“Well, I remembered at Grandpa’s funeral that you were introducing some close friends of yours…the ones with the adopted baby?”
“Oh you mean Sandra and Julie?”
“Yes.”
“What about them?” curiosity rose in Brenda’s voice.
“Well I was wondering if they could give me the name of the adoption agency they used.”
“Oh…,” she paused, “Liam,” her voice softening, “what are you thinking about doing?”
“I want to adopt a baby.”
“Now? Why now? Are you sure? Oh Liam, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Brenda was speechless and worried. She feared for her son who was clearly lost and damaged. He seemed to be holding on by a single thread and now he wanted to raise a child?
“Yes, I’m sure. Will you help me?”
Liam never asked her for anything; knowing this, and the fact that she hadn’t been there for him when he needed her most, she willingly agreed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
7
The next few months flew by in a blink of an eye, filled with meetings, questions, paperwork, and more questions. For the first time in Liam’s life, his mother came through for him, as he was making, inevitably, the biggest decision in his life. He wanted a child to call his own, to love and care for and to nurture. He had always known that he wanted to be a father, just as he had always known he wanted to be a grandfather. This, Sophie knew as well. This was one of the three promises he was willing to keep: a child to call their own.
The room was open and airy, with its wide open windows and cheerful yellow walls. The carpet was a thick pile of forest green to resemble grass as well as to cover foreseeable stains. The tables and chairs were made of plastic. Books and toys were sprawled out across the floor. The room was chaotic and inviting, filled with innocent stares and playful laughter. There were children of all ages, shapes, sizes, genders, and colors. There were children who were shy and kept to themselves, others who were active and playful, and some who were angered and hurt. Through all the ruckus and chaos, there was one child who caught Liam’s attention and touched his heart.
A girl, between the ages of three and four, her frame tiny and frail, her skin pale as snow, and her small angelic head—covered in soft, dark curls cascading off her shoulders, the ends skimming at her waist—knelt downward over a piece of paper. She seemed focused, blue marker in one hand and yellow marker in the other.
Liam cautiously walked over to the corner table where the little girl was sitting, trying not to disturb or frighten her, and peered over her shoulder to see the picture she was working on.
He smiled, his heart flooded with compassion and love. With one look at the picture, he fell in love with the little girl as she unknowingly mended a piece of his broken heart.
The picture was of a large tree. The green marker ran out of ink—it was tossed off to the side, uncapped, next to a crumpled piece of paper that seemed to be a first draft—so she was mixing blue and yellow markers to create the color green. This was an act all too familiar to Liam, when he was a little boy.
Liam remembered vividly the day in Kindergarten, when he worked intently on drawing a picture of a tree. Annoyed that there were no longer green markers in the art box, he improvised by mixing the colors blue and yellow. Mrs. Pink Toe—that’s what he knew her as (she always wore sandals, exposing her obtrusive toes that were tinted pink)—praised him and posted the picture on the wall for the rest of the year. He was always proud of that picture and remembered it fondly.
Trying not to startle her, he whispered, “That’s pretty.”
She froze, forgetting about her artwork. She slowly turned from her plastic yellow seat and looked up; her big, almond-shaped green eyes looked like two peridot gems glowing under the darkness of her lashes. She was dressed in a pretty pink dress, simple, but fitting. She looked fragile, gentle, and perfect. She scrunched her face, accentuating her rosy cheeks and pink lips. Her eyes examined Liam carefully, keeping her thoughts to herself, her tiny fingers fidgeting with the markers as she continued her assessment. And when she smiled, his heart ached, for she reminded him of his lost love, his beautiful Sophie.
He knelt by her side, and softly he asked, “What’s your name?”
For a moment she was quiet, and then, carefully she responded, “Sofia.”
Liam was stunned. His posture stiffened, causing Sofia to become wary and shy away in response.
He rubbed his ears and as if he doubted her words, he asked her to repeat her name.
When she replied hesitantly once more, in a softer, high-pitched tone, “Sofia,” he relaxed.
“Of course. Hi, Sofia.”
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Would you mind if I visited you again tomorrow?”
She tilted her head to one side, eyeing Liam, and said timidly, “Okay,” before turning around to continue her drawing.
Liam walked out of the room with newfound happiness. He strutted to Ms. Patterson’s office, the lady who was heading his adoption case, and knocked on the flimsy plywood door.
“Come in.”
Before he stepped into the room, he belted, “I want Sofia.”
“Whoa. Whoa. Calm down now. There’s protocol to follow and steps to take.”
She motioned him to sit down on one of the lumpy chairs that stood before him. He sat, unwillingly.
Ms. Patterson was a frumpy lady with a stout frame and coarse, curly gray hair. She wore tiny spectacles off the bridge of her nose and dressed as a lady who lived in a house full of cats. Yes, lots of cats. Pictures of her cats littered her office walls and desk.
