A Message To Myself - 2. Chapter 2

Firing up my tablet, I wait for it to boot. All the effort I've gone over just to have my own device. A personal computer of my own; every question can be answered with a swipe of the finger, all entertainment just a tap of a whim. I still can’t believe how I persuaded Valorie, one of our previous set-ups. I did so much gardening that summer. Once I found out they had a lawnmower, I practically stole it every day to cut grass. I didn't once waste time relaxing during that stretch of the season. I was too busy concerned with making money to buy my pride and joy. I worked the arse off myself, even if I didn't pay the last 25% of the retail price. I think by that time, I was able to beg for the tablet. One thing I miss about doing all the labour is the aroma of freshly cut grass. Sigh… Ah.

With the home screen popping up, all my downloaded apps present themselves. I'm not hugely social, no Insta, TikTok or Snap… Okay, I have Snapchat. Social workers get all uptight about foster kids who are still in the system having social media profiles. Possibly it is to cover their own backs. They don't want a bunch of kids documenting how much they failed for the world to see. It's bad for business; keep that shit behind closed doors.

Swiping to the subsequent tab, I tip the illuminated red application with a car wheel and euro sign in the middle of the tire. The brand name displays, saying, "sellmycar." I know I am far away from actually buying a car, but sometimes I download the apps from the store when I am bored. A boy can dream of owning a car someday. Going to the search tab, I input the credentials I am seeking. A blue Volkswagen Minivan from the 2012-2013 area. Hitting send: the displayed results are insulting. Many of the cars seem like they've fallen off the back of a lorry, just left to rot. Except, one family car can be said to have many journeys. The tarnished paintwork would suggest trips to the beach with the sunblock smeared all over the side of the vehicle. Scrolling down the list, none of the cars fit the memory of what I am looking for. I get it into my head that maybe that car is not as clean as dad would have kept it if it was sold. Attempting to strip away the grotty presentation of some vehicles, I pay closer attention to the body shape and the year of the automotive. Lorcan leans eagerly against me, peering across into the tablet apparently waiting for me to make a diagnosis or arrive at a conclusion from an unmistakeable conundrum.

Though Lorcan hasn't explicitly said anything, I can tell he is just waiting for the opportunity to be fruitful and boisterous. He has his way being all animated, but seeing him determined and focused is a change outside of the norm. As I strike the end of the search options, I exhaust my scour using that service. Opening the app store, I download a few trading place names and set off on the second commerce site. Wheelsfordealz is an old site that has been around for as long as I have lived. Like 15-years. Subconsciously hunting through the junk; frustration is building. Lorcan’s fidgeting on the bed, and my impatience to find such a result is depleting.

The quest for this Minivan is growing stale and fast. Launching Authomotion, I input the same details I've put into the last two or three sites. At this rate, I have come to realise the going price for a car of this stature is about €3,200. Odd, I often thought bigger cars would be more expensive, but I guess they lose their value by half after a year. Feeling like this is all in vain, I am contemplating on telling Lorcan we tried but didn't come close to finding out the truth. It seemed like a good idea at the start to find out what happened to our parents, but the more I think about it, I just don't want to know. If it is this much effort only to find a car; what would be looking for the actual person be like? Have I really gotten so closed off in that regard? I no longer desire to know what happened to mam and dad. If they left us; what makes me think they will want to pick up where they left off if we found them? Yet, just as I am about to call it quits; following the feign attempt to locate a lead, Lorcan’s hand energetic struck the tablet.

“That one…”

Jumping from the abruptness of his action, I settle down, relaxing from the sudden escalation in life. Gazing across to my brother, he looks optimistic, or it could be that he has gotten inpatient, resorting to pointing and denoting. Kids just can't sit still; not that I am a nark who goes around, causing problems for people who can't sit the hell down and be quiet. Though regarding his selection, I sceptically stare at the car, blankly at first. The model looks a little like what dad drove, but it's not our car. I glide through the images on display to see the interior of the vehicle. For the first time, I am hopeful that my stupid kid brother got something right. Except, when I view the backseat I am confident that it is not our car. There is not scuff marks. Only, what's stopping people from replacing them in the long run? Drug mules fill the cavities of door panels with bricks of cocaine to get past borders and police. Though what set this car apart is the wear and tear on the back of the front seats, where kids would have scratched, kicked and probably sneezed on with bubbly snots seeping from their noses at one point in time. It reassured me that dad's car could still be out there. Peering back to my brother, I offer a sheepish smile, ruffling his hair to provide some affection.

