There Is a Season, a foster's home for imaginary friends fanfic

There Is a Season

George Pollock, Jr.

The hills never change, she thought.

Oh, the trees on them change, she knew. From the emerald of summer to the color celebration of autumn to the black-and-white mystery deep sleep of winter. It was the green fuzz of spring now. The time of new life. That was a cliché, of course. She knew that, too. But nothing became a cliché without a truth that lay deep within. She should be glad for spring, she thought.

Still, she continued, I wish I were the hills. Not the trees. The hills never change. I wish things would never change now.

But they did: She had grown old. The willow in the front yard had died. The cast-iron fence around the house had been chipped and crooked and rusted for years. The curving auxiliary chimney cabled to the roof was still there, thank God. But God only knew how. Probably only by the grace of God, she figured.

And his grace was probably the only reason she had made it to 80, she thought. Thank God – again – she still had a clear mind, mostly. It had helped her keep things going this far. There was no one to carry on; not her son, not her granddaughter. Their interests, their lives went elsewhere, and she understood that. She respected that. But it was sad.

It was time for it to end. Time for a change.

And she hated it.

She turned away from the large window with its hills and trees, and she studied the curtains. They were dusty. I was never dusty, she thought. I tried, anyway. No grass growing under my feet, and no dust on my shoulders.

I tried, anyway.

The curtains, she noticed through her large circular wire-rimmed glasses, were a faded olive color. Just like my jacket, she thought. Her pale-yellow blouse underneath, though, was strong and starched. But her purple skirt had also outlived its vibrancy long ago. Other than the blouse, she was a pale vision of the early summer of her life. Even my hair turned white, she observed. Just like snow. The winter of my life. It was another cliché. But it's winter only if I make it, she thought.

But certainly the autumn was here. She couldn't deny that. The recent months had made that clear. It was all ending, and she couldn't do a damned thing about it. Not anymore. She had come to terms with that. Change was going to happen.

Embrace it, she urged herself. See it as a new start. Just like spring.

But I wish it wouldn't change.

The last thought whispered in her mind as if it had been spoken by a frustrated, sulking child. She remembered hearing once that the very old could be as childish as the very young. Well, none of that for me, she thought. I'll try, anyway.

There was a knock on the huge double doors at the far end of the large, empty office. She turned toward the sound. "Come in." The words actually echoed.

A man, also with white hair, entered. He was tall, with broad, square shoulders. She had known him since he was a child – a runt, even. How he ended up as such a man of stature, she had spent a lifetime wondering. He wore a black turtleneck shirt, tan slacks and the knee-length duster coat – also tan – that men of style wore these days. She stopped caring about fashion decades ago. She wore what she wore. It was good enough around the house.

The man also wore the wireless ear-comm that everyone wore now. Even her. But hers also was a hearing aid. Each unit also had a thin arm holding a tiny flip-down clear screen in front of an eye, for video feed.

The man approached, leaving the doors open. "Hey," he said. She noticed the manila folder he carried. It seemed strange to her that in an age when everything was digital, official business still wasn't official until it was on paper. More than anything, the paper in the folder would be the end of it all.

"Hey, yourself," she answered. Her cane tapped as she approached the large, opulent dark-oak desk she had worked at for decades, then sat in its plush accompanying chair. If nothing else, she wanted to be comfortable when it all ended.

He walked up. "Your granddaughter says she and her parents are almost done loading the truck. They'll be here for the desk and chair in a bit."

At the mention of the desk, she sighed and stroked the edge she sat next to. "This belonged to my grandmother," she said quietly.

"I know, Madame Foster."

She chuckled. "I never liked being called that. But I couldn't fight it. The residents kept calling me that. I just never felt like 'Madame Foster.' "

"You earned it. No one ever doubted that."

She stroked the desk again. "This always felt like home. Just sitting here."

"I'll be taking it to my new offices. And I'll take good care of it. You know that." Now he chuckled. "Besides, a lawyer always looks more important behind a big, old wooden desk. We can charge more that way."

"I'm glad it'll get a good home." She thought. "You've always been a good friend to this house. Thank you for that. I want you to hear that before I leave."

