Her face turned red, and she pinched herself on the arm. “I know you ‘people’.” she said with hate in her voice, “you always stick together with your stories. Matthew would never do anything like that. Don’t you think I know my own husband after ten years?”
I wanted to tell her that, sadly, I did think she knew him very well and that was actually the saddest part. And I wanted to ask her where she had been all those nights, when her little baby girl had been cruelly molested by her beer-smelling husband. But I didn’t. If there’s anything I have learned dealing with people like this over the years, it is not to argue with them when they are in denial. They won’t believe you anyway. So, I decided to act, instead of talk.
“I’m here to get Thomas,” I told her. “I’m here to take Thomas with me.” She sat down and let smoke out both her nostrils. “You know, just go ahead. I don’t even care. He’s a useless boy anyway. All he ever does is make those stupid paintings anyway. Doesn’t know anything about how to throw or kick to a ball. Take him. I don’t want him. It was all a big mistake.” She actually said that. Can you believe it? I stood up and said that I agreed. “It was all a big mistake,” I yelled as I ran up the stairs.
Thomas was sound asleep and, as always, looking like a little angel with his little favorite elephants tightly secured in his hand. As I lifted him up, he opened his sleepy eyes and smiled. “I love you,” he mumbled. I don’t know if this was him talking in his sleep, or if he had actually seen me there, but either way, of course I cried (for the fifth time that night, tonight, that is). And without ever looking back, I carried him all the way to the car and drove him all the way home.
And right now he is lying here in our bed, sound asleep. Yes, you read it right: He’s here, in our house, this very moment.
Oh, Frederick, I know this was the right thing to do, but I also know that I have done something terrible. I don’t have the authority to go and remove a foster child from his home in the middle of the night. I just hope they won’t suspend me but see that I acted out of love and fear for the little guy. I could never forgive myself if something had happened to him, knowing what I knew.
It’s now three AM Seattle time, and noon in Denmark. I just tried to call your office again, but you’re out. I’ll try again later. I really need to hear your voice. I need for you to tell me it’s going to be all right. Please tell me.
Love you.
Martha.
Floating disasters
I looked up at the old heirloom Grandfather clock. Strangely enough it was showing three a.m. as well, but it seemed to have its own unique solar system and was always at least nine hours off. I waved the paper at Mom and sighed. “And that, my friend, was the end of the longest letter of the eighties.” I moved to the edge of the couch and placed the letter on the coffee table. My hands were so sweaty that they had left some of Martha’s neat handwriting all smeared. I scooted down on the floor, between the coffee table and the couch, and looked up at Mom. She looked all sweaty too, her curls in that failure-to-launch kind of mess.
“Man,” she said, fanning herself, “if Martha’s heart skipped a beat or two that day on the doorstep going to get Thomas,” she said, looking at the pages scattered all over the table, “then I swear mine has just come to quite a few full stops within the last hour or so.” She sat up and pulled her hair back to make a ponytail. “Maybe it’s the letter. Maybe it’s the tea, or maybe it’s my new unpredictable friend, Mr. Hot Flashes, but I certainly could use a bucket of cool air right now.” She jumped to her feet and started to open all the living room windows, letting in the cold, crisp fall air. “We need air. We need air,” she shouted into the black night like some crazy woman. She turned and looked at me with a determination on her red face. “And now we just have to go back and see what happens. Go on, grab another one. Now!” she added in a non-negotiable tone of voice.
I looked at my phone. It was almost ten thirty. It was way too late to begin on yet another journey, but I guess, once again, she was right; we couldn’t stop. Not there. Besides, I had already chickened out for the evening, so we might as well.
“Just one more letter,” she pleaded. “One,” she said again with her soft mommy voice. She sat down next to me and pulled me into a hug.
“One more,” I agreed into her neck. I sat down on the floor and grabbed the next letter in the pile. Even though there were still no dates on them, Martha had been so considerate to give away some kind of timeline in this particular letter and thus help the weird two-decades-ahead-of-time readers with establishing where we were. “It’s written nine weeks after the one we just read,” I explained to Mom. “It says so, right here, in the first two lines.” I showed the letter to Mom.
Really?” She grabbed the letter from me and looked suspiciously at it on both sides, handed it back to me, and nodded. “You’re right. Now, go on,” she said impatiently. I nodded and started reading.
My Frederick,
I can’t believe it has been this long since I sat down and wrote you a letter. Nine weeks, my love. I guess with all the phone calls and with you away at the Norway office, well, I can only say it’s nice to be back in my literary world.
Well, as I already told you yesterday, it’s all good news (and by the way, thanks for the nice birthday song. How do you say happy birthday in Danish again?). I’m not going to be suspended after all. This afternoon, I had another one-on-one with Sue, and guess what? Now they actually want me to help with Louise-Monique and Thomas and the whole process of finding the right foster families for them.
I’m both very happy and unhappy about this. First of all, it’s not really my expertise. Of course, I would do everything I could to help them find the best possible families to care for them, but I really don’t know anything about the process and technicalities on this matter.
