As I finish drying the dishes, Olivia drums up some fake enthusiasm and asks if I'm ready to go. Barry, my social worker, has arranged for a supervised visit with my mom at the library at ten o'clock. It's Olivia's responsibility, part of her job as a foster parent, to drive me there. My own private chauffeur.

I shrug and tell her sure, acting like it's nothing, this upcoming visit with my mother, but inside I have a hollow feeling like I haven't eaten for a long time, like something is chewing up my insides. I'm never ready for these visits. Olivia comes over and squeezes my shoulders quickly, and I flinch. I don't like to be touched, and especially not hugged, not by anyone except Jazz or Cheyanne. Olivia learned that the hard way, the first time she tried to hold me and I pushed her away. My counselor says it'll come in time, but I doubt it.

"I know this isn't how you'd like to be spending your morning," Olivia clucks at me, "but it won't take long. Just an hour or two with your mom and then you'll be out of there. At least you get to see the girls, right? I know they'll be happy to see you!"

She's like a cheerleader, trying to juice me up. Olivia has been fostering one kid or another for almost twenty years, so she's practically a pro at this business. She's wiping off the countertops, killing time, waiting for me, and I don't say anything, just hang the wet dishtowel neatly over the oven door handle next to her. It's the same every time they line these visits up. My mother tells my child welfare worker that she really wants to see us. She sets a date and a time and a place, and the worker arranges for all of us to be there with a supervisor. That's to make sure we're O.K., just in case one of us gets upset or in case Mom goes off the deep end and decides to take us away somewhere. Like she ever would. Despite what she says about cleaning up her act, I don't really think she cares enough to want to take us away. Sometimes she doesn't care enough to even show up.

I tell Olivia that I have to brush my teeth before we go, and she answers good-naturedly, joking about how it's the first time she's never had to nag me about brushing. She picks up the dishtowel, then turns and flicks it at my butt as I walk past to go upstairs. She probably thinks that's funny. I arch my hips forward, and it barely touches me. I don't miss a beat.

© 2009 by Patricia G. Penny