Hello everyone! Welcome to the sequel to Telling Stories Again! If you haven't figured it out yet, this is a direct sequel to my story Telling Stories Again which I highly recommend reading before reading this one otherwise things won't make a ton of sense. As I mentioned in the summary, this is a collection of stories so there's no particular order or running narrative plot. Just a collection of stories from Ed's past, present, and future. I heard all of you guys and so the first two chapters will be covering the boys' time in foster care. The original document was over thirty pages long, so I had to split it up! I'm not sure when the second half will be up, but it'll be soon! The last thing I want to say before I stop talking and let you all read is that there is descriptions of child sexual abuse in this. It's nothing super explicit, but it is there so just wanted to get that out there so anyone uncomfortable with that can skip this chapter or that portion of the narrative. I tried to make it pretty obvious when it started so everyone sort of knew that's what Ed was talking about. Lastly, there is some mild child abuse (if there is such a thing) in this chapter as well as some panic scenes and things. Okay, I think I've covered everything so enjoy and I'll see you next time!
The long and winding road that leads to your door, will never disappear. I've seen that road before. It always leads me here; lead me to your door. The wild and windy night that the rain washed away has left a pool of tears, crying for the day. Why leave me standing here? Let me know the way.
- The Beatles
I remember living in foster care as clear as the abuse. Our week in foster care is burned in the back of my brain and honestly, sometimes it's scarier and harder to think about than the abuse, believe it or not. The day Al told Winry what was going on we spent all afternoon in the ER getting checked out and interviewed by so many people. We got to see Dad for a short time while we were there and after a short scare with Al (he ran away when our social worker told Dada he had to leave), we got discharged. That was terrifying. We knew that we were going to a foster home. A stranger's house. Our house wasn't good enough for the state. It wasn't safe. We didn't know what life would be like at the foster home. All we knew was that we were scared. We got in Mrs. Davis' car and she drove us to our foster parents' house. Dada had left about an hour before we were discharged and in that time, he had packed us each a bag and dropped them off at the foster home. The ride to the foster home was short but awkward. Al and me were scared and had no idea what living in the foster home would be like. All we knew about foster care was what we heard on TV or the internet. You know – stuff in trash bags (which is usually the case), never having contact with your family again, and since we were both older, aging out without a real home. That was all we knew and those things terrified us. Made it really difficult to hold a conversation when we were scared out of our minds. Mrs. Davis pulled into a subdivision not too far from our house and stopped at a typical, two-story house. The yard was neatly manicured, all the flowers perky and full. The yard sort of reminded me of how I always imagined Aunt Petunia's yard in Harry Potter looked. Made me scared that just looking at it would mess it up. Anyways, Mrs. Davis shut off the car and turned back to look at me and Al, the two terrified little kids in her back seat.
"Okay, boys," Mrs. Davis said to us gently, "We're here." We both just stared at her, Mrs. Davis sighing; "I know this is hard on you two. I'll do my best come Monday to expedite the process of getting you home to your daddy. Do you two have any questions before we go in?"
"How many big kids are living there?" I asked nervously.
"The Porters are currently fostering two boys," Mrs. Davis answered. "One is seventeen, one is sixteen." I shivered slightly, Al whimpering beside me.
"Th-That big?" I managed to choke out, my voice shaking. "Can we just go home? Dada never d-did anything m-m-mean to us, p-promise."
"Oh, Edward, I'm sure your daddy never did anything to you boys," Mrs. Davis replied sadly.
"If you know, why can't we go home?" I asked miserably.
"Because they are rules I have to follow for every case to ensure I keep children safe," Mrs. Davis told me. "There are measures in place to protect children we have removed from dangerous situations at home to prevent further harm and I have to follow them. I know it's hard to understand, but I have to follow protocol. I'm sorry, boys. If your dad passes our checks and cooperates, I'll have you home with him soon." We both stared at her blankly. It really felt like she didn't believe me. I really didn't understand what was going on and those ideas of foster care I had certainly didn't help. All I wanted to do was go home. Nobody said anything and Mrs. Davis sighed again. "C'mon, boys. Let's go in." We got out of the car and Mrs. Davis led us to the door. She knocked, a few seconds passing before the door opened. A skinny woman with graying hair tied back in a tight bun opened the door, her thin lips pulled into a smile. It wasn't just the yard that reminded me of Harry Potter – this lady looked just like how I always imagined Aunt Petunia in my head, way before I saw the movies. It really didn't make me feel any better, let me tell you.
"Mrs. Porter, thank you for taking them on such short notice," Mrs. Davis greeted, "and for agreeing to foster Alphonse." Mrs. Porter nodded and allowed us inside. We all walked in and she shut the door behind us.
"It's no trouble, Candice," Mrs. Porter replied, her voice reminding me of the way I always imagined rich people would talk. It sounded self-important and snooty somehow. Kinda hard to explain, I know, but I've always been bad at describing the way people sound. Anyway, Mrs. Porter took us to the living room. Al and I sat down on the couch, Mrs. Porter sitting on an armchair nearby while Mrs. Davis stood in the middle.
"This," Mrs. Davis said, pointing to me, "is Edward. He's the older brother."
"Thirteen, right?" Mrs. Porter asked. Mrs. Davis nodded and Mrs. Porter turned to look at Al, her narrow eyes making us both shudder; "So this is Alphonse?" Mrs. Davis nodded again.
"That's right," Mrs. Davis confirmed. "As I explained over the phone, this is a crisis placement. Their step-mother had been abusing them for seven years and their father seems to have had no idea it was occurring. I know you only foster teenage boys and that Alphonse is only eleven, but I didn't want to split up the sibling group, especially considering how fresh the abuse is."
"It just ended this afternoon, right?" Mrs. Porter asked as I silently began heaving on the couch. I grabbed Al's little hand, trying my best to not panic. I didn't want to make Mrs. Porter mad at me so soon after meeting her by freaking out.
"Yes," Mrs. Davis replied. "As you know, children that come from abusive situations often have a lot of baggage. There's probably going to be a lot of unpleasant behavior but hopefully they'll be home with their father by the end of next week."
"We've dealt with difficult children before, we'll deal with them again," Mrs. Porter said matter of factly as if me and Al weren't right there listening.
"Where are your other two foster boys?" Mrs. Davis asked.
"One of them is out with my husband and the other is out with friends," Mrs. Porter explained. "Gary and Tyler should be back soon, but David will be out for a while." Mrs. Davis nodded and looked over toward our bags.
"Why don't you show the boys to their room and then you and I can chat for a bit," Mrs. Davis suggested. Mrs. Porter stood up and headed toward the hallway. I quickly stood up, taking Al with me, and Mrs. Davis helped us with our bags. Mrs. Porter led us up the stairs and took us to the room closest to the stairs.
"This is your room," Mrs. Porter told us. "There's a bathroom across the hall. Get unpacked and a little later I'll lay down the house rules. Then we can get to know each other." I nodded, Al clinging to my hand like his life depended on it.
