Sweet poison : unravel

Andrew:

It's March 2017. The late winter air still carries a bite, but the sunlight streaming through our hallway windows has begun to soften, hinting at the spring to come. Marabell and I have been longing for this day for six months. I can't stop smiling, watching her bounce and waddle with the energy of a woman transformed-her depression lifting like morning fog burning off a lake. Our first child is coming to us. She'll be the center of our world, the axis around which everything finally turns.

Mara is electric with excitement, arranging the room for her in her mind even as we stand in the empty hallway. I can see it in the way her eyes dart around, mentally cataloging colors, furniture placements, the angle of morning light through the windows that face east. The bed must be soft, she keeps saying, soft as a cloud. The walls, perhaps a pale yellow, something warm and waking, like buttercups or the yolk of a fresh egg. Last night, I couldn't stop piling stuffed animals in her room, creating a small mountain of plush fur and glass eyes that now spills from the corner like an avalanche of tenderness. They told us she loves cats and birds, and I want my daughter to be in awe when she sees how much we prepared. How much we wanted her. We've been dreaming of this for months, but the dream always ended with empty arms and the hollow sound of Mara weeping into her pillow. Until now.

My lovely wife and I have been unable to have children. The diagnosis came quietly, a whispered conversation in a sterile room that smelled of disinfectant and bad news, a conversation that echoed for two years afterward in every silence between us. Marabell went into a depression that swallowed her whole, that swallowed us both until I couldn't remember what her laughter sounded like. I felt hopeless standing at the edge of it, watching the woman I loved vanish behind a curtain of grief I couldn't part, no matter how I reached for her. I couldn't think of how to aid her. It's my fault-I can't give her a child. The tests were clear. The options were exhausted. We tried everything: treatments that left Mara bruised and hollow-eyed, specialists who spoke in percentages we couldn't afford to hope for, prayers whispered into dark bedrooms at three in the morning when the silence grew so loud it hurt our ears. Nothing yielded.

I had one last option: adoption.

It took a month for Marabell to finally accept and agree. A month of gentle conversations at the kitchen table with cold coffee growing skin between us, of her weeping into my shoulder until my shirts stayed damp, of her asking in the smallest voice if I would still love her if we brought home someone else's child. As if love were a thing measured by blood rather than choice, as if the heart were a ledger that balanced only by lineage. We went to Garden Sanctuary Charity because it was close, because Mara said we should try the one nearby before looking to Switzerland or farther shores. I wasn't sure how or what to look for to fit the child we wanted. I only knew we wanted someone who needed us as desperately as we needed them.

The common room of the charity smells of industrial cleaner and something underneath it-vanilla, perhaps, or the ghost of cookies baked yesterday for the younger children. Kids move through the space in currents, some clinging to caretakers' legs like barnacles, others orbiting the television with the fixed attention of astronomers studying distant stars. I'm still orienting myself to the noise, the brightness, the desperate hope of so many small faces, when Marabell squeals and grabs my arm.

The sound startles me-sharp, bird-like, alive in a way I haven't heard from her in years. I couldn't understand what had captured her attention, could only follow the line of her gaze, the trembling of her finger pointing toward the far corner of the common room where afternoon light pools through tall windows. I couldn't see what drew her until I looked properly, past the chaos of toys and tumbling children, to the window seat.

The most innocent-looking and adorable teenager was sitting on the window seat, her knees drawn up, reading a book with an intensity that seemed to exclude the rest of the room, as if the pages contained a spell that held her captive. Her small hands held the pages with delicate precision, fingers pale against the paper. She looked up as if sensing our stare, her body perfectly still, her face calm and wondering, as if we were puzzles she was trying to solve rather than people seeing her for the first time. Her beautiful brown eyes-deep and unreadable as wells-her fair golden skin that seemed to glow in the afternoon light, her curly, voluminous hair that seemed to move even in the still air, alive with its own energy. She didn't blink. The moment stretched between us like taffy, sweet and elastic.

