A Symphony of Sorts by Dina Sokal

I listened to the chattering of birds, a symphony of sorts, while sitting on the back porch of our farmhouse in Maryland. Three large birds soared through the sky from our roof to a nearby tree. I sat n my favorite rocking chair near our wooden table, constructed by Hank, and cross-stitched a cover for my homemade bread and thought about things—about Jenny joining our home and growing up here. She was fourteen and processing life more while I was nearing fifty and not eager to handle her battles with us. And yet, it was more my decision than Hank’s to take in a foster child. It took time for him to appreciate Jenny, but he had stepped up as her foster father this past year.

A swift breeze flitted through my hair and shirt, and the tea in my cup moved in a wave. I heard Jenny arguing with Hank yet again. Their voices merged with the birds chattering. One chirp stood out from the others, a high-pitched shrill, perhaps a teenager bird.

And then Jenny rushed onto the porch, shouting at Hank. Her long blond hair, which she refused to get cut, looked unwashed and uncombed, and her green eyes poisonous. He had followed her and paused at the kitchen door, his hand on the door frame to steady himself. He looked ready to burst but gulped it all in while Jenny let it out.

“Mom, Dad says I can’t go, but you said I could.”

I was grateful Jenny called us Mom and Dad, but sometimes she called Hank Hank, which infuriated him. Hank stepped away from the door frame, inched closer to us, and said,

“Jenny told me Crystal invited her to her oldest brother’s birthday party, and we all know what goes on there…lots of cigarettes, marijuana smoking, and sometimes more. You didn’t say she could go, did you?”

Hank’s accusatory tone took me by surprise. Lately, Jenny’s demands drove a wedge between us despite our strong marriage. We had met during college on move-in day. I noticed him right away—tall and muscular, tanned, and crooked-eyed due to a weak eye muscle. He hovered over us with two of his friends and offered to help me move in. He joked about one of my suitcases being as heavy as a cow, the school’s mascot.

His humor failed him now when it came to his fights with Jenny, and he said it again, “You didn’t give her permission, did you?”

His height compared to ours made him an imposing figure, especially when miffed like now.

“Of course not, Hank. She never even asked me.”

“But I did, and you said ‘yes.’” Jenny did that teenager stamping-her-foot-thing and placed her hands on her hips.

“Oh. You led me to believe it was Crystal’s party, not her brother’s.” I stayed quiet in my tone. That had always worked before with Jenny and with my daughter, Anita, when she was a teenager.

“You didn’t realize it was the brother’s party? Rachel, you can’t be naïve and trust these teens.” Hank sank into his handmade wooden bench on the side of the table.

“So that’s all the shouting I heard in there?”

“Yup.” Hank swatted at a fly near his face, but Jenny continued to shout and stamp her feet.

“It’s not fair. Louis is going, and Crystal said her father would check on us. I hate you, Hank, and you too, Rachel.” Jenny ran back inside, slamming the screen door behind her, and we could hear her scampering up the steps to her room.

I put my head on my arms, which were resting on the table. Hank patted my head, and we just sat there. The birds chattering continued in the silence left after Jenny’s outburst. Sometimes I wondered why I had decided to foster a child, but I knew it came out of having grown up with my foster brother, Jimmy, and seeing how he blossomed under my mother’s care.

“Why not talk to Jimmy to get his advice?” Hank must have read my thoughts. We’d consulted my foster brother before.

Just then, we heard Jenny’s steps coming downstairs, but she didn’t head for the porch. Instead, the sound of her footsteps disappeared as she headed elsewhere, maybe into the living room to watch TV. It often calmed her, especially when she first moved in with us at age ten and had never seen one before. She used to watch Mr. Ed over and over again, but now her favorite show was The Family Affair.

I raised my head and inched closer to Hank to snuggle against him for comfort, despite it being warm outside and too hot to be close to anyone. “Good idea. I’ll talk to Jimmy.” He held me closer, and I thought about Jimmy arriving at our home when I was five and he was nine and how my excitement about having an older brother dwindled after he kept knocking down the towers of wooden blocks I built. Besides, he looked angry, often furrowing his dark eyebrows when he looked at me and not bothering to comb his hair, a tangled mess of blackness. I’d want to play with him, but he’d stare into space and ignore me.