"I'll come check on you when I'm on my way out," Mrs. Davis told us both. She handed me a business card with her number on it. I took it and Mrs. Davis said, "Remember that you can call me at any time if you feel unsafe, okay? I can't help if you don't say anything." I nodded mutely again and I think she knew I wasn't gonna call her. I think she knew that no matter what happened, we wouldn't call her but maybe she felt that if she gave me her number, I might have the courage to call. The grown-ups left the room and I looked around the room, two twin beds separated by a nightstand with a lamp on it, the head of each bed pushed up against the wall. There were two chests of drawers and a closet. The room itself was a little smaller than our room at home, but it was still decent-sized. Al let go of my hand and walked over to the bag Dada had packed for him. He rummaged around, breathing heavily after a few minutes of looking.
"What's the matter?" I asked softly.
"I c-c-can't f-f-f-find Ch-Chico," he stuttered, starting to cry.
"Maybe Chico accidently got put with my stuff," I assured him. "Let's look, okay?" Al nodded, still crying, and I walked over to my bag. Right on top was my blanket and Lamby but there was no sign of Chico. I dug around, shaking my head.
"Uh-oh, Dada forgot him," I informed him. Al started crying harder and I quickly walked over to him. I pulled him into a hug and said, "It's okay, we'll call Dada and he'll bring him over." Al kept crying so I asked, "Wanna hold on to Lamby? He'll make you feel less scared. I've got my blankie so I'll be okay without him." Al nodded, starting to suck his thumb. I decided to ignore that for a minute and handed Lamby to him.
"Thank you," Al said, Lamby under his arm. He was still sucking his thumb so I decided I needed to at least remind him that Dada didn't want him to do that.
"Al, Dada doesn't want you to suck your thumb, remember?" I told him gently. "You're a big boy and you'll be twelve soon. Dada says that twelve is too old to suck your thumb." Al nodded, but his thumb stayed firmly between his lips.
"I'm scared," Al whimpered.
"I'm scared, too," I told him.
"I w-w-w-wanna go home," Al cried, tears starting to run down his face. "I w-w-want D-Daddy."
"Shh, don't cry," I shushed him frantically, "Don't cry! We'll get in trouble!" Al nodded and hugged Lamby tighter, trying to stop. I grabbed my blanket and started to put our clothes away. I finished unpacking my clothes and started to unpack Al's, noticing that Dada forgot to pack the Pull-Ups that Al was still wearing to bed. Dad went back and forth constantly on whether or not that was really a good way to deal with Al's bedwetting. Al's always had problems with that. Dad says that most kids are dry at nighttime around four or five. That never happened for Al. He's never been dry on, like, a constant basis like most kids. Dada thinks it's 'cause Al was four when the abuse started. I don't know. All I know is that it's been a struggle his whole life and once she came into the picture, that's just how they dealt with it, whether Dad thought it was beneficial or not. As Al got older, Dada started to question her but sorta got nowhere. Al hated wearing them 'cause she teased him and when he was little she forced him to stay in dirty ones all the time but I remember thinking that Dad probably should have packed them for our stay in foster care. None of us knew how our foster parents would react to, well, that.
"Okay," I said after unpacking both our bags, Al sniveling nearby with a thumb in his mouth. "You're all unpacked. Dada forgot the Pull-Ups so we gotta ask him to bring those when he brings Chico."
"I don't wanna wear them anymore," Al said around his thumb.
"Yeah, I know," I replied. "Mrs. Porter might want you to wear them, though. It is easier to deal with when you have an accident if you have them on." Al nodded and wiped his nose on his free hand. I knew Al was really scared so I decided to try and distract him a little; "Do you want to build something?"
"Huh?" Al asked.
"We can play with LEGOs if you want," I told him. Al blinked, a couple tears rolling down his face.
"C-Can w-w-we do a p-p-puzzle instead?" Al asked, stuttering behind his thumb. I nodded.
"Sure, okay," I replied. "Dada packed a couple puzzles and your favorite bedtime story. Maybe Mrs. Porter will read it to us."
"Like how Teacher reads it when we sleep over at her house?" Al asked. I nodded.
"Yeah," I answered. "Maybe Mrs. Porter is nice." Al nodded and picked out a puzzle. He picked his favorite – the one with a bunch of big cats. Al still has the puzzle and we still build it sometimes. It's a thousand pieces so it can take a while to build. I poured the pieces all over the floor and Al sat down next to me. I was hoping that doing something Al thought was fun would get his mind off of how scared he was and maybe he'd stop sucking his thumb. I didn't have much faith in the whole Mrs. Porter-being-nice-thing. No adults, besides a select few, were nice to us. They were either her or the teachers at school who looked at us like we were disgusting and bad. Adults were all lumped together in my mind as people who could and would hurt me, one way or another. But if pretending like Mrs. Porter was nice made Al feel better, I was prepared to fake my way through that for hours.
Al and I worked on our puzzle for a little while. Al slowly stopped sucking his thumb and I felt really proud of myself. He clung on to Lamby which I was okay with. I had my blanket so I was okay. Chico was at home somewhere and Al needed something to keep him calm. Dada did pack Al's second favorite stuffed animal, a bunny named Guppy, but Guppy didn't make him feel less anxious the way Chico did. Guppy would help Al fall asleep, but probably wouldn't calm him down when he woke up screaming later. Anyways, we didn't get very far on our puzzle when Mrs. Davis popped her head in. Mrs. Davis reminded me of the things I could call her for, including home sickness, if me and Al started to fight a lot, if we felt scared around our foster parents or foster brothers, and if anyone touched us in a way that made us scared. I nodded, that business card she had given me in my pocket. I think she just gave me those instructions because she was hoping that even if I never called her, I would tell Dada if any of that stuff happened and then Dad would call her. As Mrs. Davis left, she told me and Al and that Mrs. Porter wanted us to go downstairs and meet her in the living room. I nodded and took Al's hand. My blanket was in my other hand and I guided Al out of the room. I took Al to the living room and we sat down on the couch. Mrs. Porter walked in and sat across from us on a chair.
"Okay, so my name is Deborah Porter," Mrs. Porter introduced. "You may call me Mrs. Porter or ma'am. Nothing smart, got it?" I nodded, Al clinging to my hand. "Good. There are a few rules in this house. I do not tolerate lying or fighting. If I catch you doing either, you will be punished. There is no stealing or hoarding in this house. Noise levels must be kept at talking level and rough housing inside the house is not allowed. If you want to act like hooligans, you can go outside. You need to clean up after yourselves and your beds will be made every morning when you get up. Bedtime for Alphonse is 9:00 and Edward, I want you in bed no later than 9:45. You are not to use the phone or the Internet without permission and Internet, TV, and video games may only be used one hour at a time. You need to realize that I am not going to coddle you because someone abused you. I will help raise you into decent young men and part of that is discipline." We nodded, the word "discipline" rattling around inside my head. That word scared me more than anything. She always said we were bad and needed to be punished – we needed discipline. At that point, I really didn't know the difference between the two. Mrs. Porter then said, "The last thing I need to tell you is that you are not allowed to call your father for any reason while you're here." Sweat rolled down my face and I leaned closer to Mrs. Porter.
"M-Mrs. Davis s-s-said we could call him as m-much as we w-wanted to," I told her. She stared down at me, her narrow eyes making me feel very small.