Second of all (and this is probably the real reason), it’s quite obvious how happy Thomas is staying with me and it would truly break my heart (and his too) to see him go—off to yet another unfamiliar place, yet another family and elephant room. Of course, I have made it very clear to him that staying here is only temporary, but I’m beginning to have my doubts.
Every night after I’ve read him his bedtime story and tucked him in for the night, well, I can just stand for hours and watch him sleep. Do you have any idea how beautiful a sleeping child is? It’s like watching a little angel. And lately I find myself crying, thinking of the day he has to leave.
Oh, Frederick, I would be lying if I told you that I don’t love having this little angel in the house. I do. I do. I do. I love everything about it, love to hear his little feet in the morning going to the restroom (never putting down the toilet seat, by the way), love to see him eat that big pile of oatmeal every single morning, always with a smile on his face, and I love love love to hear him sing while he’s in the bathtub.
I know it’s crazy and so not fair of me to ask you this, but I’ve been feeling almost sick to my stomach just thinking about the next foster family and then the next, and how he would cope with yet another family, so I’ve been thinking that maybe we could take him in, I mean, as a foster family. For good.
I know you’ve never laid your eyes on him, I know you don’t know him at all, but I just know you will love him. Despite everything he’s been through, he’s still such a cheerful little boy—always a smile on his face. Am I crazy? Of course, I am, and I don’t know if we would even be eligible as foster parents, I mean, with you living and working in Denmark and me living all alone in this big old house with no other kids around, but I just can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop dreaming about us and Thomas together.
You know, he has even won over Mom’s heart. We went to see her the other day, and we spent the entire day just playing around the house, drinking lemonade and eating Mom’s world-famous pancakes. Thomas fell asleep on the coach, so I had to carry him all the way to the car. When I was about to leave, Mom turned and looked at me. “He’s a keeper, you know. He’s got t
he heart of an angel, just like your dad,” she said, as she waved goodbye.
When I turned the corner, I had to pull over and stop the car. I was crying too hard to drive—crying because she’s so right and crying because she knows how I feel. Who was I trying to fool?
From the moment I went to West Seattle and picked him up and carried him all the way to my car, I knew. I knew that I wanted to take him home with me forever. Frederick, I hope you can forgive me for not sharing this with you until this very moment. I guess I was afraid that you would see this as me giving up on us, giving up on us having our own kids, flesh and blood. I am not.
But at the same time, I don’t care about the flesh and blood part anymore. In the past nine weeks, I have come to love him like he was my very own son, and that’s the only thing that matters—not a match of DNA.
I hope you don’t feel like I’m going behind your back here. Please do forgive me, Frederick, but this is how I feel. I love him so much that it hurts, and I can’t bear the thought of not having him in my life.
Your love,
Martha.
“It all makes perfect sense,” Mom cried from behind a big pile of Kleenex. “Can’t you see?” she said, blowing her nose. “It’s just perfect: Martha and Thomas. Thomas and Martha. And, and, and Frederick, of course. It’s... It’s...’” She dabbed at her eyes and continued. “Perfect.” She blew her nose hard and pointed at me with the suspicious tissue. “And you know, the part about the sound of little feet in the house? Oh, it’s so true; the sound of little feet is the most wonderful sound in the whole world.” She looked down at my big feet and smiled. “You know, sometimes Dad and I would set the alarm a little earlier and lie in bed waiting to hear your little feet coming down the hallway. It’s the sound of pure happiness, you know.”
I nodded and smiled at the thought of the two of them lying in bed, waiting, listening. But how could the sound of little feet bring so much happiness? How could the simple sound of feet on the hallway floor mean so much love? Would I ever feel that way? “Little feet, huh?” I leaned back against the coffee table and wiggled my toes in the air. “Better than Chianti?” I teased.
She smiled. “The best. And your little feet, oh, Ella.” She stopped to wipe her nose again. “Yours were like little angel feet.” She moved to the edge of the couch and grabbed onto my feet. “And they smelled so good.” She leaned down and kissed them. “They used too,” she sneered, wrinkling up her nose.
“Ha, ha, ha.” I looked down at my size-nine angel feet and couldn’t help smiling. Even though they sure weren’t the prettiest in the world, I was still the owner of feet so wanted and so loved.
“You’ll know one day, too,” she whispered and ran her fingers through my hair.
I looked up at her and swallowed hard. If there was ever a perfect time to come out and say it, this would be it. Mom had, unintentionally, given me the cue, and I had to follow through. “Mom?” I started.
“Yes, munchkin?”
I took a deep breath and looked down at my feet again. So far, I had only said the word—Mom—and already my face was burning up, my hands were cold and sweaty, and my heart was pounding louder than the conflicting voices in my head: Tell her now. Don’t tell her. Do it. Don’t do it.
I got up from the floor and sat down next to her, thinking it might be easier if I was beside her rather than face to face. Three two one. “I, I, I,” I tried again, but this time I couldn’t even make it beyond a single stuttering letter. Of course, sitting down next to her was just a diversion. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
“Yes?” Mom moved closer to me, patient as always.