She signed a few more pages before pushing the rest aside. She straightened up the best she could, clasped her hands together and waited.
Eagerly Liam took his cue to speak, letting the words flow in one strained breath. “Just tell me what I have to do, what I have to sign, and what I need in order to make Sofia my daughter.”
Ms. Patterson wasn’t fast to please. She took her job seriously and had worked with many eager beavers like Liam. Sometimes they turned out to be the best parents, but more times than not they were queers—lost a few marbles, had hidden agendas, or had unrealistic expectations—and the best way to handle these queer, eager beavers was to slow down, be thorough, and wait for the crazy to come out.
“Well first you’ll need to take some psychological tests, and make sure you are of sound mind to adopt this girl.”
“Her name is Sofia,” he was irked by the slight jab of his mental state.
“Yes, Sofia,” she paused as she shifted in her chair, feeling the ache in her lower back. Slightly stunned and uncomfortable by the sound of Sofia’s name, she masked her discomfort by continuing her well-rehearsed, cookie-cutter speech, “and we’ll need to talk to other members of your family, friends, workplace to make sure the environment is well-suited to raise a girl by yourself.”
Liam nodded.
“Generally, we tend to dismiss cases of single parenting, especially when they are men who want to raise a little girl.”
Liam was angered at the thought and was about to raise hell when she raised her hand, cutting him off.
“But, I know your mother and grandmother well, they are fine women, and I know they will be a big part of raising this child.”
Liam calmed down, easing back into the lumpy chair, relaxing his grip on the armrest, and replied, “Yes, they will be.” A second later and he could have dismantled the chair he was sitting on. If that happened, how would he explain that to the psychologist? Well sir, the chair just wasn’t strong enough to hold me. And would he agree? No, probably not.
She gave a knowing nod and continued, “But we still must be cautious, and follow protocols,” she leaned forward, her stomach digging into the edge of the desk as she slurped the dregs from her jumbo-sized tub of diet soda, “and given your present situation, we are wary of your mental state and your ability to care for a c
hild. Especially this little girl.”
“I lost my wife. I didn’t abuse anyone,” his voice hardened as he clenched the armrest, the blood draining from his hands, his fists turning a deadly white, “and I’m not going to hurt her if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s good to know, but we’ll need to judge for ourselves.” She paused then, so she could give him a once-over, and carefully, she continued letting the words meld and settle as they hit Liam’s stunned ears, “Sofia has also been through a lot and when she was brought to us she was only 6 months old. She lost her mother in a serious car accident, and her father to cancer a year before. She was going to be their miracle child, born from love and prayer.”
She watched as Liam’s eyes hazed over and face drained of color (now matching the white of his fists).
When she felt he caught the meaning behind her words, she continued, “The police report said Sofia’s mother was driving to the grocery store to pick up a few things, and had Sofia strapped snugly in the back seat. She was probably distracted by Sofia crying or being restless, although none of the bystanders remembered hearing a baby cry. And then a second later, she crashed into a woman, swerved and ran into the side of the building. She died instantly on impact and the woman in the street died, too. Poor Sofia witnessed all of this, and was pulled from the wreckage by the paramedics just in time.”
Liam sat in the lumpy seat, limbs frozen; his energy seemed to drain from his fingertips, his eyes glazed over as her words were sinking in and when the silence seemed unbearably long, he whispered, “My Sophie.”
“Yes,” she softly replied.
Liam walked out of Ms. Patterson’s office in a daze, trying to make sense of everything he was told. Sofia was there, when Sophie…Liam shook his head, “No, no…it doesn’t make sense… why…” Without thinking, he drove to the lake.
Liam sat at the bench, letting the cold concrete cool his hot flesh. The breeze from the water combing his hair and drying the thin film of stress that lined his forehead.
He watched the golden sun melt into the lake, throwing splashes of orange and red across the darkening sky. Gingerly, he turned his gaze to the calla lily that seemed to be waiting for him, patiently, lovingly nodding in the breeze near where the tiny ripples lapped against the shore.
Consciously touching the locket that hung against his neck, rubbing the tarnished metal in soothing circles, feeling the SS engraved on front, he talked about Sofia, the unbelievable story that he was told, and he asked for guidance.
In the back of his mind, he knew he looked crazy, probably was crazy. And he knew that he would have to keep this a secret from Ms. Patterson and her little minions who would be hounding him for the next few days, weeks, months, maybe even years, but he didn’t care. He felt Sophie’s presence there by the water, and he needed her strength, now, more than ever.
He sat there for a while longer, watching the shadows from the trees crouch over the cattails and bulrushes, listening as the frogs and crickets emerged, overtaking the sounds of the birds and ducks. The sun set and the moon rose, shining bright and glorious above him. Fumbling with the locket that never opened, he nodded, rose from his seat, and headed home. He understood.