One time Mom baked me a birthday cake for my seventh birthday, yellow cake, and my favorite icing—chocolate fudge. I stood on a chair to mix the icing and licked off the spatula after she iced the cake. So yummy. Jimmy watched us while struggling with his math homework. He interrupted us to ask for help and kept eying the cake. The next morning, I ran downstairs to admire it; half was gone and the other half a mess. Mom found crumbs and chocolate all over Jimmy’s bed. He denied taking it, but he’d pat his belly and lick his fingers when I cried about it when Mom wasn’t looking. Oh, I hated him for a while even though Mom baked another cake.

“Hmmm.” I sighed and got up to see if Jenny wanted to talk it out. Hank followed me in and settled on cereal for breakfast while I went into the living room where a TV show blared.

“Jenny?” I said as I walked in. No one sat in front of the TV, and the front door was open a smidge. I opened it more and looked outside. No one. I ran upstairs, and Jenny was not there. I gasped for air and felt my heart beating faster as I ran back downstairs and towards Hank.

“Jenny’s not in the house. This is a first for her. Maybe she ran somewhere. But where?”

Hank swallowed his last few bites of Cheerios and stood up. “Maybe she’s hiding in the house or on the farm somewhere.”

“I think she ran outside. You look outside, and I’ll search the house again.”

I ran down the steps into the basement. There, the air cooled me, and a smell of mold permeated the rooms. The lights were out. The entire area quiet. I searched the laundry and furnace rooms after meandering through the nooks of the larger room, but Jenny rarely went down here; it seemed unlikely she’d find solace in the dampness. I clomped back upstairs to the second floor, but Jenny wasn’t there either. Downstairs on the first floor, I bumped into Hank returning from outside and looking grim, his lips pursed together, and the light brown hair left on his head moist from sweating.

“I didn’t see her around the porch, but maybe she’s further away, perhaps out in the cornfields or the barn. I guess you haven’t found her either.”

“No, I haven’t. I’ll call Crystal, Louis, and Jimmy. Oh, and Anita. Maybe she ran to one of them. You know you could have compromised with her. Why didn’t you talk to me first?” Hank opened his mouth to reply but shut it and just nodded in agreement. I knew he meant well, but he had learned his parenting style from his family. They left Ireland for New York City, and he grew up taking care of himself while his parents both worked and struggled to support him and his siblings. When his parents were home, they tended to be strict.

I wanted to blame him for Jenny running away, but I knew how difficult she could be. We both froze for a moment, unsure of what to do, and as the sun rose higher in the sky, I imagined Jenny being too proud to turn back and getting hotter and thirstier as she walked. I don’t think she had breakfast before her fight with Hank. Maybe she’d be too angry to seek out her friends or call Jimmy, and she’d just wander the back roads. Someone evil would pick her up and we’d never see her again. I jumped up, worried by my thoughts, and ran to the phone to call my daughter, Anita, Jimmy, and Louis, and Crystal. I directed Hank to search the fields further away. He stood up slowly, beads of sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip, and left the porch as I ran inside.

At least it was cooler inside, I thought as I dialed Louis’ home, but no one answered. I tried Crystal, but her father said Jenny wasn’t there. I reached Anita, who said she’d come over and bring Jenny’s favorite strawberry pie she had just baked. She called Jimmy for me and told me he said he’d be over right away as well. When Jenny came to our home, Anita, who was sixteen at the time, led her own life with friends, working at an ice cream parlor and studying for high school. She tolerated Jenny. After she moved out about a year or so ago, Jenny would go to her apartment, I guess to complain about us, or they’d watch Family Affair—a show about an engineer in New York caring for his brother’s orphaned children.

Hank walked in, his eyes downcast as he said,

“No sign of her. Is she at her friends’ homes or with Jimmy?”

“No, but Anita and Jimmy are coming over.”

“Good, they’ll probably blame me, especially Jimmy.”

“Naw. They know what Jenny’s been like.” I grabbed his hand and laced my fingers inside his for a moment to comfort him and myself, and then, he said,

“Do you think this has to do with Jenny’s feelings about her biological mom and not knowing her siblings?”

“It could. She hasn’t been herself lately. Crystal doesn’t spend as much time with her, and Louis is going through a tough time, not listening to his dad and smoking weed. Besides, she’s too old to believe in the comfort of her magic sunglasses like she did when she first came to live with us.”

“She’s been more impatient with both of us, even you, despite how caring you’ve been.”

Just then, the doorbell rang, and Anita stood outside with the strawberry pie. She looked like both of us, tall and lanky like Hank, but wearing glasses on her stub of a nose like me. She had pushed her brown hair, the same color as mine but thicker, behind her ears. Today, she wore a sleeveless summer dress tapered at the waist and flaring out over her knees. She saw us looking worried and put the pie down on a nearby cabinet and said,

“Have you found her?”

