Ihad no faith in the system. That much had been established well before I ever stepped foot in Camden Place, a series of colorful buildings with a central hub that reminded me more of a college dorm than an upgraded transitional living center for aged-out foster kids. I’d heard of the place before—we all had—I’d just never given it much thought, knowing the utopian complex would never be for me.
The brainchild of wealthy donors who bestowed large endowments, Camden Place was the Harvard of placements, housing the best and the brightest of my kind—foster kids who’d survived the system with rosy cheeks and good grades and nary a trauma in their lives. They were the ones working toward degrees or being primed for apprenticeships in the trades. Every need was provided for them in an effort to turn the chosen ones into productive members of society and make the donors feel awesome about themselves as they wrote out their next check.
With my thick DCFS file, history of running away, and Mary as my social worker, I was all but disqualified from one of those coveted spots, so I’d regarded the place with nothing but disdain. Until the day the heavens parted and a corner room in building two of Camden Place opened up, and somehow, my name was at the top of the waiting list. There seemed only one explanation for my reversal of fortune, and his name was Daniel Dutch—the windmills, wooden clogs, and Vincent van Gogh special agent himself. Dutch had shown up for me in a big way, proving that it paid to have someone of power in your corner who had a vested interest in keeping you alive.
“Here we are, Rory,” the woman said as she arrived at the yellow door in building two. “This is you. You’re in Ryan Gosling.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but she was anticipating that, no doubt used to the questioning stares of the new tenants. She dropped into an informational narrative. “Every room is named after a Hollywood celebrity. Makes it more fun, and it’s a nod to Los Angeles and Hollywood. Count yourself lucky—the last person I moved in got Kris Jenner.”
“Honestly, I feel like it’s a toss-up.”
She guffawed, looking me over. She couldn’t have been much older than me, a former foster kid herself, I guessed just by the telltale flicker of distrust in her eyes.
“Look,” she said, “I’d take the Bill Cosby to live here. You hit the lottery. And a single room, even. Who sprinkled fairy dust on you? Someone usually has to die for one of these unicorns to open up.”
Someone almost did: me, I thought to myself, as she turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
“It’s fully furnished, and you have a starter kit of household items to get you through the first week. They already provided you with a phone, I see. Last thing. Did you go through orientation?”
“I did.”
“Great! Then you know all about the facilities. If you have any questions, the office is staffed twenty-four seven. All right, then, I’ll leave you to it. Welcome home, Rory.”
* * *
It didn’t take longto get acquainted with my new 500-square-foot digs. It took even less time to unpack. And then I stood in the middle of the space, unsure what to do. Where did I go from here? I couldn’t go back to where I’d come from, but I didn’t know how to go forward, either. No one had ever taught me. And now, no one ever would.
I was all alone. Just me, now, and what I made of myself. As the realization hit me, I sank down on the edge of the bed. Until now, there had always been that small part of me that still had hope. Hope that I would find a family. A mom or a dad. A place I could call home. A place to celebrate the holidays. I’d always imagined a father I could call for advice or a mother I could introduce my first child to. None of that would happen now. That portal had sealed, with me standing on the wrong side.
As grateful as I was to get this place, it came with independence and the expectation that I would need to become a man despite no one ever teaching me how. I had no life skills. No education. No money. No guidance. It occurred to me then that I was fucking terrified. I was in charge of the rest of my life. What the hell was I going to do now?
Beams of light crisscrossing the room drew my attention to the mini disco ball hanging from a hook above the window. Had it been left by the previous tenant, or did it come standard in The Gosling? I walked over to the window and examined the tiny mirrored tiles. Something about the ball captured my imagination, and as each facet reflected light back into the air, casting it into dozens of small beams that streamed out in all directions, I was reminded of Grace and her sparkling, sunny beauty. She lit up a space like a disco ball, only it didn’t take thousands of tiny tiles to harness the effect. Her light came from the inside and illuminated everything in its sight.
I drew in a deep, lifesaving breath.
“Okay, Grace,” I whispered, “I hear you.”
22
GRACE: I HAVE A SECRET
Today marked the twenty-eighth day of Jake lingering in a coma, and I was on brother duty. We had a schedule. My time was every Tuesday and Thursday after school, as well as rotating shifts on the weekend. The idea was that Jake would never be alone in the solitary world he’d built somewhere inside his head. Each one of us pledged to keep his limbs moving and his brain stimulated. When he woke up—and we were convinced he would—such interventions would aid in his recovery.
Many of my Jake shifts were spent doing homework or reading from textbooks to him, but other days we worked through song lyrics, both his and mine. Pulling up his own extensive and award-winning discography online, I dissected his songwriting skills one track at a time with the slumbering master right by my side. Jake and I had full-on, one-sided conversations. Save for the occasional nurse or doctor visit during my shift, no one was around to hear me babble.
So many times, I’d wanted to tell him what I knew, and I’d come dangerously close a few times. There was nothing good that could come of it, I told myself. Nothing. Yet with each day that passed, the burden weighed more heavily on me. What if I just whispered in his ear?
I leaned over the bed and touched Jake’s face, testing for a reaction. If ever there was a confession that warranted such precaution, it would be this one. He didn’t stir, so I proceeded. “I have a secret.”
I waited for a reply, my lips so close to Jake’s ear I could feel the heat of my breath reflected back on me. Why was I so scared? It wasn’t like I’d done anything wrong. I’d been a little girl at the time. How could I be blamed for things someone else had done? Yet the brutal truth was that Jake wouldn’t be lying here in this coma today if I’d had the presence of mind to speak up all those years ago.
“I know what you’re thinking, Jake. Who cares, right? What can your mundane little sister possibly have to say that would hold any interest to an icon like you?”
Jake seemed to agree as he remained perfectly still. I wondered every day what was going on inside that head of his. Doctors couldn’t explain it. He should’ve woken up, they’d said. Every test had been taken, every X-ray performed, the consensus being that there was no obvious medical condition preventing him from opening his eyes, which begged the question—did he not want to come back to us?
No one would blame him if he chose to leave us all behind. He’d already suffered more than any one human should. But things were different now. He had Casey. She was the promise of normalcy that he desperately craved. With her in his life, he had a future. I couldn’t fathom Jake wanting to leave her, not without a fight. So that led me to conclude this purgatory Jake was lingering in was something darker, something that held him like a vise.
“Here’s the thing, Jake. What if my secret wasn’t entirely mine? What if my secret was partly”—I let out the breath I’d been safekeeping before whispering the final, scandalous bit—“yours?”
