Chapter One
Strangely Unwanted

Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward. Psalm 127:3 ESV

      It was the coldest day of this Louisiana winter.

Temperatures had fallen into the teens. The dramatically eager weatherman’s threat of snow never occurred, but it would have fooled anyone from a distance. The ground was covered with the crunchy, crisp, white sleet. Thick, heavy air was filled with frost and mist as the sleet rattled and ricocheted off the trees and paved roads. Our bald, sleek tires struggled to maintain traction as Daddy slowly and carefully guided the truck down the straight, narrow street that was lined with the bare-branched, pecan trees covered in ice. The streetlights reflected off the white ice causing the night to be much brighter than usual.

The eerie feeling of traveling, unaware of our destination, so late, and in such terrible weather caused all of my brothers and sisters to huddle closely for security and warmth behind a rigged divider in the back of our old, rusty, Ford Bronco. We scarcely had room to move since there were seven of us kids. Mama never looked behind to comfort us or check on our well-being throughout the entire, five hour drive from South to North Louisiana. On any decent day, we could have made the trip in less than four hours. If anyone had to stop along the way for a restroom break, my oldest sister, Sylvia, would have to tend to and escort us into filthy fillin’ stations that were void of life on such a night. Money was tight, so we never stopped for any morsel of food. The one year old, Little Guy, cried continuously from the gnarling pains of hunger. No one dared to ask Mama and Daddy for formula or baby food, because they never touched the baby. Literally.

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Mama and Daddy never named the baby. He was the seventh, and just popped out suddenly one day. My sister, Hall, said as she pointed, “Look! Little bald guy.” Hall’s voice rose to a high pitch of emphasis and a snicker of amusement when saying “guy,” and, well, that’s how the baby got his name. Sylvia, the first born, was the only child with a decent name.

After Sylvia’s birth, our parents obviously didn’t care for the burden of any more children. Regardless, Daddy roughly “took” Mama on every opportunity when he was in town between jobs, so she finally gave up fighting him off. After us, babies came each year and a half to two years apart. Sylvia did all she could to care for Guy. Since she was the oldest, she found her purpose in life at an early age through the responsibility of our survival and meager existence. She snatched formula cans from the grocer on every visit whenever Mama gave her a list of things to pick up. Sylvia slipped them casually under her shabby, brown coat. It was a boy’s oversized coat that was donated during the school coat drive on one of the few days that we attended school. The elderly, kind grocer eyed us suspiciously over his gold-rimmed eyeglasses every time we browsed in his store, but he never said a word. I guess Mr. Lamon knew our predicament. Of course, he had his own problems, as did all of our neighbors.

Our community was a distant, rural area lined with house trailers and concrete pads for vinyl, covered porches. Everyone in our small, blue-collared community was depressed it seemed. Husbands worked for long periods offshore or in the oil fields, construction, contracting, or lengthy turnarounds at mills. The only thing that kept families in the area was the employment distribution hub located in the center of town. It was between the only church, a southern First Baptist, one run down, cinder block, grocery store that carried the bare necessities, and the inadequate, red brick, school house made of T buildings stood behind it. Neighbors migrated in and out of town so often that no one noticed us or Mama’s hateful, repulsive, and obnoxious behavior. Wives felt neglected, abused, unworthy, and utterly alone. Everyone argued and appeared unhappy due to their unjust lack of fortune. Everyone just longed for more or desired to be someone else. No one paid any attention to us or our needs, because no one wanted to take on more responsibility.

My name is Foster. I’m three years younger than Sylvia. As a girl, I know my name is strange, but that’s because Sylvia told me that Mama always wished I’d gone to a foster home. I was verbally and physically reminded of this every time Mama was cross with me. This was more often than not. My birth spawned something evil in Mama that began her horrific pattern of attempted murders. Well, I’ll call it simply by what it was. Sylvia and I cost too much money to be born, and Mama refused to ever step foot in a hospital again.