“It's not the right colour, plus, it doesn’t have the marks on the door.”

“Are you sure?” Lorcan requested.

“I think so…”

Eyeing the picture of the backseat again, squinting to make out any variation of lines inscribed in the plastic, I am met with the same answer. It's not the car. Scrolling to the bottom of the page, I read the information about the vehicle, it's brief history, including the make and model. Temporarily, I am excited about the prospect. But the proposition is shot down by the lack of evidence coming to the forefront. Not aspiring to get my hopes squandered further, I clamber off the bed. I'm peckish. I wonder what the new rents have in the fridge? Reflecting on yesterday, I’d rather not eat another one of those crispy salads. I'm not saying it was unpleasant to consume, but I like meat. Four or five days of the week they expect us to eat fucking vegetables. Rubbing my tummy, it grumbles helplessly, 'please feed me.'

Plucking open the door, I leave the room, calling out to Lorcan, “Let’s get something to eat; I’m hungry.”

Quizzically Lorcan asks, “I thought you wanted to find the minivan?”

Lifting up the tablet with one hand, he waved it to me to continue our proceedings. I don't feel like it. To be honest, I have lost interest. Searching for a car is an impossible feat which can even be destroyed by now. Attempting to be positive in another light, I beckon for Lorcan to follow suit.

“Yeah… I lost interest.”

Throttling through the loft apartment; the kitchen a far harbour, I peer over at the floor to ceiling window. The deluge pelts the glass. A symphony in its own right with the pitter-pat. Occasionally interrupted by a swell of wind; ramming the sprinkle onto the pane. The flat is tranquil, no noise other than the relaxing spit of rain. Going from house to house all these years; getting caught out in many cloudbursts, I can say I am surprised I think fondly of rainfall now. Even though months of gloomy weather are no comparison to the likes of Spain in the summer. When the sun comes out, there is no place as beautiful as Ireland. I miss the time's dad used to take me up to Howth to fish. The jagged cliff paths and tormenting, steep slope to your death at the end of the descent made my tummy churn every time. Still does. Except, those days I recall fondly. A little yellow battery-operated AM/FM tuner radio, sandwiches, and our rods. Even if I lost interest after twenty minutes, resorting to raising tadpoles from the rockpools with a net, it's the company I miss.

Halfway across the room, I creep up onto the shaggy white rug coming from the bland, tasteless modern furniture of the living room. They look more like seats melted from the backend of a lumpy coat hook, and the footrests an edgy Stock Cube. In the kitchen, I retrieve the bread from the cupboard, closing the press afterwards and get the butter, cheese and ham from the refrigerator. Thank Christ the couple we've been staying with is not vegetarians. Eyeing the white Formica, its glacial presence offering no warmth to my welcoming stay. I lay out the bread on the marble fleck, I butter, take the two last slices from the plastic before adding the cheese. I’m no chef, but it will fill us.

Glancing up, sensing my brother finally making his way out from the room, he wanders forward with that teddy bear under his right arm. Mr Cuddly Kola has yet to be left alone just once. I recognise mam gave it to him when he was a baby. Other than I can't remember much else about the plush toy. The last couple of years he has kept it by his side religiously, even growing violent if you try to take it away to wash. The first time he ever attacked me was because of the stuffed toy; scratched me pretty badly too. I reckon I surmise what it means to him. It's the last real thing he has of his old life. Not that he should be able to remember much of it, but he still is comforted by the teddy. I presume the thing smells like the worst case of ass ever; he so needs to get it deloused. He might be getting a little old for it now, but I don't have the heart to take it off of him. God help the poor animal.