"Well, I say you can't," Mrs. Porter said completely deadpan. I shook my head, my whole body shaking. I didn't understand. I mean, she always changed rules on us with no warning but this… this made me feel so unsafe. I sort of trusted Mrs. Davis despite only knowing her for a couple hours but this really destroyed any sense of safety I had. For Mrs. Davis to say one thing and Mrs. Porter to say a completely different thing really freaked me out in a way I can't really put into words. You wouldn't know unless you've been there and it really is the worst place in the word to be.
"B-But we n-need to c-c-call Dada," I stuttered. "Al's kitty Ch-Chico got l-left at home. W-We need t-t-to call D-Dada so he c-c-can b-bring Chico h-here."
"Sorry, Edward, but you are not to call your father," Mrs. Porter insisted. "It'll just make things harder for you, especially when you don't get to go home." My heart stalled a little bit. Everyone all day had been telling me that in a week or two, Al and I would be at home with Dad and our lives would slowly go back to normal. Well, as normal as they could at that point. I didn't know why Mrs. Porter said what she said and honestly, I never asked. I just sort of chose to ignore that comment, but that wasn't the first time Mrs. Porter said that to me. She said it a lot and it did begin to get into my head that we were never going home.
"B-But Al c-c-can't s-sleep without Chico," I argued weakly. "C-Can't we j-just call Dada th-this once?"
"No," Mrs. Porter said shortly. "Now, let's talk about sleep. Do either of you have any sleep disturbances?"
"Disturbances?" I questioned.
"Nightmares, night terrors, sleep walking, sleep talking, or – God forbid – bedwetting," Mrs. Porter clarified. I swallowed nervously and nodded.
"Yes," I whimpered.
"Okay, who deals with what?" Mrs. Porter asked.
"We both have nightmares and night terrors," I told her softly. "Um, I sleepwalk sometimes but Al never does. We, uh, both wet the bed. Al does it a lot more than me, but I do it sometimes. That's another reason we gotta call Dada. Al wears Pull-Ups to bed and –" Mrs. Porter held her hand up and I stopped talking immediately.
"Didn't I just tell you that I wasn't going to coddle you?" Mrs. Porter questioned sharply. My brow furrowed.
"Huh?" I asked, confused.
"Wearing a diaper means not having to deal with the consequences of your actions," Mrs. Porter explained harshly, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes even more somehow. "If you pee the bed, you will have to lie in it. If you pee the bed, you will be punished. Am I clear?" I swallowed nervously and shook my head.
"B-But w-we don't m-mean to," I said meekly.
"Does it matter?" Mrs. Porter questions, crossing her arms. "I think I've gone over everything. Do not call your father about the stupid cat or the diapers for you brother. Do you understand?" I licked my lips but nodded.
"O-Okay," I said, Al whimpering beside me.
"I-I n-need Ch-Chico," Al insisted miserably. "C-Can y-y-you please call D-Dada and t-t-tell him?" Mrs. Porter scowled at him.
"No," she snapped, Al starting to cry. Mrs. Porter raised up and slapped Al across the face. I flinched, Al falling silent instantly. "Cut it out. You're not an infant. You're nearly twelve-years-old. It's time to start acting like it and grow up." Al delicately cradled his cheek and I stared at Mrs. Porter. So much for her being nice to us. Even though I had serious doubt about Mrs. Porter being a nice person, I had stupidly hoped that maybe we'd get lucky. Maybe Mrs. Porter would be like Teacher – you know, tough but nice. It sucked realizing that me and Al weren't gonna catch a break and got stuck with a terrible foster parent. I guess it just matched the general trend of our lives at that point, but it still sucked.
"I need to make dinner," Mrs. Porter announced. "Stay out of trouble." Al wiped his face with his sleeve, his thumb slowly going into his mouth. Mrs. Porter scowled at him and ripped the thumb out of his mouth. "This is why I only foster teenagers. If Mrs. Davis hadn't insisted you two stay together, Al'd be sleeping in a juvie hall in Chicago tonight. You might want to behave and be grateful that Gary and I opened our home to you." Al whimpered softly and I nodded.
"W-We are," I told her. "We are."
"Good," Mrs. Porter said stiffly. The front door opened and Mrs. Porter told us, "That's my husband and Tyler. They'll come greet you." Mrs. Porter walked off to meet them and soon, a man and a teenage boy were in the living room with us. The man waved at us and we just stared at them.
"Hi, boys," he greeted. "My name's Gary. You can call me Mr. Porter if you want to."
"Ed-Edward," I said awkward. "I'm Edward and this is my little brother, Alphonse. I go by Ed and he goes by Al."
"Pleasure," Mr. Porter said, the boy glaring at us. Mr. Porter gestured to the boy and said, "This is Tyler. He's lived here, oh, about a year. Right, Tyler?"
"Yeah," the boy answered gruffly. He was a big guy, towering over Mr. Porter as they stood in the living room. Tyler had pale skin and dark, brown eyes. There was a dangerous look in his eyes, one I was really familiar with.
"Well," Mr. Porter said, looking at Tyler. "Is that all you're going to say to these boys?" Tyler scowled at Mr. Porter.
"I'm seventeen," he spat. "I play football." Tyler turned to Mr. Porter and angrily asked, "Better?!"
"Cut the attitude," Mr. Porter scolded. He turned back to me and Al and asked, "So, how old are you two? You look pretty young and I know one of you isn't quite a teenager yet."
"I'm thirteen," I squeaked. "Al's eleven, but he'll be twelve soon." Mr. Porter nodded.
"Ah, okay," he replied. "Well, make yourselves at home, boys. Tyler, be nice to these boys. From what Deb told me over the phone, the abuse ended just hours ago and this is a crisis placement as their father is being investigated." Tyler waved his hand around dismissively.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever dude," Tyler muttered, staring at me and Al. I shivered, Mr. Porter walking off. We stared at each other for a little while before a smile spread across Tyler's face. I swallowed, that look in his eye scaring me. The look reminded me of how she would look at us when she would cook up new ways to torture us.
"So, ya'll ever had sex before?" Tyler asked. Al looked at me, obviously confused. At eleven, Al didn't really have a good idea of what sex was, unless it was about making babies. I shook my head. Honestly, I didn't really have a good idea of what it was, either. Tyler smirked and went on; "You mean to tell me who ever abused you never made you hard or fucked either of you?" My heart began thumping in my chest and I shook my head again. Tyler scowled at me and demanded, "You both stupid or something?"
"Um," I squeaked, unsure of which question to answer first. "V-Vanessa n-n-never b-b-bad touched us."
"Bad touch?!" Tyler laughed. "Shit, kid! You're thirteen? Damn!" I stared at him and Tyler got closer to me. He grabbed my shirt collar and I yelped a little. "How about tonight I show you what I'm talking about? How about we spend some time together in your bed and I fuck your tiny little body? Would that be better or worse than what Vanessa did to you?" I swallowed nervously. I didn't really know what he was talking about. I figured it had something to do with sex, but me and Al were a little behind in that area. All I knew was that I didn't want Tyler or anyone else to do that to me or Al. Tyler looked over at Al who was shaking next to me and said,
"I could do it to both of you. Or I could just beat the shit out of both of you." I squirmed, starting to get panicked. I didn't want to get hit by anyone. I had had enough of that growing up with her. Bad thoughts started to creep into my head. All I could think about was the last couple days I had suffered, getting beaten every day and getting locked up for hours on end. All I could think about was the chain; how she still loved to chain me to it and beat me with it after seven years of abuse. I started crying, Tyler finally letting go of my shirt.