"Thank you for letting me keep my offices in the spare suite all these years. That was a big help when I started. And all through my career."

"Nice to have a live-in lawyer." Her eyes flickered deviously. "Most of the time …"

"And one who charged the house only half-fee." He grinned. "Most of the time …"

"Fair enough. How are you going to get the desk to your new place?"

"It'll be the last thing on the truck. We'll drop it off on the way to your new place at Briarfield Manor. I told you that."

She frowned. "Did you?"

"Yeah. Yesterday. Remember?"

An uncomfortable pause. "No." She looked down and spoke quietly. "I don't …"

"There's no pattern to that, Madame Foster," he noted. "All your exams indicate you're still in charge of your faculties."

She looked at him again. "I know, but sometimes … something like that frightens me."

"That's understandable at your age."

She smirked. "Hey, you're no spring chicken yourself, kid."

A smile. "True."

"I wish things wouldn't change …," she continued. "I could remember things better if they didn't change."

Suddenly, she slapped the desk. "But things are gonna change, and I'm not gonna be left in the dust! Still a lot of summer left in this old gal!" The grin that followed was forceful.

"Neverthought otherwise," he said smartly.

"So how's the family?"

"Good. My grandson loves his new friend. Just like his dad. And that old troublemaker blob is loving it. Being around a 9-year-old a third time has been like spring for him all over again." He smiled wickedly. "Thank God he's not my problem anymore."

"Speaking of problems, how's your brother?"

"Still a jackass. The worst kind: a jackass in his 70s."

"He still got married and had kids. Couldn't have been a complete loser."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, his wife is a piece of work, too. She keeps him in line. She was the only one who ever could. So imagine what she's like."

"Scary thought." She sighed. "Well … I'm glad at least one of the friends ended up well. Are you sure all the others are taken care of?"

"Yes, Madame Foster. I assure you. Whoever wasn't adopted – and there were damned few, and you know that – was accepted by ImagineCare. It has an exceptional record and an impeccable reputation."

"Corporate care for imaginary friends …" She shook her head. "What's the world come to … ?"

"I researched it myself. And you know I'd never send any friend anywhere if it didn't meet your standards."

"My grandmother's standards. That's all they were," she noted simply.

"Well, the folks at ImagineCare were damned impressed by them. They're even thinking of adopting a few."

"A few friends?"

"Standards, Madame Foster."

"Oh." She was quiet a moment, then bowed her head and spoke to the desk. "Well, I owed it to all the friends. And the Foster name."

"You've done very well by it," he said.

"And I'm the one who lost the farm …," she whispered to the desk.

"It's not like that. In no way. Stop that."

"Maybe if I'd been younger now. I could have started a new home …"

"Maybe."

When she looked up again, she snapped. "Why the HELL do they need another interstate?! WHY?! Why couldn't they have built it a block over?! HUH?! Tell me that!!"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I went to law school, not engineering school. Maybe the lay of the land was better here. I don't know, Madame Foster. I don't know."

"And why the HELL do we still have highways, anyway?! Why do we still have cars on the ground?! They were always promising us flying cars!!"

"Because the magnetic rails for mag-lev cars have to be in a solid substance like concrete. That much I do know."

She leaned forward and rested her hands on her forehead. A silence later, she spoke: "I'm sorry … God … Guess I've been holding it in …"

"Like I said, it's understandable."

She lowered her arms and crossed them on the desk. "No, I shouldn't take it out on you. You've always been a good friend to this house."

"You said that," he observed.

A puzzled look. "I did, didn't I? Well, I mean it."

"Thanks. Just remember I had my own reason for setting up my practice here and coming to work every day. That was important to me."

"Yeah." She smiled. "And remember how Harriman was always waiting for a chance to get rid of the blob?"

His smile answered. "Yep. God, you could see how he could almost taste any chance like that."

"I haven't thought of that old fart in years."

"Well, he's been gone for quite a few years, now."

"Well, when you're my age, the years blow by like a tornado."

He stroked his white hair and chuckled. "For a kid like me, too, Madame Foster."

"You?" She laughed. "You're a young punk!"

A knock echoed from behind, and, turning, they saw a young woman at the open doors. She wore the same sort of ear-comm as the others, and the screen was up at the moment.