The effects of childbirth presented a wicked alteration, which caused Mama to become mentally disturbed. For a woman that was once known and admired for her perfectly curvy figure and elegant demeanor, marriage and children were regarded as her demise. Babies came quick and easy for her; a benefit of being bigboned with wide hips. Mama sometimes whispered troublesome things to herself in mirrors. On many occasions I overheard her growling deeply, “I should appreciate my curvy voluptuousness, but I hate it. I hate you, you disgusting, fat pig.” These conversations with her reflection and aggressive pounding on her belly rolls, loose chin, arm flab, and dented thighs were lengthy. She would scream at her body and rip at her skin by digging her nails deep within as though exorcising a demon. Sometimes, she would emerge with deep, red, scratch lines and bloody whelps. The most obvious of wounds was always the goose-egg that she wore like a crown in the middle of her forehead from a solitary, selfinflicted blow against the surface of the dresser. This is how we knew she got her point across to her reflection in the mirror. She would emerge the victor and continue her activities proudly, but we knew to remain invisible.

The third child Mama had was named Frog. When he was born, Mama attempted to drown him in the algae-covered, frog pond in the corner of the soggy back yard. Mama just sauntered out casually as her bare feet bogged deep into the mud and dropped him in the steamy water one summer afternoon. She never tried to look unsuspicious or hide her actions. It was as though she was tossing out the leftovers from a meal to feed the turtles. Sylvia, a determined, matronly, five years old at the time, of course fished him out. She said that baby kicked like a frog. As long as we kept our distance, and cared for the younger ones, Mama could ignore she even had children. Daddy could, too, because he was hardly ever home. In fact, he was never present when a child was born. The baby gave Sylvia a purpose, and she tenderly mothered him as if he were the life-like doll she wished she’d had. Little did we know at the time, but God had His protective hands on us.

The fourth baby born was Clay. She was covered with dry afterbirth and hidden under a heavy, clay pot outside the church. We snuck safely far behind Mama when she strolled in her finest Sunday clothes, a white dress adorned with baby blue roses, black pumps, blood-red, painted nails, and hips swaying to and fro. She went to church immediately after the baby was born, before anyone arrived for Sunday school. She enjoyed sitting in the quaint, church garden that was surrounded by sprawling oaks. Sylvia and I crept behind one of the oaks, as the wind through the swaying moss and rustling leaves muffled our motions. Mama pretended to be engaged in prayer and studying her lesson. Appearance was very important to Mama. She was, of course, the biggest hypocrite in town. We saw her casually remove the birdbath perched on the overturned, clay pot, and she placed it gently on the brick pavers. She pulled the blue, limp, wrapped newborn out of her large, leather handbag, and forcefully shoved every delicate limb of the child under the tilted pot Then she placed the birdbath back on top. It was ironic that it was shaped like the open hands of our Lord, Jesus. Mama then strolled on in through the vacant sanctuary’s double doors. When the doors finally closed behind her, we rushed over and pulled the baby out. She had a child’s dirty sock stuffed tight in her mouth, and the afterbirth had dried the color of the clay pot. Sweet Clay then received her strange, yet appropriate, name.

Kenmore, the fifth, got his name when we heard the old washing machine turn on mysteriously one quiet midnight. It was an odd hour for Mama to be washing clothes. The loud thumping of the machine caused Sylvia to jump out of bed quickly to rescue the tiny, drowning rat. That’s what he looked like with that full head of dark hair. Mama was not amused or surprised that we once again saved a baby from her cruel, wicked hands. Instead of calling him Rat, we thought Kenmore was a slightly better decision. However, Mama’s horrible deed left Kenmore’s ears damaged from the scalding water and totally deaf. Thankfully, Mama filled the tub of the machine before she dropped him in, or he might have drowned before we got to him. We came to the conclusion that Mama consciously let us rescue the babies to either keep from getting caught in a crime, or that, deep in her heart… No, she had no heart. Deep in her conscious, she knew her actions were wrong. She had to. We tried to excuse her in our minds as mentally insane. Otherwise, she would have loved us. Wouldn’t she?

Sixth, there’s...