"I was just fooling. Shit, kid." Tyler told me as I sat on the couch and cried. "I ain't never done any of that nasty stuff. David has, though. I'd watch out for David if I were you. He loves touching and fucking little kids like you. You should both stay the fuck away from him." Neither of us did anything, so Al cuddled into my side and Tyler left. I continued to cry loudly, Al holding on to me so I'd calm down.
"What on earth is going on?" Mrs. Porter demanded from somewhere nearby. I was crying too hard to locate where she was. Plus, she sounded super annoyed, so I really didn't want to look at her. If I did, I'd probably just cry harder.
"Um," Al squeaked, obviously nervous, "Br-Brother's sc-scared. Th-The b-b-b-big k-kid w-was m-mean t-t-t-to him."
"Well, if Edward wants to eat tonight I'd suggest that he stops that noise," Mrs. Porter said, clearly annoyed with me. "It's time for Edward to start acting like a teenager and less like a toddler. I suppose when your father wasn't allowing someone to abuse you he was coddling you and spoiling you both rotten." I just kept crying, the mention of Dada making me feel worse than I already did. Al started to rub my back, Mrs. Porter tapping her foot loudly nearby.
"I'll give Edward to the count of three to stop crying and if he doesn't, he'll be sent up to his room without dinner and can cry all he wants there," Mrs. Porter announced, crossing her arms. I tried to stop, I really did, but couldn't. I was just too upset and scared. I heard her say three and when I wasn't done crying my eyes out, I felt someone grab me by the hair. I screamed, trying to get away as my breathing got panicked.
"L-Let me g-g-go!" I cried, freaked out. "I'll b-b-be a g-g-good boy!" The person dragged me to my feet and let me go. I continued crying loudly, my chest heaving as I stood there unsure of where I was or what was even going on.
"Go to your room, Edward," Mrs. Porter instructed coolly. "Go make that noise upstairs." I stood still for a moment before walking toward the stairs. Instantly Al began to follow me, stopping when someone grabbed his arm. He yelped loudly and jumped a bit, the unwelcome touch scaring him. "Where are you going, Alphonse?" Mrs. Porter demanded sharply.
"W-With B-B-Brother," Al stuttered, his little voice shaking.
"No, you're not," Mrs. Porter informed him bluntly. "He's being punished. You're not. You cannot follow him around." Al's lip trembled and he took my hand.
"I w-w-w-wanna b-b-be with E-Ed," he told her. "I-I'm sc-scared."
"You boys aren't very bright, are you?" Mrs. Porter commented with a sigh, still holding on to one of Al's arms. "I bet it's all the blunt force trauma. I'll make this as simple for you as I can. Ed was a bad boy. Ed did not listen when I told him to do something. Ed is in trouble. You were not bad. You are not in trouble. Make sense?"
"B-B-But B-Brother wasn't b-b-bad," Al argued gently. "He's j-j-just c-crying 'cause h-he's sc-sc-scared."
"Do you always stutter?" Mrs. Porter questioned, obviously irritated. Al shook his head so Mrs. Porter instructed, "Then until you're finished stuttering, I don't want to hear a peep out of you. Now, let go of Edward's hand."
"God, Deb, just let the kid go with his brother!" I could hear Mr. Porter complain from a different room. "You'll have them both crying if you separate them!"
"Don't tell me what to do!" Mrs. Porter snapped, a fight breaking out between the two of them. I tugged gently on Al's sleeve and guided him up the stairs. We went and hid in our room for the rest of the evening, my stomach growling loudly as I was denied dinner.
That night before Al was supposed to go to bed, Mrs. Porter came into our room. We eyed her carefully, Mrs. Porter rolling her eyes at us. I didn't know what she wanted but I did know was that I was terrified of her and the foster boys, even the one we hadn't met yet. We hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms in the home. I had been grabbed – twice – threatened and made fun of just in the span of a couple hours. I had also been denied dinner just for crying so I really wasn't sure what Mrs. Porter wanted from us. I was scared we had somehow done something wrong and that she was here to punish us. Well, I was half right. Once she was in the room, Mrs. Porter held up a box of trash bags for us to see. My brow furrowed and I swallowed nervously. I had no idea what she wanted to do with those but I had a nasty feeling that it wasn't good.
"Strip your beds," Mrs. Porter instructed. I nodded and did so, helping Al 'cause he was shaking so bad. He could hardly hold on to the sheets and blankets. We put all the bedding on the floor and Mrs. Porter stepped forward. She pulled a trash bag out of the box and began to cut the bag open so it sort of looked like a blanket. I watched her put it on one of the beds. She pulled some duct tape out of her back pocket and she tapped the bag to the mattress. She then took another bag out of the box and did the same thing to it, taping it to the other mattress.
"There," she huffed.
"Uh, sh-should I put th-the sheets b-back on?" I asked softly. Mrs. Porter put a hand on her hip and rolled her eyes.
"Jesus, no," she snapped at me and I flinched violently. "You'll sleep right on the trash bag and if you pee on it, you'll have to either lie in it or be honest and admit it happened so I can punish you properly. Got it?" I nodded.
"S-So… I mean… d'you w-want us t-to tell you?" I stuttered.
"I'd prefer if you didn't do it at all," Mrs. Porter told me, irritated. "But if it happens, yes, I'd like you to tell me so I can punish you. You are much too old to be pissing in bed." My lip shook a little but I nodded.
"I-I… I know." I sniffled and hung my head, wiping my nose on my hand. "I-I'm sorry. We're sorry." I meekly glanced up at Mrs. Porter whose lip was upturned in a sneer.
"Alphonse, get ready for bed," she instructed harshly, starting to leave. Al watched her go, the door slamming so loud it scared him. He started crying and I hurried over to comfort him. I really wanted to avoid getting in trouble.
"Don't cry," I instructed gently. "It's okay. I'll help you get ready for bed. It's okay." Al cried and cried and I didn't know what to do. I wanted to call Dada and ask him to comfort Al somehow over the phone but didn't know what Mrs. Porter would do to us if we did. I just hugged him tight and rubbed his back until he calmed down.
"Put your jammies on, Al," I told him. "I'll get ready, too, okay?" Al nodded and got dressed, sniffling loudly. Once he was dressed I took his hand and walked him to the bathroom. We took turns and I made sure Al went potty before we went back to our room. I really wanted to avoid getting in trouble for having an accident. We got back to our room and I had him get on one of the beds. I tucked him in as best I could and decided to read the book Dada had packed for us. It was our worn copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, Al's absolute favorite picture book growing up. I sat on the edge of his bed, Al staring up at me with big, wide eyes. I knew what he wanted – he wanted me to sleep with him 'cause he was scared. We both were. But the beds were very small and neither of them would fit both of us.
