“Ally? You in there?”

The strangers’ voice sounded calm and steady through the bathroom door. A rarity in my home.

“Are you safe? Have you harmed yourself?”

I scooted closer to the door, “No.” I said, loud enough so that the stranger could hear.

“Ally, This is officer N- from the Police Department. Can you come out of the bathroom? Please?”

I hesitated, briefly assessing what my mother could do with the police officer there. “Sure.”

I opened the door, glancing at the police woman to make sure she was alone before stepping out of the bathroom.

She breathed out, “Good. Are you ok?”

I nodded.

She looked at me, then started going over why she was here while checking my pockets.

“Your mom called because you locked yourself in the bathroom-”

Yeah. I was chased into the bathroom and then I locked the door to keep her out.  I thought angrily. 

“-and because of your history with self harm-”

What? I can’t even cry anymore without someone thinking i’m dragging a razor across my wrists?

“-We thought it might be good idea to come check the situation out. Have you harmed yourself?” 

I shook my head. No.

“Do you have a razor on you?”

I shook my head again. 

She nodded, “Ok. Well, because of your history, I have to take you to the hospital, but we can go in my car, I don’t need to call an ambulance or anything because you haven’t hurt yourself.”

Great.

So thirty minutes later I stood, handcuffed, in the hospital waiting room. I was angry because the kids across from me kept looking over and whispering. Officer N–, though, was decent company. She talked to me as if I wasn’t some idiot kid she had coaxed out of a bathroom, and I was grateful for it.

An hour later, I was in an emergency room, in scrubs, waiting. The policewoman explained to me that my mother and I needed a break, and that it was ok. I wasn’t in trouble, and I wouldn’t be admitted back into the hospital.

Thank god. I thought.

An hour later, Ruth, from a local organization that provided temporary and long-term foster care, sat on my bed, chatting and taking inventory. She seemed nice enough, and we patiently waited for my mother to come and sign the papers. 

So began my experience with foster care in Portland.

They were able to give me respite care for a week. A long, miserable week in which I was able to go to school once, just in time for my group presentation in World History.

Xander had to go twice with me. He hated it. Because we were siblings we weren’t split up, but because he was a boy, we had to go to homes without other kids. A luxury. We went to families who rented movies for us and took us to laser tag. I thought he was lucky.

The first time I went I had an ok experience. The other girl was twelve, and we got along fairly well. She sat next to me and told me all about her twenty-five year old boyfriend, then showed me her collection of matches and told me how she was going to burn the room while I slept. But all things considered, she was ok. 

The next time I was alone, I went to a woman called Sabrina. She already had a thirteen year old daughter, and several other foster kids. She was nice, but her daughter was a terror. She snatched food away from me, pouring it into her mouth and daring me to tell her mother, and she made a huge deal of blocking off her room from me and the new girl. She called us the “Foster girls” with a tone that made me want to go scrub myself with boiling water.

The final time, I was sent because I actually did hurt myself. I put a jacket on over my short sleeved shirt, and because my mother passed over calling the cops, I didn’t have to tell anyone that I had cut.  However, the woman I went to was so hospitable that she followed me around insisting I take off my coat. Not wanting to horrify or disgust her, or admit what I had done, I quickly ducked into the room I slept in and changed into the turtleneck I brought. she was very sweet. She was from Russia and spent several hours describing the landscape of her hometown to me. The other two girls were courteous and for the most part ignored me, which is sometimes better than being noticed. 

After that, however, Xander told our Mother that if she ever put either of us in foster care, he would move out and never talk to her again.

So she never did.