This was meant to be…I am meant to care for this girl and raise her as our daughter. She’s a wonder, a miracle, a gift, and she’s here to be with me, know you, and love us both.
8
Every day Liam would visit Sofia. He would bring her new books to read, markers to draw with, and dolls to play with. And with each visit, he would tell her stories about himself and about his wife. He would tell her of the place where he grew up, the house he fixed up and now lives in, and the lake he visited regularly. He would talk to her about his family, telling her about the bakery he would soon open with his dad.
The bakery was the second promise he would honor on his beloved’s list. He told Sofia about the perfect location by the lake, where a Starbucks once stood, and about the many hours he spent with his dad fixing it up. He told her of all the delicious cookies, pastries, and cakes that he planned to bake, and the different bread and pizza specials his dad would include. He told her about the blue and white painted walls, and the fresh calla lilies that would occupy each table. He told her about every nook and cranny of the bakery, forever named Sophie’s Smile, which would soon open. He also told her about the special cream puff, which he promised to name Sophie’s Favorite.
During these visits, Sofia would sit silently in her chair and watch intently as he spoke. She seemed to be drawn to his voice, and she seemed to hang on his every word. She came to trust him, expecting his daily visits at five o’clock. She smiled often, and she seemed to quietly understand all the stories he shared as if they were part of her own memories.
Sofia became hopeful that she, too, would be loved. Watching the kids she shared the tiny playroom with get picked up by a handsome couple or a scary one. Watching quietly in her corner as new additions entered the room, occupying the briefly empty beds, soon to disappear into the arms of another.
So many nights she cried herself to sleep, wondering what was so terrible about her that no one seemed to want to take her home. She would trade all the markers in the world for a chance to be loved and cared for by Liam. Desperately, she wanted him to be her father and hated the moment before the afternoon nap when she was handed a small milk carton and he had to say good-bye. The hours between his visits were always long and far apart. When story time ended and playtime began, fear always seemed to creep in, worry that he wouldn’t show.
And finally on one glorious day, he came like clockwork; but this time, she didn’t have to say goodbye. It was June 20, 2011; the sky was clear, and the ground was wet and shiny from the light showers that passed a few hours ago. Playtime had just started and Liam came bursting through the door with a bright yellow sunflower in his hand. He walked straight to the same spot he walked every day, but instead of continuing where he left off, this time, he kneeled, handing her the large flower, and whispered, “Will you let me take you home, my sweet Sofia?”
Sofia’s green eyes twinkled as she reached for the large flower, her lips curved into a bright smile, and she swung her arms around Liam’s neck and clung to him with as much strength as her frail arms could muster. She whispered, “Okay.”
Liam carried her in his arms and took her to her new home, to her very own room, and there, on her pink bed, lay a tiny white box wrapped in a tiny red bow with a card that read:
To my little Sofia, We will love you forever, Mom and Dad.
And inside the box was a single dark chocolate cream puff, soon to be her dessert of choice.
Sheena Harper was born on August 16, 1984 in Los Angeles, California, the older of two daughters. Her ancestors are from South Korea. She currently lives in sunny San Diego with her husband, Kyle Harper. Sophie’s Smile is her first novel.
Special Notes from the Author
Sophie’s Smile was written to document my husband’s and my love story, and took on a life of its own from there. Highlighting the idea that love can last even through death, and can be found in unexpected places. Even when life isn’t perfect, when we aren’t perfect, when reality seems to be tearing at the seams—love can still be perfect.
Everyone’s adolescent experience may vary, but there always seems to be the “bullies” and the “bullied.” I wanted to remind those who have been bullied in their life or are in a present state of bleakness, that there is hope. The one thing you must never give up on is yourself. If you can love yourself, you can be happy.
I want to thank everyone who has graced my life and made each day so special:
To my parents and sister, Crystal, for their unwavering support, love, and guidance. All my strength and solid building blocks have stemmed from your teachings.
To my husband’s parents, grandparents, and family for loving me with open arms and for raising such an amazing person.
To my friends and family for turning my shyness int
o a positive, and accepting me for me.
And of course, I want to thank my loving husband for being my everything and for allowing me to experience the highest level of love and happiness every single day. I can’t express enough the magnitude in which you mean to me. I just hope in your heart you know—when I look into your eyes, kiss your lips, and hold your hands—that I love you. Thank you for your unfailing belief in me, your countless hours of editing, for tearing up when you first read my novel, for allowing me to share your words (Mr. RAMMM, When I’m Sad..., Never Ready, Wrong Turn, Tick, and Patchwork Heart), private thoughts, and for countless love notes, emails, IM’s, letters, and poems that you have showered me with all these years.
Some of you may have noticed that I left out the love notes hidden behind the bathroom wall…well, some things just need to be kept private…to keep the magic alive.
Thank you for reading Sophie’s Smile and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I have writing it.
Sheena Harper
San Diego, California
Sophie's Smile: A Novel Page 23
