warning: mentions of vomit
Chapter 39: The cluster
In which the kids move in
Will is released from the hospital that afternoon and Angelica drives him back to her house, where the others are waiting.
He's in the throes of withdrawal by now, sweaty and shaking and miserable, and he spends most the car ride retching into a plastic bag.
"We're almost home, kiddo," she tells him.
Will sniffs. "Okay," he says. He coughs wetly into the bag, and lets out a shuddering breath. "Angelica," he says then, weakly.
"Yes?"
"Are— are you really sure you want a bunch of stupid fucked up kids to live with you?" he asks, his voice hoarse and quavering. "Even just for a week?"
Angelica glances over at him, hunched over in the passenger seat. "I'm really truly sure," she says.
"Some of us have done, like. Bad shit," mumbles Will.
"I'm sure you did what you had to do to survive, yeah?" Angelica tells him softly. "That's not your fault."
"I guess," says Will. He coughs again, and spits into the bag. "It's so hard," he whispers.
And Angelica's not entirely sure what he's referring to, but she nods. "I know," she says, pulling into the driveway of her house. "I know, kiddo. It's okay."
She helps Will inside and guides him to the sofa bed, where he curls up under the blankets. The others start ministering to him immediately, speaking to him softly and stroking his hair and bringing him water and cold washcloths.
And there's something about the scene, something about these kids who care for each other so deeply, so completely, that both breaks and mends Angelica's heart at the same time.
o - o - o
Once Will is asleep, the kids take showers, and change into Angelica's spare sweatpants and t-shirts. She shows them how to work the television and DVD player, and makes sure they know that they can use the computer and help themselves to anything in the cupboards or fridge.
They thank her again and again.
You're welcome, she tells them. You're welcome, you're welcome, you're welcome.
And they are. They're welcome to everything she has.
o - o - o
Sunday dawns dry.
Will stays in bed and Riley volunteers to watch over him, but Angelica takes the rest of the kids shopping for clothes and toiletries and bulk quantities of food.
It's expensive, but it's worth it.
They're worth it.
That evening the kids end up cuddled together on the sofa bed in their new pajamas, watching a film starring Jean-Claude Van Damme.
Tomorrow Angelica will go back to work, and she already knows she'll miss them while she's gone.
o - o - o
It's Monday, and the kids eat breakfast in silence, like they're afraid to talk in Angelica's presence. She's about go finish her coffee in her room so they can have some peace when suddenly Nomi clears her throat.
"Um, we— We had a question," she says.
"Of course, anything," says Angelica quickly.
"Okay. Um, we were wondering what you had in mind in terms of, like, a timeline?" Nomi asks, not quite meeting Angelica's eye. "Like... for us to leave?"
Angelica nearly drops her mug. "Sweetheart," she says faintly, shaking her head, "there's no timeline. You don't need to leave."
Nomi frowns. "But we thought— I mean, you said it was just until the rain stopped..."
"I did. I did say that," Angelica admits. "Because you didn't seem to want to stay longer than that." The glances around the table, at the faces gaping back at her. "But now that you're here," she says softly, "you can stay as long as you need, do you understand? I want you to stay. And I hope you want to stay too."
"Oh," says Nomi shortly.
"We do," mumbles Lito, staring down at his cereal. "Want to stay, I mean."
And a few of the others nod.
"Thank you," Riley whispers.
Angelica tries to smile, but something about the expressions on the faces staring back at her, the mix of wide-eyed hope and palpable confusion, makes it difficult. She wants, more than anything, to hug them. To tell them that they're all valuable and worthy of love.
She pulls up a folding chair and sits down behind Capheus. "I know it might seem sudden," she says, gripping her coffee mug tightly. "Or difficult to understand. But—" She wonders how to explain the feeling she had when she met them, like maybe, in another universe, or in a past life, she knew them, and loved them. "I care about all of you," she says at last.
She's not sure if they believe her.
But she hopes that they will in time.
o - o - o
That evening, after dinner, Angelica sits them down and asks if any of them have graduated from high school.
Nomi lifts her hand slowly. "I graduated in June," she says.
"But the rest of you haven't?"
A few of them shake their heads. The others just stare at her.
"Alright," says Angelica, "I'm not a person who has a lot of rules, but I do ask that while you're staying here, you spend your time working toward an education. Studying for the GED."
Wolfgang snorts. "We've got jobs," he says acerbically, crossing his arms.
Angelica looks over at him. He glares back defiantly, chin raised, as if daring her ask what jobs?
She doesn't.
"If you have a job you're at risk of being fired from if you take some time off, we'll talk," she says. Wolfgang lowers his eyes. "Otherwise, I just want you to take a break and focus on your educations instead. Does that sound okay?"
Wolfgang scowls, but the rest of the group nod hesitantly.
"You don't need to worry about any expenses while you're here," Angelica continues. "As long as you're under my roof I'll make sure you're provided for. Food, clothes, everything you need."
"Forgive me for being blunt, but how will you afford that?" Kala asks softly, trepidatiously. "Are you sure you don't need us to pitch in, or—"
"I'll make it work," says Angelica firmly, and she will. She has savings, and Jonas will help if need be. She looks around at their worried faces. "Trust me, alright?"
They don't trust her, she knows.
And why should they? They probably learned long ago not to trust anyone.
But they do seem to relax a little, a few of them hazard tentative smiles, and none of them try to argue outright.
Which is all she can ask for, really.
o - o - o
Angelica works long hours and the week goes by quickly.
By Friday, Will's withdrawal symptoms have passed, and the whole lot of them go out for pizza at Jonas's.
"If I had to choose a final meal, it would be pizza," says Felix when the food arrives, and everyone laughs.
Shyly, as they eat, the kids share bits and pieces of their week with Angelica: how they watched Jean-Claude Van Damme's entire filmography, how Kala and Nomi helped the rest of them study a little.
They get home late, brush their teeth, and fall into bed.
And Angelica isn't a mother, has never wanted to be a mother ("I'm a social worker," she laughs when people ask her about it, "I have with more kids than I can count"), but the next morning, when she catches a glimpse of the nine teenagers tangled together on her sofa bed, a cluster of bodies and limbs and hearts, she feels something within her leap in a way she could only describe as maternal.
o - o - o
She doesn't ask them about their life on the streets, not yet, but she knows the statistics.
The majority of them have no doubt been subjected to physical and sexual violence. At least some of them have probably engaged in survival sex. All of them have certainly been receiving inadequate nutrition and health care. And only scanty protection from the elements, she thinks, remembering the rain-drenched church.
She knows they have an uphill battle ahead of them, knows that it won't be easy to help them get all the things they've missed out on: doctor's appointments and health insurance and state ID cards and educations and probably years of therapy.
But for now, they have a house to sleep in, and time to heal, and boundless potential.
And they have each other. And really, she thinks, maybe that's all they need.