"It's okay," I whispered softly. "I'm gonna take care of you. I always do." Al nodded and I started to read; "There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink satin." I read the whole book to him and when he was sleeping, I leaned in and kissed his forehead, whispering,
"I love you." I realize now that I definitely had more of a "dad" mindset toward Al, especially at that time when I really wasn't sure if we were really going to be able to go home. Everything Mrs. Porter had said completely contradicted what Mrs. Davis had said and that was really confusing, especially considering how unstable and scary that day had been. Hell, my whole life had been like that to a certain extent. With Mom being sick, Dad doing the single parent-thing, and then the whole thing with her had made our lives very unstable and that has had a lasting effect on me and Al. Anyway, I put the book on the nightstand separating our beds and crawled into mine, turning the light off and hoping and pray that we didn't have any accidents, didn't sleepwalk, and didn't have any bad dreams. Unfortunately for us, a living nightmare was going to happen just a few hours later.
After sleeping for a while, I woke up from a nightmare and thankfully I didn't scream as I woke up. Unfortunately, I realized I had wet the bed. I sat up for a second, my throat feeling tight. I wasn't sure what to do. I knew what Mrs. Porter had told me, so I needed to decide if laying in it all night was worse than admitting it happened. As I sat there in my own piss, I decided that I would only be in worse trouble if I didn't come clean, so I put my leg on and got out of bed. Now, this memory has been buried so deep down inside of me for so long that it wasn't until very recently that I even knew it happened. But now – now that it's all out in the open, I remember every detail like it just happened yesterday. I walked down the hallway to Mrs. Porter's room and slowly opened the door. I peeked inside, terrified. I had no idea how Mrs. Porter punished bedwetters, but I knew how she punished us. I didn't want to be sprayed with the hose. I swallowed my fear and walked inside, Mrs. Porter sitting up in bed as I did. I started shivering and she turned a lamp on.
"Edward?" She questioned. I quivered and nodded, stepping a little closer.
"I, um, uh," I struggled, my voice barely above a whisper. I shook my head, starting to cry as I said, "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I didn't mean to but I, uh, had an accident in bed."
"Well, at least you're honest," Mrs. Porter sighed, standing up. She walked over to me, towering over my cowering little body and smacked my cheek. I wasn't expecting it, so I fell over, hitting my head on the floor. I quickly sat up and scooted away, Mrs. Porter reaching for me. She grabbed my hair and I was so scared that I couldn't make a sound. She basically dragged me from the room and I was frozen in fear. I didn't kick or fight or even cry as she dragged me back to the room Al and I were sharing. Once we got there, Mrs. Porter pulled me on to my feet by the hair and pushed me into a corner of the room.
"Stand here until morning," she instructed harshly. "Think about how badly your legs hurt the next time you piss in the bed." I nodded and she left. I silently stood there, feeling more worthless and disgusting in that moment then I had in a while. I hung my head and started to cry, my eyes burning. My one real leg began to ache after a while, the door slowly opening. I froze and could hear Al noisily moving around on his trash bag covered bed. A large boy snuck in and I quickly looked away. I was terrified. I remembered what Tyler had said about the other foster child David – how David loved to molest little boys (though Tyler didn't put it that way) and was terrified of what he would do to me. I didn't even consider that Al was going to be his target. That is, I didn't consider it until he hovered over Al's bed. I turned my head as Al began to shake and heard the pee splash on the trash bag. I watched as the boy gently shushed Al, his large hand slipping under Al's clothes.
"Wh-What are you doing?" I asked, that boy David looked right at me.
"You better not say a God damned word about this or I'll do it to you," David threatened. "Then I'll fucking beat you until bleed and kill you if you ever tell anyone. Got it?!" I swallowed and nodded, David turning his attention back on to Al who was crying.
"D-Dada's g-g-gonna b-bring us home b-b-before my b-b-birthday," Al whimpered softly. I wanted to do something, but I was too scared. David's threat terrified me and I was scared that if I left to get Mrs. Porter that she wouldn't believe me and punish me more than she already had.
"No, he's not," David hissed harshly. "He's never coming back for you kids. You're just worthless, piece of shit foster kids now. Nobody gives a damn about you and your dad's never gonna come get you. He doesn't care. He never did, trust me." I could sort of see Al desperately trying to push David's hand away, but he was too weak.
"St-Stop," Al begs. "I-I d-don't w-w-want…." Al trialed off and I licked my lips as David shushed him gently.
"Don't touch him," I whispered, David turning toward me.
"Shut your fucking mouth," David warned. I swallowed hard and David softly told Al, "It's okay. It's okay. You're fine. This'll feel good, I won't hurt you. This is our secret." David pulled Al's pants down and I watched David molest him. I cried heavily, shaking as I watched him do things that are just unspeakable to a scared, helpless, little kid. I couldn't watch for long and covered my eyes, my legs shaking. I felt completely trapped and unable to help him and, if I'm honest, I still blame myself for the whole thing. I mean, I was scared into not saying anything and logically I know it's not my fault but sometimes I still blame myself for what happened to Al. Anyways, we were both crying and David slowly stopped touching him and as David snuck back out of the room I asked Al,
"Al? Are you hurt? Are you okay?"
"I-I'm okay," Al whispered softy. "My privates hurt." I nodded and Al started wailing softly, saying; "I wet the bed!" I walked over and sit down next to him, Al crawling up into my lap. I started to rock him back and forth, Al's shaking little fingers gripping desperately on to my clothes.
"I'm sorry," I whispered gently. "I can't hold you for long. If Mrs. Porter finds out, I'll be in so much trouble." Al nods, resting his head down on my shoulder.
"I know," he replies. I continued to rock him back and forth, Al crying himself back to sleep. I put him back on to the soaked bed, wondering if I should tell Mrs. Porter now that David was gone. But I was scared that she either wouldn't believe me or be more upset about Al having an accident instead of being upset about David molesting Al. I didn't want Al to have to stand in the corner all night or worse, so I decided that I would tell in the morning. Too bad I wimped out.
That morning, Mrs. Porter came into our room to tell me I could take a shower and get out of the corner. She found out Al wet the bed and smacked him on the cheek then told him he couldn't eat breakfast. As I got ready to take a shower, I was seriously gonna tell her what happened. My heart was beating loudly as she scolded Al and I timidly said,
"M-Mrs. Porter?" I stuttered nervously. She turned to me, her narrow eyes burning a hole right through me. I nervously looked around, a long shadow being cast on the floor. I froze, my eyes sliding over to see David in our doorway. I swallowed hard and looked back at Mrs. Porter who was crossing her arms.
"Well?" She demanded, Al sniffling on the bed. He looked at me with wide eyes, silently begging me not to tell. I nodded and just said,
"Al… Al has to eat a little when he takes his medicine."
It was then I decided to force that memory down inside of me so far that I'd never have to relive it again.
The rest of that Saturday was like a waking nightmare. David stalked us all over the house, cornering us and trying to beat us up. I guess he was making sure we weren't gonna say anything to anyone about what happened. When David wasn't messing with us, Tyler was and when he wasn't, Mrs. Porter was yelling at us and punishing us for everything. Like, Mrs. Porter wanted us to set the table for lunch, so we did, but Al was shaking so he accidently dropped a plate. It broke, of course, and Mrs. Porter got really mad at him. She yelled at him, roughly grabbed his arm and shoved him into a corner. She didn't let him eat lunch so I tried to sneak a snack and got caught. While she was yelling at me I started to have a panic attack and that didn't go over with her well at all. I ran off and hid in a closet, Mrs. Porter finding me and getting me in trouble. She constantly called us the worst foster children she had ever dealt with and it only got worse. She also kept telling us that we were never going to go home, especially since we were so badly behaved. I didn't want to believe her since Mrs. Davis had told us we were going to be home soon, but Mrs. Porter's words began to taunt me, crawling up into my heart and staying there.