Lorcan sets the toy up on the countertop, pulls out the high stool, then struggles to draw himself back into the breakfast nook. Grinning, I assist him, going behind the seat I place my shoe on the support rest on the base of the frame and thrust him into place. Lorcan's attention dwindles from a faint chuckle to the master bedroom door leading off of the kitchen. A woman is crying beyond; sobbing really. I think I have become immune to weepy hearts. I’m not denying it's despairing witnessing another defective soul. Getting involved in their woes only ends up being a mistake. Doing it in the past for other foster kids was a learning curve, knowing full well to steer clear of pitiful individuals balling it up. Sometimes people don’t want help, and when you offer it, often they turn on you. I’ve learned the lesson to mind my Ps and Qs. If it’s not your business take a hard left and speed away. Comprehending it is none of your concern.

Ignoring the weeping, I raise the plates with our sandwiches, making my way to the end of the counter. Inspecting the offering, I conclude what serving I should give my brother. On the one hand, I'm not fond of the heel, but Lorcan hates them. Making an effort to sound persuasive, I draw attention to the plate with the odd combination.

“There were only three slices left in the bag… Do you want the end of the pan?"

The displeasing face Lorcan gives is enough for me to realise not to ask the question again.

Groaning, I say, “Fine, I’ll take it.”

I set down the one I wanted for myself in front of him a little abruptly that regret it. The ceramic chinking when it hit the marble surface. Drawing my arm back, I hold my hand up, indicating that it was by accident, he nods comprehendingly.

Lorcan pivots over his shoulder as I remove the seat adjacent to him at the stand when he taps me on the arm, directing my attention to the master bedroom. Sighing, I whinge by his reluctance to let it go already.

“She’ll be okay. People fight; people make up.”

Wrapping my arm under the lip of the stool I go sit up at the counter when he taps me again, looking up with hopeful eyes, this time the persistence irritating me.

"Wah… Can't I eat without you bothering me?”

Lorcan’s eyes stooped to his lap, and I immediately feel guilty for snapping. I mull over the exercise of apologising. Instead, I examine the room, looking for something I can use as a Segway. The blank tv screen called out to me as a justifiable invitation to block out the sounds of a despairing human snivelling in the opposite chamber. Perturbed, I hop down from the stool, Lorcan following my every move.

“I’ll put on the tele…”

He seems to perk up with that incentive. Foraging for the remote, I shuffle around the segregated living space, elevating cushions, lifting magazines on the coffee table, but all to no avail. Where the hell is the bloody clicky thing? Surveying the television stand, I'm further hindered by its disappearance. Why does everything we are looking for go missing? Do we have a horrendous curse? Scanning the sidewall, a hint of black sticks out from the boreal bookcase, on the third shelf from the top. Ah-ha… Marching to the other side of the room, I boot the leg of the coffee table.

A surge of pain erupting in my toes. I freeze on the spot to allow the pain to dissipate, coxing myself not to curse. Once it diminished, I pluck the remote off the shelf, aggravated by the manhunt for it then the pain. A letter resting on its flat top swayed loosely sending it to the floor with a docile clop, propelling it for the coffee table. Anger stricken; bloody shenanigans… nothing can ever go right. I bolt after the slip of paper which had separated from its envelope. Plucking up the enfold, I slow when reaching the contents as to avoid another collision with the table. Pinching it from the corner, I lift the message, where it unravels itself and dangles open from its tri-fold close. Two black and white headshots of Lorcan and me are on the paper; with a scribbled jot at the rear of the page saying, "The Dashfort Kids… Parents are still missing. They have hardly spoken about the case. Lorcan seems quiet, always clutching some mangy bear. Aiden is a protective, but incompetent beyond anything else regarding his little brother. Will need to separate the children to begin questioning."

Peering up, I stare across at my brother eating. They just called me useless… Yet, my curiosity feigns and makes me wonder why they would keep such a note like this hanging around. My interest falls on the bedroom door, and I’m apprehensive about this letter. What does it mean? What does it mean?