“No, not yet.” I put my hand on my chest to stop my heart from pounding. Hank took my other hand and stood by my side as he said,

“I wouldn’t let her go to a party, and she’s either hiding somewhere or ran somewhere.”

“Whose party? Anita said, her voice deep and soft. Her hair fell forward as she bent her head towards Hank.

“Crystal’s. But her brother and his older friends planned to be there, which meant drugs or alcohol or both.” After answering her, Hank waved us over to the living room and sat on the brown sofa where we continued our conversation.

“And we know how you feel about those kinds of parties,” Anita said, “You didn’t let me go to any until I was a senior.” We both sat down on either side of him just like we used to do before Jenny joined our family.

“I thought Dad was a bit too hard on you, Anita, and I wish, Hank, you had talked to me first before arguing with Jenny.” I hadn’t meant to say this out loud again, but he could be tough; he had to be growing up.

“True.” Anita smiled at her father and then spoke up for him, something she did as a teenager, annoying me by taking his side. “But we always knew Dad loved us and would protect us. Jenny knew it too. I went to Dad for school and career advice and other stuff. He’s practical, Mom. Now don’t get me wrong. You are too.”

There, she still had to needle me, even now, and keep secrets. Jenny had told us she was dating someone in her community college class, some guy who wanted to be an electrician. We hadn’t met him yet.

I was about to take a risk and ask Anita about him when she said, “She’ll come home. Give her time. She’s been coming over lately and complaining about the two of you.”

“Complaining?” I knew the two of them talked about us, but it annoyed me to hear Anita say it.

“Just like I did, Mom. She’d tell me, ‘Mom’s too sweet, too old-fashioned. All she does is bake and cook…blah, blah, blah. And Dad is too strict.’ She even wondered why you took her in and imagined it was to prove you could raise a foster child like your mom did. And she’d say you didn’t understand what it’s like to lose a dad and have a mom who drinks.”

“She knows I stayed home to take care of her.” I thought of all the hobbies and jobs I’d given up to care for her including my interest in psychology and child development—though I gave that up for Hank whose interest in agriculture brought us here to our farm where I learned how to cook, bake, make preserves, and help at harvest time.

I wondered if my mother ever felt resentment towards us, especially after Dad died. She just toiled on, kind of like Hank, stoic and emotionally unaware. Still, our struggles paled in comparison to Jenny’s, who lost her father in a motorcycle accident and then her alcoholic mother neglected her forcing her into foster care. Our love for her couldn’t make up for those losses. I was glad Jimmy was coming over so I could ask him how he adjusted to being a foster kid.

Jimmy walked in while we all sat there, the door still open. He looked rushed, his black hair almost as messy as when he came to our home at age nine but his eyes radiated kindness and right now, a tinge of sadness. The three of us rushed to hug him, a group hug, and after conferring with one another, we decided to call the police as several hours had passed. We searched our home and the fields once again. I methodically searched all three bedrooms upstairs. Jenny’s bedspread was half on and half off her bed. It looked like she had laid on it for a moment and then thrown it off in anger before running out. Her walls were covered with pictures of the Beatles. She had several of Paul. Their latest album was on her record player. A novel about an adopted teenager lay open on her bed, its spine facing the ceiling. Several troll dolls lay scattered on the floor under the shelf where she usually displayed them, her favorite collection. The beige paint on the walls had faded over time, making the striped red and white curtains look bold.

I remembered her arrival here just before her tenth birthday and how we grew acquainted as we baked together and talked—how she enjoyed learning my farm habits of making preserves, gardening and cooking stews and roasting chicken. But now the distance between us hurt me and filled me with a sadness I never experienced with Anita, who took her time growing up and rebelled less. I stood there crying and felt Jimmy’s large hands on my shoulders as he hovered over me like Hank did and then guided me back downstairs to where Anita and Hank sat, all of us not finding Jenny. We focused on hoping the police would find her and sat there. My tears hadn’t stopped as my thoughts raced through my head. What if she’s gone? I could tell she struggled so much lately, but couldn’t speak about it to me. She must have had memories of her father and of losing him, and God only knows what she thought of her mother. I wished we had made sure she saw her siblings more, even though several of them didn’t even live in Maryland, and some were adults and had their own lives.

Jimmy sat across from me, studying me and handed me his handkerchief from his pocket. His eyes looked even sadder than when he had arrived. “What are you thinking, Rachel?”

“Just remembering how Mom steadied you bit by bit. You hated us, especially when you first come to our home.”

