Chapter Text
I woke up bleary-eyed, my pillowcase wet beneath my cheek. The blinds were closed, curtains pulled tightly shut, blocking most of the sun's light out. A small sliver of it illuminated our dim bedroom. A quick glance to the wall to the right of my bed revealed the nightlight, a small crescent with stars surrounding it, somewhat off-kilter in the outlet. It wasn't shining its usual shine. That explained the clammy body laying beside me, a pristine white thumb tucked loosely in a slightly agape mouth, sweat beading on a shockingly unfurrowed brow. In his sleep is the only time that my brother ever looks peaceful- that is, when the nightmares aren't as bad. They haven't been for him lately. For me, it's another story.
We aren't supposed to sleep in the same bed anymore. Our new foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Moore, insist. We'll be moving on to junior high soon. It isn't normal, they tried explaining to us, for brothers our age to sleep together. We have separate beds now; our caseworker made sure of it. You have to prove that you have the means to care for the children you're trying to care for. Even so, my brother prefers to sleep with me. I prefer it too. I sleep easier that way. Mrs. Moore, a small-statured woman with honey-brown hair down to her chest and kind, wrinkled eyes, understands that River is just afraid. She bought us the small nightlight, shaped like the moon because she knows how much River loves space and talking about the stars. She lets us keep it on every night, even at our age. Her husband isn't as nice and his eyes aren't as soft. He has a gruff beard of salt and pepper and a buzzed head with little moles all over. He's rough on the outside, and it can be intimidating, but I notice the way his gaze softens when he sees us. I notice how he scoops a little extra onto my plate even knowing I won't eat all of it. I notice it all.
They took us to a quaint little church on a Sunday morning. In every church we've been to, all the other kids stare at us, understandably so. They ask us why we look so funny and why we have hats and sunglasses and umbrellas in the summer heat. I don't like to answer them, especially when they sneer at us. Or when they look at us like we're some sort of extraterrestial beings. I suppose to kids like them, we are. They're all ruddy-faced, straw-haired, with scraped knees kissed and bandaged by their mothers, lots of gifts on Christmas morning, summer camps, and parents who love them. They know all the prayers, all the names of the biblical prophets, all the right answers to the Bible trivia and the youth leader's questions. They live in a totally different world from ours.
"Well, hello everyone! Remember to grab a name tag from the front table if you don't have one, we need to know everyone's name to be sure and get you back to your mom and dad safe and sound. We've got some new faces today that need a very warm welcome from all of us." My sweater felt scratchy, but without it, I feel naked. I glanced to River beside me, head hung down, face obscured by uncut white bangs. His left hand was bunched up in the fabric of my sweater, his right hand probably occupied with fidgeting with the loops on his shorts. He probably thought it felt scratchy too, but he still gripped it tight.
"Would you two like to introduce yourselves? Maybe say your name, how old you are, where you're from?" The young woman, probably no older than twenty-five, looked at me expectantly. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. It was like she knew how hard this would be for us, to assimilate like we belong her. She knows we don't, but probably hopes that we'll all just get along like we do. I cleared my throat and looked to the rows of children seated criss-cross on a colorful carpet.
"My name is Briar and this is my brother, River. We are both ten, but we turn eleven in November." I omitted where we were from. Honestly, I didn't think that anyone really needed to know. This wasn't our first "family," and it probably wouldn't be our last. It's best not to get too comfortable.
One child's hand shot up in the air after I finished speaking. She had one long, neat braid down her back and a purple shirt with white polka dots all over. "Why are you so white?" She blurted this question out before the lady could even acknowledge that her hand was up, like she had been thinking about it and absolutely needed to ask as soon as possible. A spattering of giggles erupted across the room. The lady beside me shifted and looked uncomfortable. She seemed a bit disappointed, but certainly not surprised. She was probably expecting this to some degree. River squeezed my sweater a bit tighter, pulling the scratchy fabric over my skin. I could feel him trembling and had to resist the urge to scratch my side.
"Well," the woman began, a little nervously, "sometimes God makes us different from each other. We're all very special to God, so we each have our own special features! No two humans are exactly the same. If we all looked the same, ate the same food, wore the same clothes, and spoke the same language, Earth would be a very boring place indeed. What really matters is that we all are people and we all are loved by God equally." The girl in the braid considered this, then seemed to accept the answer. The woman visibly relaxed a bit.
Even despite her honorable speech, there were still some giggles and whispers. I ignored them and looked to her for guidance on any further actions. She indicated two open spots on the carpet, one in the third row and the other in the fifth. I turned away from the prying eyes of the other children and leaned in closer so she could hear me. I don't like repeating myself.
