I sat on the bench with her tiny frame nestled against me. She stared at the ceiling.
Everyone said this was the best day to be at court—-everyone wins, they say. No one loses. Everyone is happy. I discovered on Saturday that isn’t true. Not entirely, anyway.
“One…..two….three….” I heard her say softly under her breath. That tiny five year old face was filled with such seriousness and contemplation that I kept trying to turn my head to see it. When I couldn’t see her face I listened to the counting.
“Eighteen…nineteen….twenty…”
Her foster brother sat on my lap and whispered that he hoped the attorney would sit down soon so he could see his brother who was being adopted. He had metal in his teeth and had already overcome a heroin addiction he acquired in the womb, that little two-year-old on my lap. My nephew is two, I thought to myself. He plays with blocks.
On Saturday at National Adoption Day I met a family whose children’s faces keep swimming around in the back of my head. One face in particular just seems to hang there, hovering, asking for a response from me. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I can’t help her. So why doesn’t she go away like the others?
“Fifty seven…..eighty….eighty six…..” I keep hearing her whisper.
I’ve seen plenty of suffering children—it’s what I planned to dedicate my life to doing—seeing and changing their situations. But this one in particular seems to walk around inside me without permission. I don’t want her there anymore—but that doesn’t seem to matter. She’s still there.
Her foster brother was adopted that day. Her foster father told me that the other two foster children would be adopted next year. Then there was the little girl. She would not be adopted.
Her foster mother told me she would be leaving them soon—leaving that little bunch of laughing and smiling children and adults. Jalith was the only one not smiling. She seemed disassociated and catatonic as she stared into nothingness. Her last foster family had beaten her and locked her in a tiny room before a social worker found her. Now Jalith would be returned to her mother—-her mother who is addicted to drugs but swears she isn’t. And apparently Arizona’s laws against such things are not as stringent as they are in CA. So her mother moved to that state.
“Thirty-two….forty-one….forty-seven…”
Everyone smiled and laughed and hugged each other after the boy was officially adopted in that courtroom. I heard a lawyer crack a joke. I ushered the little ones out of the room to call in the next family. Somewhere in that rush Jalith disappeared.
Why…of all the children I’ve seen who broke my heart she sticks in my head, I don’t know. But she’s there….counting….staring….smiling softly after I teased her….and I ask her in my head, what should I do with you? And she doesn’t answer….just keeps counting……
“Twelve….fifteen…..nineteen….twenty….”
Everyone said this was the best day to be at court—-everyone wins, they say. No one loses. Everyone is happy. I discovered on Saturday that isn’t true. Not entirely, anyway.
“One…..two….three….” I heard her say softly under her breath. That tiny five year old face was filled with such seriousness and contemplation that I kept trying to turn my head to see it. When I couldn’t see her face I listened to the counting.
“Eighteen…nineteen….twenty…”
Her foster brother sat on my lap and whispered that he hoped the attorney would sit down soon so he could see his brother who was being adopted. He had metal in his teeth and had already overcome a heroin addiction he acquired in the womb, that little two-year-old on my lap. My nephew is two, I thought to myself. He plays with blocks.
On Saturday at National Adoption Day I met a family whose children’s faces keep swimming around in the back of my head. One face in particular just seems to hang there, hovering, asking for a response from me. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I can’t help her. So why doesn’t she go away like the others?
“Fifty seven…..eighty….eighty six…..” I keep hearing her whisper.
I’ve seen plenty of suffering children—it’s what I planned to dedicate my life to doing—seeing and changing their situations. But this one in particular seems to walk around inside me without permission. I don’t want her there anymore—but that doesn’t seem to matter. She’s still there.
Her foster brother was adopted that day. Her foster father told me that the other two foster children would be adopted next year. Then there was the little girl. She would not be adopted.
Her foster mother told me she would be leaving them soon—leaving that little bunch of laughing and smiling children and adults. Jalith was the only one not smiling. She seemed disassociated and catatonic as she stared into nothingness. Her last foster family had beaten her and locked her in a tiny room before a social worker found her. Now Jalith would be returned to her mother—-her mother who is addicted to drugs but swears she isn’t. And apparently Arizona’s laws against such things are not as stringent as they are in CA. So her mother moved to that state.
“Thirty-two….forty-one….forty-seven…”
Everyone smiled and laughed and hugged each other after the boy was officially adopted in that courtroom. I heard a lawyer crack a joke. I ushered the little ones out of the room to call in the next family. Somewhere in that rush Jalith disappeared.
Why…of all the children I’ve seen who broke my heart she sticks in my head, I don’t know. But she’s there….counting….staring….smiling softly after I teased her….and I ask her in my head, what should I do with you? And she doesn’t answer….just keeps counting……
“Twelve….fifteen…..nineteen….twenty….”
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