Chapter 3; Now - Something Happens In The Water
We drove all day yesterday. There’s something almost spiritual about watching the Texas landscape morph right before your eyes. We started near the Gulf, where the air clings to your skin like a second layer of sweat-soaked clothing. That sticky, heavy humidity that makes every breath feel like you’re pulling it through syrup. As we moved inland, the land transformed—towering pines swayed in the breeze like sleepy giants, giving way to the rolling countryside near San Antonio, where the air felt lighter but still carried the weight of the earth.
We stayed on I-10 until the landscape rolled into a different kind of beauty—endless fields and hills that seemed to stretch into forever. Last night, Adam and I slept in the car outside a truck stop. It’s nothing new for us. When you’re in the foster system, especially when you’re running from it, you see and go through things most people wouldn’t believe. Survivalism, man—it’s a mind fuck. Some of us, the ones who get out, learn early that when the caseworker says she’s coming, you’ve got to do everything in your power to make yourself presentable. Yes, ma’am. Yes, sir. Anything else I can do for you?
Mornings were spent scrubbing the black mold and gunk off shower walls, sweeping the peeling linoleum floors in the bathroom, and pushing the dirt into Mr. Rat’s hole between the shower and sink. Come nightfall, he’d emerge, curse us for dirtying his precious doorway. Mr. Rat—what a crazy motherfucker. I’d imagine him, living down there in that hole, plotting his next move.
On days when the social worker—she always smelled like cough drops and cigarettes—would call to say she was coming, Adam, the others, and I would spend our morning clearing out the fridge. It was a graveyard in there. A whole family of enchiladas lying side by side, corpses draped in fuzzy green mold. A casserole, a cold, gray memory. Sour milk, expired weeks ago. Bread loaves, some torn to shreds by Mr. Rat himself. He always had a thing for white bread. You pick out the slices that might be salvageable, peeling off the mold like you’re scraping off the rot of your own life. If you’re like us, you learn that assholes beat you into a shining citizen. Not sure about the shining part, but the life I lived with those so-called parents is all I’ve got left to fuel this escape.
I turn the key in the ignition just enough to see the clock: 5:02 AM. A breeze slips through the open windows, carrying with it the smell of fresh fertilizer. Most folks would think I’m crazy, but that smell—it brings a kind of peace to me. Like the smell of rain on the horizon, fertilizer takes me back. Traveling with the foster parents. Always moving, always running. Hoping the next spot would be better. New social workers too damn lazy to even read our files. Instead, they’d chat pleasantries and toss us more pills. Pills for the hand sweats, the jerks, the facial tics that came more often than not. Pills for the nightmares, the headaches. More chats with psychiatrists about the mirrors. No mirrors—I can’t look at myself. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll see the worn-out face of someone who’s just tired. Tired of living, tired of fighting a losing battle.
On the outskirts of town, I take the dirt road that leads to Sunny Side Lake. The trees part as the road unwinds, and I wake up Adam, showing him the lake. He’s still groggy, barely awake, but his voice is soft, hopeful. “We’re here? We made it? Is that the lake?”
The sun is just a faint whisper on the horizon, but I know any minute now her rays will stretch out, touching the water. I tussle his hair gently and whisper, “Yeah, bud. We made it.”
The dirt road splits ahead—left for Sunny Side Lake grounds, right for Casa Del Sol Inn. The sign says NO VACANCIES in bold red letters, but I turn right anyway, sitting up straighter as we approach. There it is. An odd mix of grand and quaint, a mansion and a church all rolled into one. It sits with so much grace, facing the lake, its roof lined with peaks, windows draped in velvet curtains. The fog from the lake creeps up to the house, hugging it, swallowing the first floor in a soft mist. The shutters are worn, the doors are grand—it’s better than I imagined. It may be an inn, but it feels like a home. I chuckle to myself, knowing that anything, literally anything, would look like a home to Adam and me right now.
We park off to the side, waiting for 7A.M. The inn is quiet, its lights still out. There’s a calmness in the air, and I stretch my arm out the window, trying to grasp the fog. A handshake with the lake. “We’re here now. I’m Daniel, this is my brother Adam. Nice to meet you. I hope this goes as planned, and we can stay a while.”
Adam pulls out his notebook and starts sketching. He carries that thing everywhere, even though we both know he can’t draw for shit. It’s the idea he likes. Ever since I showed him that Bob Ross video years ago, he’s been drawing. Scribbles, lines—it all looks the same. But it’s the stories he tells when he explains his art that let me know the notebook is so much more. It’s how he processes things, and the nurse who gave him the meds said to let him keep at it.
“I’m drawing the lake and the house,” Adam says.
I glance over at the paper—sporadic lines that look more like a battle between the pen and paper. The paper lost.
“It’s an inn,” I reply softly. “Think of it like a motel, but smaller and better.”
“Better than a motel?” His eyes light up and what sounds impossible. “Better than the motel where that lady washed our clothes because we were famous?”
“Yeah, better than that rinky-dink motel. Way better. But here, there won’t be anyone to wash our clothes, bud. Remember what I told you—we’re here so I can work. I’m gonna make money for both of us, save up, and eventually get a place of our own. A real place. No more motels. No more sleeping in the car. We'll have a place of our own with a fridge full of food and a big, comfy bed just for you. All the toys and shoes and clothes you want.”
Silence fills the car as I stop talking. In the distance, birds chirp, welcoming the sun. The cicadas buzz in their erratic harmony, nearing the end of their song. Dragonflies hover low over the fog that snakes through the ground. Next to me, I hear sniffles. Adam has stopped scribbling, his head down, tears falling like rain onto the notebook.
Shit! I gently place an arm around him, not too forceful, knowing he still struggles with touch.
“What if, maybe, I miss Mom and Dad,” his voice cracks. And then, just like that, the dam breaks. He starts to cry, hard. Any second now, he’ll start hyperventilating, crying uncontrollably. Seeing that he hasn’t pushed me away, I begin to rub his back.
“It’s okay, bud,” I say, my voice as soft as I can manage. What I really want to say is: “It’s okay, bud. I knew this would be a lot for you. So much change. But this is good for us, good for you. I know you don’t mean it when you say you miss them. Deep down, somewhere in that big heart of yours, you’re excited about this new life. A life without them. Free from the parents who hurt you. Free from that shit house, those four walls that stood by, doing nothing while you suffered. You might not have all the words, and I don’t expect you to understand it all, but there’s so much more out there beyond them, beyond that God-forsaken home. What you’re feeling right now, that warmth that scares you and makes you want to go back—it’s hope, bud. We made it. Just the two of us. And we’ll keep making it, day by day, until we can truly make it on our own. And when that day comes, when this warmth becomes our normal, I hope you forget them. Forget what they did to you.”
His sobs slowly fade into sniffles, the kind that shake his body, almost cradling him to sleep. I move my arm away, letting him settle back into his seat as he covers his face. He always covers his face when he cries. Soon, he’ll drift off, leaning against the car door, exhausted by the flood of emotions.
At exactly 6:30 AM, a light inside Casa Del Sol Inn flickers on.
It’s time.
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