Al was finally allowed to eat at dinner time but he ended up trying to hoard some leftovers in our room. Mrs. Porter did nightly room checks, so of course she found the food and he got in trouble. I wanted to call Dada but every time I got near the phone, I got caught and yelled at. I was starting to fear that this was our life now, and honestly nothing had really changed. We were basically being abused and Mr. Porter never stood up for us, even though he was at least somewhat nice to us. That night, I did exactly what I did what I did the night before, reading to Al as he fell asleep. I decided that even though the bed was small that I was gonna stay next to Al to keep him safe in case David tried to molest him again. I laid there, my throat getting tight as I thought about Dad. I missed him so much and I just wanted to go home. I hugged Al tighter and cried myself to sleep, wondering if we were ever going to see Dad again.
"Ed?"
I groaned, the trash bag beneath me making noise as I sat up. I shivered and realized I was wet. Great, I thought. I looked over to find Al sitting on his knees beside me. It was dark, so I turned the lamp on next to the bed and saw how pale and sweaty he was. He was panting, his arms wrapped around his middle as he hunched over, clearly in pain. I sat up as he said, "I had an accident."
"Yeah, I know," I whispered, trying not to wake the Porters up. I didn't want Al to have to stand in the corner all night long like I did.
"I don't feel good," Al moaned softly. "It hurts to go potty." My brow furrowed.
"It does?" I asked. He nodded so I asked, "Was it hurting all day?" Al nodded again.
"Yean and I woke up having an accident," Al whimpered pathetically. "It burned and my back hurt so bad that I just keeping peeing in bed even though I knew it was wrong." He pawed at his eyes, a little wail escaping his lips.
"Shh, don't cry," I instructed softly. "It's okay, don't cry." He gripped his tummy, groaning softly as he sat in the puddle he had made on the trash bag covering our bed. I knew something was wrong, that he was sick, but wasn't sure what to do. If I told the Porters what happened, they would probably only punish Al for wetting the bed. I didn't want that to happen but also knew hiding it would just prolong the punishment until the morning. I frowned, Al panting heavily as he was still in pain, and tried to think of what I should do. The only thing I could think of was calling Dada, but Mrs. Porter made it quite clear on Friday evening that calling Dada was out of the question. But I didn't know what else to do.
"I'm gonna call Dada," I whispered, Al shivering. "But let's change first. You can lay down on the couch while I call him if you want, okay?" Al nodded, but his lip was still trembling. "What?"
"I've been leaking," Al admitted to me softly.
"Oh," I breathed awkwardly. "Um, that's okay."
"It hurts, Brother," he whimpered. "It hurts so bad." I frowned, wondering what could be wrong with Al.
"Is there blood in your pee?" I asked. He shook his head.
"I don't know," he replied. I was beginning to suspect he had a bladder infection or something like that. That would explain the burning and the leaking. But what about the intense pain and his back hurting? Those didn't fit the bill of a bladder infection. At least, I didn't think it did.
"Let's get dressed," I instructed gently, creeping out of bed. Al nodded and I helped him out of bed, worried by how warm and sweaty he was. He was shaking, which isn't that unusual, but it was different somehow. I helped Al peel his drenched clothes off, Al still panting and doubled over. I was worried about him and hoped Dad would know what to do. I examined Al's clothes to see if there were any blood stains anywhere and sure enough, there were. I didn't think that bladder infections caused bloody pee, but I remember thinking that maybe they did. I could only remember that when he had appendicitis a couple years ago, he had bloody pee and that scared me. I took Al's hand when we were both dressed and snuck out of the room. Al walked hunched over next to me, his arms still wrapped around his tummy. I guided him down the stairs to the Porters' kitchen where their home phone was. I knew it was late, but I figured that poor Dada wasn't sleeping since the three of us were apart and he was worried sick. I dialed the number, Al moaning beside me, and held the phone up to my ear.
"Hello?" It didn't take more than two rings for Dad to answer.
"Dada? It's Ed." I said in a hushed voice.
"Honey, it's late," Dad told me gently. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes," I whispered urgently. "Dad, Al's sick. He's running a fever, I think, and his back and tummy hurt, he says it burns to pee, and he's got blood in his pee."
"My goodness," Dada said worriedly. "Is there a thermometer around you can use to take his temperature? Have you told Mrs. Porter?"
"I haven't told her," I answered. "I, uh, didn't know if she'd listen to me. W-Will you take us to the ER?"
"Ed, sweetie, I'm not sure I can," Dada said, his voice shaking. "I don't want to do anything that could keep us apart longer."
"Yeah, but, Dada," I replied, a lump in my throat. "I'm scared. I'm scared, Daddy. Can you come pick us up and take Al to the ER? Please?" I heard Dad sigh, Al moaning again.
"Ed, I don't think I can," he said miserably.
"But this could prove to her that you love us!" I cried, forgetting that I was talking in a whisper to avoid being caught by my foster parents. "The Porters don't even like us! They make us sleep on a trash bag and made me stand in the corner all night for wetting the bed last night!"
"What?" Dada demanded, Al tugging on my sleeve frantically. My heart slowed down and I cautiously turned to look behind me, Mrs. Porter staring at me with her hands on her hips. My knees started shaking, Dada saying my name worriedly on the phone.
"Who's on the phone, Edward?" Mrs. Porter asked, though I knew she knew who it was. I swallowed hard and shook my head, my shaking hands trying to keep a grip on the phone.
"Uh," I vocalized anxiously, Mrs. Porter's beady narrow eyes staring at me.
"Give me the phone, Edward," she instructed harshly. "You know you aren't supposed to talk to your father."
"B-But it's an emergency," I said meekly, my voice shaking. "Al's sick." Mrs. Porter rolled her eyes.
"Sick or not you know I told you on Friday that you can't call your father," she insisted.
"But… but Al's sick," I argued weakly, cradling the phone in my arm like it was a baby. "He's sick. Dada needed to know."
"Let me speak with him," Mrs. Porter told me. I didn't want to give the phone up, but knew I had to. I gave her the phone and she instantly said, "I don't want you talking with them. It only makes it harder for them to adjust." Al gasped loudly beside me, bent in a 90-degree angle. He was panting harder than before, obviously in pain.
"You okay?" I asked worriedly. He shook his head, his face both pale and green at the same time.
"No," he groaned. "I don't feel good."
"I'll probably be taking him to the ER," Mrs. Porter told Dada over the phone. "You want to come? I don't know, maybe. Fine, whatever. Just tell her. Bye." Mrs. Porter hung up the phone and turned to us.
"As angry as I am that one of you wet the bed and didn't tell me, you called your father which I specifically told you not to do. I can't punish either of you right now, though, because we're going to the ER," she told us, clearly irritated.
"Is Dada gonna meet us there?" I asked timidly. Mrs. Porter nodded, though she was glaring at me. I knew she was mad. I knew she was. And that made me feel so anxious.
"Yes," she replied stiffly. I licked my lips, my trembling hands twisting my shirt around.
