The Passing of Foster Mama

I moved in with Foster Mama two months shy of my 18th birthday, and I stayed in touch with her for the rest of her life, which turned out to be only eight more years.

As I mentioned, Foster Mama had a con for every situation ... so it was only a matter of time before she conned me. In my case, a credit-card company was kind enough to issue a credit card in my name, but foolish enough to send it to her address in Detroit while I was off at school.

One of my foster sisters called me on the phone: "Girl, Mama got a hold of one of your credit cards, and she is going to town!"

I dismissed her warning as a jealous lie. Foster Mama wouldn't do that to me.

But sure enough, a few months later, I learned I had bad credit and a delinquent, $1,200 Visa bill. With a few persistent phone calls, I was able to prove to Visa that I was away at school when the card arrived in Detroit, and ultimately I wasn't held responsible for the charges.

The incident damaged, but didn't destroy, my relationship with Foster Mama.

I saw her about a month before she died. I was living with Great Aunt at the time and had temporarily escaped the hell of Los Angeles for a quick Detroit visit. I sat in Foster Mama's basement beauty salon and sang her a sad song about my hard-knock life. Her last act of kindness was to hand me a sorely needed $50 bill.

A few weeks later, I learned that a tornado had touched down in Highland Park, just a few miles from Foster Mama's home. I called to find out how she was doing.

She replied, "I heard they was looting in Highland Park."

Before I could express my disapproval, she added, "Sure coulda used me a new TV set."

That was our last conversation.

I didn't attend her funeral.

Not because I didn't care enough to pay my respects, but because I didn't find out in time.

You see, my foster sister – the same one who'd warned me years earlier about the credit card – didn't have my personal phone number. For whatever reason, she only had my 90-year-old Great Aunt's phone number.

And Great Aunt, bless her heart, would talk to my frantic foster sister, then toddle into my room and say sorrowfully, "I'm so sorry about your mother." This happened two or three times, but since I had no idea what she was talking about, I didn't give Great Aunt's strange words of comfort much thought.

Finally, about a week after the funeral, my foster sister found a letter I'd written to Foster Mama that had my real phone number on it.

That's when I learned Foster Mama was gone.

It was a shock, but not a surprise, even though Foster Mama was only in her early fifties.

Foster Mama was morbidly obese, around 5'5" and a size 26. She smoked, even while wearing the nicotine patch that's supposed to help you quit. She was a diabetic with a two-liter-a-day Pepsi habit. And when her doctor yelled at her for drinking Pepsi, her health-conscious solution was to switch to 7-Up.

Regular 7-Up, not diet.

As I get back to the story of my life as a slut, Foster Mama will make the occasional guest appearance. But before I relegate her to a supporting role in my stories of boyfriends past, I wanted to acknowledge the starring role she will always have in my heart.