“I did, but Mom hung in there with me-helped me with school even while still helping you.”

“I know. I doubt I can do the same with Jenny. Her moods are all over the place, and she no longer wants to spend time with me and Hank.”

“Well, I went through that too. That’s when Mom sent me to the therapy lady. She was in her fifties but to me she looked old, really old. She had wrinkles around her mouth and neck and scattered grey hairs, but her eyes were kind and she listened to me when I bothered to talk. I still struggle, and sometimes it’s as bad as when I was a teen. Books and working on my pastels help me. But doesn’t everyone struggle? How about you, Hank? Didn’t you have to raise yourself while your parents worked?”

“Well, yes,” Hank said, “but that was nothing compared to your parents mistreating you.”

Jimmy took his handkerchief back from me and used it to pat away the sweat from his forehead as the house had heated up.

I thought of Jimmy’s kindness to me after Dad died from a sudden heart attack in his forties, leaving our mom to care for us. Jimmy helped raise me and did better taking care of himself. He began to comb his hair and even had it trimmed; he smiled and even laughed at my silly kid jokes, drove me everywhere, and encouraged me to audition for every school play.

“Jimmy,” I said, “How did you stop being mean and do so much for me and now for Jenny?”

“I can’t explain how—your parents’ love and yours helped me somehow. You know I’ve been letting Jenny read at my bookstore and encouraging her to go to college whenever she visits me.”

I pictured Jimmy’s house. He moved here to be near me after Mom died and opened the only bookstore around this area. He lived above the store—his kitchen tiny but sunny due to two large windows facing the south. In his bedroom, he had filled shelves with his favorite books. On the walls, he displayed my mother’s paintings and his sketches of all sorts of families in red and black pastels. I could imagine Jenny picking out books from his shelves and learning how to use pastels.

Hank put his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and Anita sat with her legs curled up on the sofa and her head leaning against a gold pillow in the sofa corner. She rustled a little on the sofa and changed positions, sitting up and putting her feet on the floor and leaning in my direction.

“She loves us the best she can, Mom. She started talking to me about her mother, and her anger burst out at times. She’d wonder why her mother had children and swore she’d never have children or would take better care of them. She came in last weekend and broke into tears about a boy she liked who liked a prettier girl. She’s going through too much all at once.”

“I guess the party was the last straw,” Hank said, his voice quiet.

No one spoke for a while as we watched the sun start to move lower in the sky through the living room windows. We all waited on a call from the police and good news. As we saw birds flying outside and tree branches swaying in a slight wind, we heard the front door creak open again and quiet footsteps on the wooden floor. Jenny appeared in the doorway where we were sitting, and when she saw us all there, she looked surprised, and her face reddened. Her eyes shifted away from us, a guilty look in them. Before we could surround her, she ran through the living room, into the kitchen, and out the back door. I worried she’d leave us again, so I left the others and ran outside towards the cornfields.

I could see a flash of red, Jenny’s blouse, and the top of her head as she pushed through the cornstalks. The sun’s warmth beat down on me, and gnats and mosquitoes appeared, several biting my arm all at once. I heard the croaking sound of tree frogs nearby as I pushed through the stalks to follow Jenny. Their leaves brushed against my face, chest, and legs while the insects continued to torment me. And then I spied two bare feet, Jenny’s brown and callused heels, followed by her legs and body, and she lay on the ground, squeezed between two rows of corn. Her face was smudged with dirt in a line below her eyes where she had swiped away tears with her hands dirtied from the earth.

She whimpered my name as I drew closer to her, relief making me smile and rush faster through the stalks, not caring about the way they poked at me, as I pushed my way through them to Jenny. I yelled out ‘Hank’ as I drew closer to Jenny and saw him appear on the back porch looking for me. I waved to him and called out that I had found her, and then I lay down beside her, behind her back, and cradled her in my arms. I felt exhausted and lay there not knowing what to say. To my surprise, she let me hold her for a moment before turning her body towards me. She looked at me, our faces very close and our noses almost touching. Her eyes gazed at me in the way she used to look at me when she was younger. All she said was, “Sorry, Miss Rachel. I’m sorry, Mom.”

“That’s okay. You’re going through a rough time, like Jimmy did.” I nestled closer to her, and she let me, and then she said,

“I just wish my dad were here and my mother had died instead of him.”

I listened and remembered how much she had loved her father and wore sunglasses like his to feel safe when she first came to our home.

And then I whispered to her, “We all love you.”

We would have nestled there for longer, but both of us stood up and laughed when we heard Hank, Jimmy, and Anita headed towards us.