"I'm sorry I called Dada, but I didn't know what else to do," I told her frantically. Her eyes narrowed and I went on, "I knew you'd be so mad at Al for wetting the bed that you wouldn't listen when I told you he was sick so I called Dad. I'm sorry. I'll be good. I'm sorry."
"What did I tell you about wetting the bed, Edward?" Mrs. Porter asked me harshly. I swallowed hard and took a shaky breath.
"Th-That we're too old and we have to tell you so we can be punished," I responded, my voice shaking.
"And you chose not to do that tonight," Mrs. Porter scolded. "You bad boys." My lip trembled and I shook my head.
"We… I… he didn't mean to," I defended him. "Honest, he didn't. It was an accident. Al's always wet the bed, ever since he was really little. He didn't mean to. Don't punish Al. He's sick. He didn't mean it."
"Intention doesn't define morality, Edward," Mrs. Porter told me blandly. She whistled loudly and pointed toward the hallway, both me and Al flinching. "Let's go!" Al stumbled a bit and I quickly caught him before he fell. That was the last thing he needed.
"You can ride on my back," I whispered. He looked gratefully at me and I helped him on to my back. I carried him to the Porter's garage, Mrs. Porter staring at us as I helped Al off my back and into the back seat of her car.
"I don't appreciate you telling your father about the private things that go on in this house," Mrs. Porter told me after I had crawled into the back seat with Al and shut the door.
"I'm sorry," I apologized, terrified. "I'm sorry. I tell Dada everything and I was scared that –" Mrs. Porter chortled loudly at me, cutting me off.
"You tell your father everything?" She laughed. I nodded. "Everything?" She asked me again and I nodded. "Then why didn't you tell your father about the abuse you claim he didn't know about if you tell him everything?" I froze, sweat running down my next as I tried to think of something to say. I was coming up short, though. Mrs. Porter snickered at me and I glared at her, suddenly very angry. Tears of anger burned in my eyes, my throat tight. How dare she talk like that?! She had no idea what she was talking about!
"Don't laugh at me," I warned her. She huffed.
"What are you going to do, Edward?" She teased. "Tell your dada?" I blinked, those tears running down my face. I sniffled, wiping my face with my arm. I wanted so badly to be the angry, abrasive foster kid that I had always heard about on TV. If I was, I could protect me and Al from the Porter's two other foster boys. If I was, Al wouldn't have been molested by David. If I was, Mrs. Porter wouldn't tease us or punish us for shit we couldn't control. I wanted to be the angry, aggressive kid who beat up the people who looked at me funny, beat up the kids who beat Al up, and threw fits all the time. I wanted to be that kid so bad. But I wasn't. I wasn't that kid. I was the kicked puppy. I was the tender-hearted, big baby who just wanted his daddy. I was the soft kid who wanted to protect his little brother but couldn't because he was soft.
"That's what I thought," Mrs. Porter commented smugly. I took a haggard breath, crying harder as Al weakly rubbed my back. I didn't understand why Mrs. Porter was so mean. Mr. Porter, while not the best dude I had ever met, was at least nice sometimes. Mrs. Porter was downright terrible. She had been mean to me and Al since Friday night and I had no idea how long we would be staying there. I really didn't want to stay with them anymore, especially with Al's birthday coming up, but I had no idea how long it would take for child protective services to decide that Dada was a fit parent. Part of me was scared they never would. It wasn't exactly stacked in his favor. Seven years of abuse going unnoticed didn't exactly paint him in a good light. I knew that. I wasn't stupid. But I also knew that I wanted to be with Dada and with no one else. I didn't want to live with anyone but him, terrible things and all. The way the things were going though, I was scared that Al and me would be trapped in the foster care system forever.
We made it to the ER and Mrs. Porter did her best to start the process of Al getting seen. They took his vitals and she explained the situation, assuring the staff that it was okay that our dad was coming. I'm pretty sure that under normal circumstances, a visit with a parent needs to be supervised with the social worker, but I'm not sure. All I know is that both Mrs. Porter and Dad assured all of us that it was okay for him to be with us. I guess he got permission from Mrs. Davis since it was an emergency. I don't know. We sat in the waiting room, never speaking, just waiting for Dad to walk through the door. It took a few minutes but soon, he was there with a backpack. I stood up, Dad hurrying over and hugging me tight. I hugged him back, his cologne filling my brain and helping me to breathe again. The hug ended and Dada picked Al up and held him, Al resting his head on Dada's shoulder.
"Daddy," Al moaned softly, Dad sitting down and cradling Al like he was a baby. Dada rubbed his back, Al crying softly into Dad's shoulder. "It hurts so bad, Dada."
"Shh, I know, I know," Dada soothed. "Dada's here now, Alphie. Dada's got you." Al shivered, crying and whimpering on Dad's lap. I laid my head down on Dad's arm, Dad kissing my hair and sighing sadly.
"I miss you," he told me softly.
"I miss you, too, Dada," I replied, my voice shaking. "I wanna go home."
"I know, baby," Dad said gently, Mrs. Porter huffing nearby. Dada's brow furrowed and he looked over at her. "Is something funny?"
"You don't have to put on such a good show," Mrs. Porter told him. "The social worker isn't here."
"Show?" Dada asked in confusion.
"There's no one to impress," Mrs. Porter said, picking at her nails. "You don't have to prove to me that you love these little snots. Tone it down."
"Little snots?" Dad questioned, Al curling up in Dad's lap. "Excuse me, but don't talk about my sons that way."
"What do you care?" Mrs. Porter asked. "You allowed your wife to abuse them for seven years. Don't start acting like a father now." Dada stood suddenly, Al in his arms, and was staring at Mrs. Porter. His chest was heaving and I could tell he was angry.
"I did not allow Vanessa to abuse my sons!" Dada cried angrily. "She did it while I was away for work! She knew how to do it and hide it from me. I work out of town a lot with my job and had I known what was going on, things would have ended sooner! I have done my best to be a father to these boys since their mother died. They are my whole world! Everything I do is for them! I get up and go to work every morning for them. I help with homework, wash sheets when they have an accident, play with them, and try to prepare meals all for them. You have no idea what you're talking about! I love these boys and if you don't think I won't be reporting you first thing in the morning for that whole trash bag thing, you're wrong."
"Wow," Mrs. Porter breathed. "You really got worked up there." Dad glared at her and sat down, Al squirming in his arms.
"What's wrong, baby?" Dada asked gently.
"I h-have to g-go p-potty," Al whimpered miserably. "I'm leaking! I w-won't make it!"
"I'll carry you," Dada told him. "Are you in pain, sweetie?" Al nodded, pawing at his eyes as he started wailing softly.
"It hurts really bad!" Al cried pathetically. "I'm n-not gonna m-make it!"
"Shh, it's okay," Dada assured him, standing. "It's okay. You'll make it, Al, but if you don't, Dada brought fresh jammies. I also brought a few Pull-Ups, just in case, okay?" Al nodded and I stood up.
"I'll go too, Dada," I announced. I didn't want to be alone with Mrs. Porter while Al got to spend time with Dada. Dad smiled warmly at me and nodded.
"Okay," he replied fondly. I followed after him, Al crying loudly the whole way.
"Is Al gonna be okay, Dada?" I asked worriedly. Dad nodded.
