The call came around 7 p.m. on a languid July evening as I was settling in with a good book and a big glass of iced tea. My teenage daughter was at a sleepover and the Friday evening stretched ahead quiet and uneventful. And then an Arlington County, Virginia social worker was on the other end of the line, gently pressuring me to provide emergency foster care for a seven-year-old boy who had abruptly been removed from his family because of signs of abuse. It was Friday evening, after all, getting late, and the child needed a place to sleep. It was only for the weekend as a more permanent placement was sought, one that could provide the specialized therapeutic care he needed. He was currently at a hospital being evaluated, no one knew if he'd been fed dinner, it was getting late...
When he arrived two hours later, J was excited to meet our cat and explore our house. Of his bedroom, he asked, "Who else sleeps in there?" No one, I replied. It's just for you. "I've never slept alone before," he said with wonder. He didn't appear to be tired or scared, even when the social worker beat a hasty retreat after explaining he needed medication but I would have to pick it up myself the next day. The social worker had given him a radio controlled car and he was clearly more interested in assembling and playing with it than with sleeping or talking. A friend of mine came over to get the car working. J was wound up but didn't talk about the weirdness of the circumstances. He played, he ran around, he picked up the reluctant cat, he marveled at the plethora of cable stations on our TV and the fact that I had a brand new toothbrush for him. I couldn't get him to sleep until sometime around 1 a.m. and then only by sitting by his bed and repeating soothing words.
We filled Saturday with activities -- a visit to the nearby playground, a quick run to Target to pick up clothes for him to wear, a viewing of the loud and hideous Transformers movie, a walk around the neighborhood. It wasn't until we were finally alone and quiet for dinner at a local restaurant that he looked at me and said, "I want to go home." We both knew which home he meant. And this is where foster parenting becomes the hardest job I know. I gently explained that he would go home when everyone agreed he would be safe there. His eyes teared up as he stroked the large bruise on the side of his face. "This was an accident," he said.
By Sunday, he was determined to stay with us if he couldn't return to his own home. I tried to tell him about the contractor who was arriving to tear up the only guest room in our house -- the one he currently occupied -- and about the student from Nairobi who arrives in early August to occupy the room until Thanksgiving. "I can sleep on the couch," he said. We went to a minor league baseball game where he didn't know a pitch from a run and kept saying he couldn't read the numbers on the scoreboard. He didn't understand why everyone stood for the national anthem and why I insisted he join us. And he begged me to let him stay with us. We joined friends at a neighborhood swimming pool and then for a backyard barbecue. Keeping him busy seemed like the best strategy.
But by bedtime Sunday, he was again begging to remain with us. "I'll be good," he promised. "I'll keep my room clean and I'll feed the cat." It was heartbreaking. Eventually he began asking where he would go when he left us, something I couldn't answer. I promised he would go to nice people, but really what kind of promises could I make to a boy who just wanted to go home? He wanted to be with the people he loved, even if they hurt him. He wanted to wake up in a bedroom shared with others, with a TV that doesn't always work, in a home where he says a machete is kept for "protection." The bruises on his face will fade. He'll forget about his long weekend in our home. For this little boy, despite the lousy hand dealt him, there is and will always be no place like home.