"We can't sit in different spots. River has to sit by me. He can't talk to anyone except me." Her brow furrowed in confusion and she looked at my brother, who was trying to shield himself from everyone's gaze. I knew he didn't want to come, but I would rather just go with whatever Mr. and Mrs. Moore tell us to do. Besides, maybe this God thing could work out for us. If He is out there, looking down on us, it means that He watched it all happen. It means He didn't intervene. But it also means that there's someone else who maybe understands us. If He was there all along, then He knows why we are the way that we are. It means that maybe there's someone else to talk to. I don't think that River wants anyone else though. He isn't as open to it as I am. He thinks that if God is real, he wouldn't let kids suffer. He would have zapped all their hands off or something as soon as they made contact with our bodies. Maybe the world would be better off if all the creeps had no hands. Regardless of his unwillingness to listen, I keep telling him that it's better if we at least pretend for now. We should just bow our heads at the dinner table, read along at the bible stories, and learn the songs we sing for children's church. Reluctantly, he decided he wouldn't make a scene; that is, a scene more than just our presence in a place like this.
"Those are the only two open spots here. I'm sorry that you two have to be separated, but there isn't anything that I can do about that. I'll see if I can rearrange the seating chart for next Sunday and get you two beside each other. Just sit tight for today for me." I blinked at her. Did she expect me to leave him there to fend for himself? Sure, it wasn't that far realistically, but I am the only one, besides God if He's up there, who knows my brother's limits. It is my responsibility, and always has been, as the older twin, to watch over him. I took a deep breath to calm myself. I could feel the frustration climbing up my throat and threatening to spill out. I needed to calm down. We had only been staying with the Moores for a couple of weeks at that point. I couldn't ruin this so fast before it even really began. They spared us the trouble of going to church right away, especially since we arrived on a Saturday afternoon. They understood that we needed acclimation; although, Mr. Moore seemed ready to bring us into the church as soon as possible.
"Only God knows how long these two have been living away from the Lord. Hell, they might not even know 'im. If they're gonna be living under our roof, Mandy, they're gonna need to be going to church," he had said in that gravelly voice of his. I overheard them speaking in the living room that first night, voices barely higher in volume than the television, buzzing a low static hum and glitching at the edges of the screen.
"I know, Tim, but they've been through a lot. You heard the caseworker. They're so tiny and frightened, I'm scared they'll jump out of their skin as soon as they step foot outside. This kind of thing has to start slow. We should give them a little time."
Ultimately, Mr. Moore agreed. They seemed really hopeful that we would thrive her. I don't think they know that I found the pile of framed photos in the hallway closet, covered beneath a dusty white sheet. The pile of photos of a little boy, all the way from when he was a tiny baby up until he was maybe five or six years old. I wanted us to fill that gap they have. I needed to be good.
I gave the woman my best steady look. "I'm really sorry, but we can't wait. River has a condition, and it's really serious." I looked over to him and, as if on cue, he looked up at her, clearly a bit distressed. Way to play it up a little. She sighed and shook her head.
"I can't just ask these kids to move all of a sudden. We've had this seating chart for months now and we only change on the first Sunday of the month to avoid any confusion. As you probably know, that's next Sunday. I'm sorry that we don't have the seats that you want, but surely you can sit apart just for today? It really isn't that far."
I stared at her and without another word, turned and left, River in tow behind me. "Are you sure it's okay to just leave like that, Briar? What if we get in trouble?" he practically squeaked as we walked quickly through the tiled hallway. I shook my head as I huffed angrily. "Sure, it's okay. I tried to explain to her that it wouldn't work and she wouldn't listen. What else am I supposed to do? I tried to follow the rules and be polite. Look what that got us." I slowed as I heard a small whimper from behind me. I was gripping his hand too tightly again.
"You're the one who said we needed to be good and come to church," he replied quietly. "I didn't want to go. Mrs. Moore might've let us stay back another few weeks. I knew this would happen, I told you it would." I did indeed say that, and he had indeed told me. I wanted to get it over with, to rip off the bandaid after leaving it unchanged for too long. River was probably right. It was a mistake to come here, to go along with what the adults want. It was a mistake to bend to their will. It was naive of me to ever think that God could be real. If He was, we'd never be in this stupid, stupid situation. I held onto my twin brother's hand, a little less firmly than before, and walked through the hallway to the sanctuary while I prepared myself for the berating that was surely to come. The phone calls, the awkward mealtimes, the increasingly frequent visits from the caseworker, and the inevitable living room conversation about how we're going to have to go pack our things. I prepared myself for all of it, and I knew that River was preparing himself, too.