"I think so," he replied, carrying Al into the bathroom. "I think he has a bad bladder infection."
"Is that why it hurts so bad to pee?" I asked.
"Yes, honey," Dada told me, opening a stall door. Dad sat Al down on the floor along with the backpack. Al was crying, obviously in a lot of pain. Dada helped him get undressed and gently said,
"Try to go potty, Al." Al nodded and got on the toilet, crying softly.
"It hurts," he whimpered, wrapping his arms around his tummy again. "It hurts."
"I know it hurts, Alphie, but you're sitting on the potty so Dada needs you to try, okay?" Al's lip trembled as he nodded.
"I'll try," he replied, his voice shaking.
"Good boy," Dada praised. Al cried out wordlessly, obviously in pain. He was panting, tears running down his face as he tried to do what Dad told him to. He rubbed at his eyes with a hand and wailed,
"I c-can't! It h-hurts!"
"Okay, baby," Dada soothed. "Okay. It's okay. You're going to see a doctor soon, Ally. It's okay." I watched as Dada helped Al get dressed, Dad showing Al his favorite pair of pajama bottoms that got left at home Friday by accident. I looked at the backpack, squatting down and rummaging through it. I gasped, finding something else that got left behind in Dada's feverish packing on Friday.
"Al!" I cried excitedly, grabbing it. I held it up for him to see, a smile spreading across his pale, sweaty face.
"Chico!" Al cried happily. "Dada, you found him!" Dada smiled warmly and nodded.
"I looked everywhere for him all weekend and found him tonight after Ed called." Dad explained. I handed the stuffed cat to Dad who then gave it to Al. Al hugged Chico, Dada standing up straight.
"Thank you," Al said softly.
"You're very welcome," Dada replied. "Let's get up. If you leak or have an accident, it's okay but you have to tell me so we can keep you dry and comfortable, okay?" Al nodded and stood up, Chico cradled in one of Al's arms. Dad helped Al pull up his pants and picked Al up without Al having to ask. Dada took my hand with his free one after putting the backpack on and we left the bathroom.
It didn't take much longer to be seen. Al laid in the hospital bed, moaning as Dad petted his hair and forced fluids in him. Mrs. Porter played silently on her phone while I sat on the bed with Al. I tried to get him to watch Netflix with me on the iPad Dada had brought, but he was miserable, so he didn't really want to. Besides, the hospital Wi-Fi sucked anyways and nothing would buffer. Anyway, the doctor came in and told Dada that Al not only had a severe urinary tract infection, but that he had kidney stones. The stones were moderately sized, and he had two in his left side and one stuck where the bladder is linked to the urethra (the tube pee comes out of). The other two hadn't made it into the bladder yet which explained why he was leaking but was having a hard time actually peeing. The doctor wanted to keep Al in the hospital until he passed the biggest stone which was stuck at the bottom of his bladder, so it was going to be a long night. They used sound waves (I think. Don't really remember) to break up the stones and gave him medicine and lots of water so he'd pee a lot until that one stone came out. The other two were smaller and could be passed at home. For a little while, Al was in and out of the bathroom, doing his best to go pee but only managing to dribble both on the toilet and in his pants. He was leaking a lot and in so much pain, the poor kid crying so much that night. Eventually, though, after hours of pain and waiting, he finally passed the big stone. It was nearly morning then, Al fighting sleep as the doctor prescribed medication to fight the infection he had. The doctor explained that Al was going to have some issues peeing for a couple days and that if he didn't pass the stones in a day or two or if the pain got worse, he needed to come back to the ER. Dada listened to the doctor intently while Mrs. Porter didn't seem all that interested. Finally, Al got discharged and Dad carried a very tired Al out to Mrs. Porter's car while I walked beside Dada, holding his hand.
"Okay," Dad sighed when we got to Mrs. Porter's car. He put Al on the ground next to me and bent over so he could look at our faces. "You boys get some sleep, okay? I'm going to call about the trash bag-thing and hopefully get you moved to a different foster home until you come home with me. Be good, okay?" I nodded, hugging Dad tight.
"Don't make us go," I whined. "Please, Dada! We can be good!"
"Ed, honey," Dada said sadly. "I don't want you to go. I want you and Al to come home with me right now. But Mrs. Davis just has to be sure that I really didn't know about the abuse and that I can take care of you." I nodded, sniffling into Dad's stomach. Al hobbled over and hugged Dada, too, shaking violently.
"Daddy," he whispered. "I'm sick an' Mrs. Porter doesn't like me. She'll get mad if I have an accident or throw up. Take me and Brother home with you. Please?"
"Al, baby, I can't," Dada said, obviously on the verge of tears. He stroked Al's hair and said, "I know it's scary and hard to understand, but you can't live with me right now. Al, if Mrs. Porter is mean or punishes you for an accident or throwing up or anything like that, call me. If she or anyone else in that house hits you, refuses to feed you, touches you on your privates, or does anything that scares you, call me right away, okay? It's okay to call me, all right? No matter what she says." I pulled away and nodded, biting my lip. I knew that mean I should tell Dada about what happened between Al and David and all the times Mrs. Porter had hit us, but I was too scared to. Dad must have noticed I was anxious, though, and asked, "What's wrong?"
"It's a secret," I told him softly.
"Ed, you need to tell me, okay?" Dada pressed. Al quickly looked at me, pleading with me not to tell. We were both scared that David would kill us or something if we told so I decided to tell him what Tyler had said to us on Friday. I remember thinking that maybe when I got home, I'd feel safe enough to tell Dad that David molested Al, but instead I shoved that memory so far down in me that I didn't remember it until just a few weeks ago. I nodded and took a deep breath.
"One of the older boys told me he was gonna fuck me and Al," I admitted. "I, uh, don't know what that means, but I'm scared. Is it like bad touching, Dada?" Dada instantly looked over at Mrs. Porter and demanded,
"Did you know about that?" She shrugged, Al shaking violently.
"He's threatened a few other boys with that before," she commented like it was nothing. "No one has been raped in by house before."
"Jesus Christ!" Dada exclaimed. "How the hell could you know that with such certainty?! I'm calling Mrs. Davis. My boys need to move foster homes. Now."
"Daddy, is it okay to tell you the truth?" Al asked softly. Dad pulled out his phone and nodded.
"It always is, Al," Dad told him.
"Mrs. Porter didn't feed Ed dinner on Friday because she said he was bad, but all he did was cry 'cause he was scared," Al said frantically, his words meshing together other as he spoke; "An' she made fun of me for missing Chico an' said that we weren't supposed to call you ever. An' when Ed was remembering something bad, she yelled at him an' made him feel more scared. She made him stand in the corner all night for wetting the bed an' then hit me an' didn't give me breakfast when I did. An' a big boy –" Dad put his hand on Al's shoulder, Al shutting up instantly. I always wonder now if Dad hadn't made him stop talking if he would have told Dada right then and there about his bad touch. I think he might of.
"Al, honey, it's okay," Dada assured him gently, Al on the verge of a meltdown. "It's okay."
"You really think you can have them moved in an hour?" Mrs. Porter scoffed.
"No," Dada answers her, dialing and holding the phone up to his ear, "But I think I can have them moved before lunch." And by noon, Al and I were moved to a new foster home.