Page 42 of Risk It All
Chapter Fifteen
Max
Iwalk alongside Madeleine, the River Thames to our right, the Tower of London on our left. Instinct has me reaching for her hand, but I stop himself. There'd been something odd in her demeanor after we made love in the shower that has me second guessing myself. It brings up old recurring feelings I had while growing up. The ones in which I wished for my foster family to want me, and that moment when I realized I'd been more invested in them than they were in me.
I'm in deep trouble because I want more than just a couple of days with her. She, on the other hand, doesn't want any long-term commitments. She's all in today, but once we return to our regular lives, she'll be gone.
“Penny for your thoughts.” She slips her arm through mine and looks up at me.
I want to tell her the truth. Normally, I would. But it's not her fault I want more when she's always been clear that she doesn't a relationship beyond these few days. I know from my youth that if I’m going to lie, it needs to stay near the truth.
“I was thinking about my childhood.”
Her brows draw together in that adorable way they do. “What brought that up?”
I shrug and look out over the river. “Sometimes it just takes me off guard when I think of where I started and where I am now.”
She gives me one of those smiles that's both empathetic and pitying. I don't much like either.
“What was it about my article that you liked so much?”
Glad to be on a topic I can talk about without being guarded, I say, “You spoke to the feelings of impermanence of foster children. I think most people on some level understand the challenges faced by foster children, but not really about how it feels to not have your own place or your own stuff.”
Madeleine stops and looks up at me. “What do you mean?”
“As a child, everything that I'd consider to be mine didn't even fill up a garbage bag.”
“That's it?”
I nod. Today, I have more stuff, but not as much as I could. Not as much as other equally wealthy men. “When the social worker would move me to a new home, that's how I packed up my stuff. In my case it was a few bits of clothes and a couple of books in a garbage bag.” I give her wan smile. “None of the foster kids I was around had suitcases.”
Madeleine frowns. “I'm not sure I truly captured that.”
“You did a little. More than most. You talked about the feeling of being untethered. That's the word you used. On the one hand, it's obvious, because foster children don't have a permanent home. But people don't think about the minute details of that, like you did in your article. Until I got my own place, I never had my own room, or bed...”
Her eyes swim with emotion. I'm glad she can empathize, but I hate the pity. As if she recognizes how her response affects me, she shakes her head. “My research suggested that about a fifth of foster care children become homeless at 18 and less than ten percent of them go to college.”
“Foster children get the basics, food and shelter, but usually not the support and resources.”
“So, how'd you get out?” She now looks at me like I'm some sort of super hero. I don't like that anymore than the pity. I'm not any more special or talented than anyone else. I had a couple of good people in my life and made a couple of good choices. That was the difference between me and all the children that never made it.
“When I was about sixteen, I ended up at Wilma Schroeder's home. Have you ever seen the Madea movies?”
Madeleine shakes her head. “No, but I know of them.”
“Well, Wilma was like Madea. She was a last-ditch home for a lot of foster kids in San Francisco who were a millimeter away from going to jail.”
One auburn brow quirks up. “Jail?”
“I told you, I ran from the cops a lot.”
“I guess you did.”
“Anyway. She wasn't warm, but you still got the sense she cared. But more than that, she kicked our butts and always backed up what she said. If she said she'd be at your ball game, she was there. If she said she'd box your ears for smoking, she did.”
Madeleine smiles. “She sounds like Eleanor.”
“A little.”
