Watch Over Me

Watch Over Me

Hodaya Ziv

I spent my first day in foster care with a huge smile smeared across my ten-year-old face, nodding hard when anyone asked if everything was okay, and exulting to all who’d listen about the huge bookshelves in my “new family’s” house.

Come nighttime, I had a bath, at the behest of the mother (that’s something you do every day? who knew!), and dutifully went to my room and lay down in bed. The lady (I wasn’t sure what to call her in my head yet) stood by while I said Shema, looming and unfamiliar. Then when I finished, she suddenly crouched down at my side, passed a hand over my forehead, and leaned in as if to kiss me. I pulled my head back, and even then I didn’t cry, although it was the closest I got.

As soon as she left the room, I shot out of bed. The aloneness — the first time all day — prickled and threatened. The only one there was me, and I didn’t want to spend any time with Me. Me had too many scary memories and scary future thoughts, and she made me feel icky.

There were books, though. Not just on the huge bookshelves in the living room; every room in this house had books. And even though my “new family” didn’t have any children, children’s and young adult books crammed the smallish bookshelf in this room.