There was a book at the library called A Dictionary of Angels. No one had opened it in what must have been 20 years. It wasn’t that Aria believed in angels. She opened its inelastic pages simply to give herself the feeling of them. She imagined them sitting in the rafters of that voiceless place, being carried to where they wanted to go not by wings, but by the shafts of sunlight coming through the windows. She imagined the room to be heavy with them, watching and championing the people who had buried themselves in the whispers of the books on the shelves.
Being at the library afforded Aria the opportunity to feel like she was a normal person in society again, less like a castaway. She spent most of her time there thumbing through books that looked like they had been forgotten. There was something virginal about them. Perhaps she felt compelled to give them company because they were forsaken, much like herself.
With the remainder of her time, Aria reviewed the cookbooks and looked up on the public computers some local resources catering to people in her position. Each cookbook offered an artistic pilgrimage into the world of the chef who had created it. And, like the thorough recipes they contained, each one presented a different flavor. So far, her computer searches had proven to be time well spent. She was able to locate a sober living home and ask the manager there if they had any shoes left over from the clothing donations they received, which the residents might not want. Once the manager had sized her up and established that she didn’t present any threat, she was left there to look through the pile. She pretended to try on a few pairs before pulling the shoelace on a pair of tennis shoes clean of its eyelets. She stuffed it in her jacket pocket before telling the manager that there was nothing that fit her in the pile. She tuned him out when he proceeded to give her a list of alternative suggestions for where she might find some shoes.
Aria was attached to her All Star sneakers. She felt down to earth and classic in them. When she looked at them, she could sometimes hear the song Cecilia by Simon and Garfunkel playing somewhere in the recesses of her mind. It seemed to her that this new way of living was demanding that she give away every principle she possessed for the sake of basic survival, most especially her principles of good taste. Those high-top sneakers were a form of self-preservation. The one standard she could keep, when all others had to be surrendered.
When she had walked a safe distance from the sober living home, she sat down to thread the shoelace she had taken into the holes that trimmed the quarter of her shoe. She was now walking around with shoes that boasted two different-colored laces, one white, one neon orange. Despite the noticeable clash, she was glad to feel the balance of the even pressure hugging her feet when she walked. But threading them made her think about Clifford. She imagined his empty collar still hanging from the shoelace, still affixed to the wheel of the Pizza Hut dumpster. To say she missed him was to distort sentiment. So many times in her life, the only words available to describe the way she felt fell short. She did not miss him. The absence of him was a torture.
CHAPTER 6
“Let your roots grow down into him and let your lives be built on him.”
Col. 2:7
Nina Heng, Aria’s foster care case manager, stared at the stenciled words across the wall. Some partnership, she thought to herself. She was armed that day with a stack of papers in a manila folder, more for her own sense of security than because she needed them. Being in her position meant being an equal partner and team member to the foster parents as much as it did advocating for the children under her supervision. Sometimes she was gladder of that part of the job description than others. This was not one of those times.
Having grown up in poverty as a first-generation immigrant in Chinatown, Nina had witnessed firsthand just how little say children have in the course of their lives. She had defied her family’s hopes of her becoming a doctor, lawyer or accountant, all careers that they imagined would garner her more esteem. Instead she decided to work in the child welfare system, determined to give a voice to the voiceless.
On this day, neither Mr nor Mrs Johnson could ever have guessed at her indigent beginnings. She sat in the overwhelmingly neutral-colored living room with both the poise and the costume of a woman who had grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth. She knew they would mistake her stiffness for manners rather than seeing that it was simply a byproduct of the fact that the Christian overtones of the house made her uneasy.
“The missing persons report was filed over a week ago; we’ve provided them with a photo and Aria’s medical records,” she explained. “We’ve made several attempts to notify Aria’s mother but haven’t been able to contact her yet. We’ve listed Aria as missing with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and we’ve notified the court. As you’re probably aware, this kind of thing is not unusual to see with kids in the system. Do you have any questions for us at
