Page 35 of The Dysasters

Rustling papers drew Foster from her memories and from the aroma of chicory and coffee and home.

“Cora?” She tentatively stepped into the office, every cell in her body humming with the hope that her Cora would be around the corner. A gust pushed open one of the folders Foster had piled on Cora’s desk, blowing its contents onto the floor. Foster gripped the doorjamb as a mini cyclone of papers spun in the middle of the room.

Oh, my little strawberry baby girl. I’ll never be too far from you.

Foster’s heart squeezed as Cora’s words brushed against her ears on a gust of chicory.

We can do this together.

The papers settled in a mess on the floor. All but one. A wrinkled, coffee-stained piece fluttered just in front of Foster, resting at her feet.

“Cora,” she choked out, plucking the page off the hardwood. “I’m sorry.”

The breeze returned, drying the tears from her cheeks, and pressing warm against her aching chest.

“I love you,” Foster whispered as the scents of chicory and home melted into the air and disappeared.

Foster willed herself to stop crying and her hands to cease trembling as she blinked through the remaining tears at the wrinkled page. “DoctorRick’s handwriting.” Foster traced the first line of numbers and letters with her finger. “And Cora’s.”

In her sweeping cursive, Cora had drawn circles and arrows and written annotations around Doctor Rick’s notes.

Foster blindly shuffled to Cora’s chair, almost tripping over one of the boxes she’d had Tate haul out of the Batcave.

“One A,” Foster read aloud, following Cora’s arrow to her first comment. “Air.” Breath fled Foster’s lungs as she read the date written next to it. “August twenty-fifth.” Her hands shook so hard she had to set down the paper. “My birthday.”

11

FOSTER

“Okay, August twenty-fifth. My birthdayandTate’s birthday, but what do eighteen fifty and eighteen twenty-one have to do with anything? What am I missing? What am I missing?” She sat back, tapping the end of the pen against her chin. “Maybe it’s math. Maybe if I add up the four numbers, it’ll…” she trailed off, dropping her head into her hands. “It’ll what, Foster? Equal some number that’ll magically answer all of your questions? No,” she sighed. “It’ll just lead you right back to where you are now—hungry and frustrated. But I can fix one of those things, and maybe that will help. Maybe getting something to eat will refuel my brain as Tate’s dad would’ve said.” She massaged the nape of her neck. “First I hear Cora and now I can’t stop talking to myself. God,” she groaned, her slippered feet shuffling out of the office on her way to the kitchen, “I’m some kind of crazy ghost-whispering freak.”

“Storms! Come to me!”

Foster paused, her head swiveling to take in the empty living room and hallway. “Tate?” She listened. Nothing. “Nope, not a ghost whisperer. Just a crazy person who hears people who aren’t actually here.” She shrugged and continued into the kitchen. “Guess I’ll add it to the list of crap I don’t know how to deal with.” She opened the frosted-glass pantry door and immediately found what she was looking for. Three red and black boxes of Kind bars sat on theshelf at eye level, and Foster had to fight back another wave of sadness. Cora had thought of everything.

Foster unwrapped a granola bar and nibbled at a chunk of chocolate the same way she did every time she ate one. She paused, her mouth going dry as she waited to hear Cora’s ghost (if that’s what it was) say something about being glad Foster was actually eating something vaguely healthy for a change—the same way Cora always had. To which Foster would reply, “I only eat them for the chocolate.” She almost choked on a bubble of laughter. How ridiculous was it that she was standing in the kitchen talking to a person that wasn’t even there?

“I call upon the powers of the rain and the lightning and… other stormy things.”

Foster stopped chewing, spinning around to look out through the kitchen window at the pasture. “Tate?”

He had changed into real clothes, but it was definitely him, his cowboy-boot clad feet planted firmly in the grass as he stretched his arms overhead. “The power of Christ compels you!”

No, she definitely wasn’t the crazy one.

Foster shuffled out of her slippers and stuffed her feet into the tennis shoes waiting for her by the back door, refusing to acknowledge that their placement was yet another thing her Cora had done to make sure she felt like Strawberry Fields was her forever home. No matter how badly she wanted one, she couldn’t have a home without a family.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Finn?” Foster called as she clomped over to Tate, the dewy grass moistening the toes of her shoes.

Tate’s arms snapped down to his sides where his hands fidgeted with the cuffs of his plaid shirt. “I was, but then he offered to let me have some of his stuff so I decided to come back.” He stopped fidgeting and crossed his arms over his chest. “And now I’m back.”

“I see that.” Foster took a bite of her granola bar. “So, what were you doing?” she asked, unable to keep the laughter from her voice.

“Oh,” Tate’s cheeks blazed pink. “You saw that, huh?”

“Yeah, I saw that.” Foster passed the back of her hand over her mouth to hide her grin.

Tate chewed his bottom lip before lifting his chin proudly. “Practicing.”