God, the old woman thought, you can see the Foster in her. And of course, she was dressed like a Foster. She was Madame Foster's granddaughter.

But there were things unseen:

Her loose, green hooded jacket wasn't merely a garment. It was a wireless transceiver for the ear-comm.

Her orange full-length leggings were temperature-sensitive and adjusted to the ambient conditions. They kept her legs cool in summer when she wore them, then warm in winter – beyond their pure insulation quality. The old woman knew that the girl – well, she was 22 now – wore several colors of leggings. But she wore the orange ones the most. They were the color of happy, the youngster once told her. And the grandmother understood.

Her blue-and-white sneakers continually massaged her feet, based on the muscle tension that their sensors detected.

In fact, her purple skirt and white cutoff top were the only truly decorative pieces of her ensemble. The top had a retro design: the Powerpuff Girls in silhouette – each girl in her theme color.

My God, Madame Foster thought, do young folks even know who the Powerpuff Girls were? Then she remembered that people still bought items featuring Betty Boop. And that went back decades before the Powerpuffs. So maybe the girls weren't lost to time, after all. Betty would be good company for them to hang out with, she thought. She'd show them a few things about life. And they'd have fun doing it, too.

Purple and green. The Foster colors. She had always thought they clashed garishly. But when she'd go out, people knew that she was a Foster. Long before she became "Madame Foster." Her grandmother was always proud of being a Foster. And, she admitted in solitary moments, so was she.

If anything, the colors clashed with her granddaughter's long blond hair.

"Hey," the young woman said, greeting the man with a wave. She turned to Madame Foster. "Grandma, Mom and Dad are bringing in the hovercart for the desk soon. I'll take the chair when you're done."

The old woman nodded. "OK, dearie. We'll be finished here soon."

"Are we still on for your skydiving debut Saturday?"

"Oh, yes."

"OK. Back in a bit." With a swirl of blond hair, the young woman left.

Madame Foster thought. "Did I just say, 'dearie'?"

"Yup," the man answered, still looking at the empty doorway.

"My God, I've become my grandmother."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing." He faced her again. "Your granddaughter's grown into a wonderful, beautiful woman." He grinned. "If I were her age now …"

"… I'd kick your ass for messing with her," she finished, then smirked.

He shrugged playfully. "Fair enough." He slid the manila folder slowly across the desk toward her. "Here you go."

She opened the folder and scanned the densely printed document inside. "Are you sure," she started, "this is the best price we can get for the property?"

"Twice the market price." He sounded perversely proud. "That's how badly the state Transportation Department wanted it. So I made them pay." He grinned again. "Bad."

"When did you become such a bastard?"

" 'Bout the time you got old."

"That long, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

She studied the paper once more, then looked around and out the window. "Gonna miss this place. Spent my entire adult life here …" She looked at him again. "Thank God my husband could deal with living here. He gave up a lot for me."

"He was a good man, Madame Foster," he said. "I liked him. Always did. I was sorry when he died."

"Made a son with me. He has his father's eyes. Still." She chuckled. "And his nose. Not so sure he'd consider that a gift."

"A home. A husband. A son. And the friends. You've had a good life." He smiled. "I know. I've been watching you for nearly 60 years."

Silence. "It's spring …," she finally said and pulled a ballpoint pen from a pocket in her faded green jacket. "Time for a change. God, I need a change."

She placed the pen's tip on the paper. "Thank you for all your help in this. You've always been a good friend to this house."

"And you've been great for it, Madame Foster."

In a slow, slightly wavering hand, she signed and dated the document. She closed the folder and slid it back across the desk. "Thank God that's over," she sighed, bowed her head and leaned back in the chair. "Got things to do …" She looked up at him. "Gonna go skydiving Saturday. Wanna come with?"

He had picked up the folder, opened it and studied her additions to the document. "Nope," he replied, without looking at her. "Never saw the sense in jumping out of a perfectly good airplane in midair."

"Wuss," she sneered playfully. "Well, I'm going. Still a lot of summer left in this old gal, Mac."

"Never doubted that," he said, still reviewing her information:

"Frances Foster. April 11, 2063."