“I can’t believe Thomas is actually sleeping in her house. How splendid, as Miss T would say. That’s all.” I lied, unable to look her in the eyes. Coward! Even with the world’s best cue, I couldn’t.
“It is,” she agreed. “So,” she said, looking eager all of a sudden. “Does that mean you’re up for one more? Now we’re finally moving on to happier times? You want me to read?” she added, like it was mandatory to read another letter.
“Fine,” I complied, even though all I wanted to do was to crawl into my bed and pull a blanket over my head and forget everything about little feet.
“Yay! I promise just a couple more, and then I’ll let you go, okay, honey?” She reached for the pile of letters, and once again we took off with a couple of Martha and Frederick letters, this time stapled together.
Dear Martha,
What have I done to deserve you and your big heart all the way out here in Denmark? I remember when you first told me about Thomas, and how you loved that little guy, and I remember feeling really sad thinking how some people have kids they can’t take care of and how others (us) can’t have kids, but can take care of them.
So, of course, I’ve also thought that maybe adopting a child wasn’t such a bad idea after all, but I, too, was afraid to ask; afraid that you might perceive it as me giving up on us (I guess, great minds do think alike). I have not, but I will do whatever you want. I know we’re in this together, but it’s also you and your body that has to go through everything with the hormones and stuff, and I know it’s tough. No matter what you end up deciding, I’m always behind you one hundred percent. But in the meantime...
We have so much room in the house and in that big precious heart of yours, and I can’t think of anything better than Thomas to fill that space. I’ll take the first flight home if you need me to be there—to sign any papers, or to go to interviews or whatever it takes, and of course to finally meet Thomas. I will give you a call later (when you wake up), and by the time you get this letter, this will of course be old news, but that’s how it always is with our transatlantic letters.
Love you.
DEAR FREDERICK,
I can’t wait for you to come home in ten days, nine hours, and forty minutes (but who’s counting?). Thomas is so excited to meet you, and of course he wants to go to the airport with me. I still haven’t told him anything. I don’t want him to know until we are one hundred percent sure. He has had his share of people letting him down. I’ve told him that he’s staying with me, or us, for a little while and that’s it. I know it’s vague, but it’s better than a lot of broken promises.
Anyhow, isn’t his little painting just adorable? When I asked him about the three little stickmen in front of the Ferris wheel, he pointed at them and said it was you, me, and him. Of course, I almost started crying again. I’m so emotional these days.
Oh, Frederick, I can’t wait for you to see Thomas. Please bring some almond chocolate bars. I’ve kind of promised him that you’ll get him some. I can’t wait to see you in ten days, nine hours, and twenty minutes (still not counting).
Love Martha.
DEAR F,
I know you’ll be here in about sixteen hours, and that it makes absolutely no sense to write to you now (you are somewhere in the air between London and New York), but I have to tell you, I have to tell someone. As I write, tears of happiness are dripping from my eyes, soaking the paper.
Just a while ago, I was in the backyard when I heard Thomas and his tiny little voice pick up the phone. “Hello,” I could hear him say, and then I saw him nodding. Then after a few more nods, he comes running out the door, shouting (hold your horses), “There’s someone on the phone for you, Mom.” I swear that’s what he said. He called me Mom.
Mom paused to blow her nose. “Baby, he called her Mom.” She looked up at me and smiled. Her face was wet with tears. “He called her Mom,” she whispered.
“I know,” I cried, wiping my own tears away with the back of my hand.
She offered me the big box of Kleenex. “This has to be the best letter ever. Ever!” She took a deep breath. “He called her Mom.” She said it like it was the ending line of a poignant novel. She leaned against me and rested her head on my shoulder.
“Better than little feet?”
She nodded against my collarbone. “Better, but even better when combined; the
sound of little feet and the word ‘Mom.’ Now, go on. You read the rest, girl.”
“Yes, sir.” I saluted the woman over-accessorized with Kleenex and started reading.
I tell you, I got so overwhelmed, that I forgot all about the phone call. I just got down on my knees, grabbed him around the waist and hugged him tight for the longest time, until I suddenly remembered the call. When we got inside, I told him to please wait in the kitchen. It was Mrs. Larsen from Amara on the phone. At first, she asked if I was okay. Of course, I said, feeling nervous already, “Why wouldn’t I be?” I think I asked, suddenly realizing that I was still crying. I cleared my throat and told her I just had a really bad cough. When I was done lying, she said she had great some news for us, and...
Frederick, the papers are ready to be signed. It’s been expedited because of the special circumstances with the foster dad being charged with incestuous activity and all. We’re signing the papers at her office Monday morning, and then we should be the legal guardians for Thomas. Frederick, he is our son! He is our son! Just to see that on paper makes it even harder to believe, and now, of course, I’m crying all over again. I’m a mom. I’m someone’s mom.
Right now, I’m too afraid to go to sleep, afraid to close my eyes. What if I wake up and it was all just a dream? It sure feels like a dream—a dream come true. Is this for real? Can we really be this blessed? Oh, I can’t wait for you to get here, so you can tell me it’s all true. So you can tell me he’s here for real and that he’s not going anywhere.
Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2) Page 30
