Behind the Scenes in The Baby Plan
Here's a prologue I wrote with Harley as a young girl that I soon decided I didn't want as part of the story. Still, I think it gives you a glimpse into what her life was actually like as a kid.
"Welcome to your new home."
Harley Emerson clutched the paper grocery bag containing all her worldly possessions tighter against her chest. She sent out a quick prayer that this placement would work, that she'd actually find a real home here. Already tall for her thirteen years, she glanced down into the eyes of the elderly woman.
The old lady's icy blue eyes didn't share her mouth's smile. A smile of all teeth. Teeth that probably spent the night in a glass on the bedside table.
Harley's new guardian didn't quite resemble the caring grandmother her social worker had promised. Still, appearances could be deceiving, right?
The row-house smelled of lemon furniture polish and sauerkraut, a far cry from the homemade cookies Harley had hoped for. A loose floorboard creaked beneath someone's foot as they stood in the foyer.
Miss Sheldon's hand closed on her shoulder. "Harley? Don't you have anything to say to Mrs. Dobbin?"
"Thank you." Harley's gaze darted to the staircase.
"Why don't I show you to your room? You can get settled in while I speak with your social worker." Mrs. Dobbin's nose wrinkled with distaste as she stared at Harley's bag. "This way."
Harley trudged up the stairs between the two women, mind already calculating the price of this particular "home." At least there weren't any men. She'd heard horror stories from some of the other girls in the group home, horror stories she'd just as soon avoid.
"Here you are." Her new foster mother flung open the door to a room in the front of the house. She gestured grandly. "A whole room to yourself. I'm sure that's a relief to you after living with so many other girls in the orphanage." The old woman stepped aside to allow Harley to enter.
Harley hesitated on the threshold. A twin bed with a white bedspread gone yellow jutted out into the room. The night-table and dresser didn't match the bed or each other. A small blue lamp perched on the bedside table and a mirror with a crack running across it completed the furnishings. The green walls reminded her of foamy grass she'd once seen a dog throw up - just before the dog attacked her.
Miss Sheldon cleared her throat.
"It's...very nice." Beggars certainly can't be choosers. "Thank you."
"Go on in and put your things away," Mrs. Dobbin said.
"I'm sure you're going to be very happy here, Harley." Miss Sheldon smiled at her, sparkles gleaming in her soft brown eyes.
Inwardly Harley shook her head. The naïve young social worker meant well, but she didn't have a clue. Harley knew without a doubt that of the two of them, she was the more mature, the more realistic, the more grounded. "Thanks, Miss Sheldon."
"I'll be by to check on you."
"Put your things away." Mrs. Dobbins pulled the door shut.
Harley set her bag on the bed and checked the door knob. No lock. That was bad. She liked to be able to lock her door.
"Can you assure me I won't have the same problems with this one as I did with the last?" Mrs. Dobbin's nasal voice pierced through the door.
Harley pressed her ear against the slight opening between the door and the jamb.
"You know you have to give them a chance to adjust. Harley's quiet, keeps to herself mostly. She's very good with her hands. Likes to fix things."
"Tell me again about her family."
"Her father was killed three years ago and no one knows where her mother is."
"Her parents divorced?"
Harley flinched in anticipation of the next answer.
"No, Mrs. Dobbin, if you recall, the paperwork indicated Harley's parents were never married."
"A bastard. Figures. Well, blood will out. If I have trouble with her, I'll be calling you quickly and you can just take her back. I told you, I don't take the trouble ones."
"Give her a chance, Mrs. Dobbins..." The voices faded, and Harley heard the sounds of the two women descending the stairs.
She opened the middle drawer on the dresser, turned the paper bag upside-down, and dumped the contents. A small, faded photograph landed on the top of the pile, and Harley picked it up. She sank to the edge of the bed and studied the print. A ruggedly handsome man in a leather jacket perched on a motorcycle, a smiling young girl standing at his side. "You and that darn bike, Dad. You and that darn bike."
Moisture welled up, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight. Crying hadn't ever solved anything. Crying wouldn't bring her father back, wouldn't get her a real home. It would only turn her nose red and make her eyes puffy.
The door to her room slammed open. Harley jumped, eyes going wide. Mrs. Dobbin glared at her. "Why is that drawer hanging open? Close it. Then get downstairs. There's dishes in the sink that need washed, then sweep and mop the kitchen floor. I'm going to take a rest." The old woman didn't wait for a response, just vanished with a swirl of her purple housedress.
"Let the payment begin," Harley murmured. "Welcome to the new house." So much for her new "home" and "mother."
"I'm never having kids. This world stinks." She'd make a lousy mother, anyway. Look at the role models she had to work with.