally got pregnant again, ten years later, well…by that time they had forgotten why they had first found solace in the pipe or the bottle. You were born into this world, and they tried hard to at least appear to be good people. A weak façade, by the time you turned five, it had crumbled. I gained custody of you on your fifth birthday, and when you first came to Foster's, we threw you a big party. A big, loving party, you forgot your 'parents' within the year, like a puppy forgets its past owners. It may seem cruel, dear, but I never wanted to remind you of them, never wanted to tell you of them until you were mature enough to handle it." She paused, tears welling up in her eyes, "and I am so, so sorry honey."
Frankie sat under the white sheets, dumbfounded, "You…but…the car crash?"
Madame Foster shook her head, "What else was I to tell you? I meant to explain the truth to you when you turned 17, but I put it off. Again when you turned 18, but I didn't have the heart. I…I didn't want you to be sad, Frankie; I wanted to help you escape that. I was responsible for Sally's upbringing, I didn't raise her strong enough, didn't raise her well enough to face what life throws at you…I had another chance with you, Frankie; I could make you a strong young woman, a capable young woman. I may have sheltered you a bit, but I didn't want you to know the sorrow of that home." She looked totally dejected.
Like all loving children, Frankie's first thought was of her 'mother' Madame Foster. She hugged the elderly woman tight, "You did a great job, grandma, I love you very much."
Grandmother Foster smiled through the tears in her eyes, facing the window, embracing her granddaughter. The sun streaking through the gaps in the chain-drawn curtain panels warmed her. She was proud of Frances Foster.
Frankie sat up again, "The crash jogged my memory, I suppose? A neutral environment caused me to dwell on old and forgotten memories?" She asked a bit cheerfully.
Madame Foster smiled, "You aren't angry?"
Frankie shook her head, "Of course not, you are my mother."
Her grandmother sighed deeply with relief, "Where do you get these ideas of memory and environment, honey?"
Frankie grinned, "I read Freud!" She hugged her grandmother again.