Mara came closer to the girl, her arms open, her smile trembling with hope and the fear of rejection. But the girl closed her book and set it aside with deliberate care, watching, still watching. She took a step back from her, her weight shifting onto the balls of her feet, ready to flee or fight-I couldn't tell which. I guessed she's nervous or scared. The trauma of her past, whatever it contained, written in the language of her body. It was a good thing I had brought a stuffed toy, a cat with amber glass eyes that I had grabbed from the pile at the house without knowing why, slipping it into my coat pocket on some instinct I didn't examine. What luck that was.

"Hi, I want to know the name of this little girl."

"Ah, unfortunately, she doesn't have a name."

I looked confused. Why wouldn't this little girl have a name? Everyone has a name. It's the first gift parents give, the first anchor in the world.

"Explain."

"I see you're interested in her. You see, she wasn't placed for adoption. She was rescued from a shipwreck off the coast of Malta in August 2000. She doesn't remember anything-not her parents, not her past. Not even a name."

"My God." Mara gasped, already beside me, her face transformed by that particular dread women seem to feel for children who have suffered alone. "How old is she, sir?" Mara asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"She's seventeen years old currently, but will be eighteen soon. Are you interested in adopting her?"

"Actually, yes. As soon as possible," I said, clear and certain, surprising myself with the weight of the words.

The staff, Jack, gestured for us to wait as he went to get his boss and the files for the adoption. Anxiously, I felt a stare like a pressure against my consciousness, a hand held near flame. I snapped back. It was the girl. She looked at me, calm and wondering all over her face, her beautiful brown eyes unblinking, her fair golden skin glowing in the light, her curly, voluminous hair framing her face like a halo drawn by an artist who believed in something beyond technique.

Mara came closer to the girl, her arms still open, but the girl took a step back, still watching, still assessing. I guessed she's nervous or scared. The stuffed toy felt heavy in my pocket, suddenly essential. It was a good thing I brought a tiny stuffed cat doll. I didn't know why I did, but what luck that was.

"Hey, sunshine. How are you?" I said to her gently, keeping my voice low, the tone I use with frightened animals and weeping wives.

She snapped her eyes at me, not blinking, cocked her head to the side, bird-like, considering. I just held the tiny stuffed cat doll out, its amber eyes catching the window light. I felt unease. I felt uneasy when she looked at me, not blinking, as if she were reading something written behind my eyes. Well, I just guess it might be because she's nervous or still has the trauma from the shipwreck. I had to be patient. She might be dealing with more trauma than I think, more than the file will contain, more than words can hold.

Finally, after some seconds that stretched like taffy, sweet and strange, she walked up to me and took the toy. She used her delicate little fingers to glance around the toy, checking it out, tracing the seams, the plastic eyes, the synthetic fur with the precision of a surgeon or a pianist. She locked her eyes, fixed on it, as if it might contain secrets.

"Do you like it?" my wife said softly, barely breathing.

She looked at my wife. I know that look-I've seen it in mirrors, in photographs, in the eyes of men who have forgotten how to hope. She gave me a small, faint, one smile and said, "Thank you," the words careful and measured, as if she were tasting them for the first time.

I couldn't help but smile back. I really think we found our daughter. But somehow, I feel unease, a cold thread winding through my chest. But I don't want to make assumptions. My wife seems to love her already. I haven't seen that much glow in her eyes since before her depression took her from me.

After some minutes, Jack returns with his boss-the person in charge of the charity. A dirty blonde with strong, borderline blue eyes, the color of winter skies. She shot her gaze to the little girl, then moved her eyes onto us with the efficiency of a security camera adjusting its angle. She smiled and approached us, professional and practiced.

"Good day. Are you the Valets?" she asked.

"Yes. We want to adopt this child here," I said, gesturing toward the window seat, though the girl had moved closer to us now, close enough that I could smell her shampoo-something herbal, something that reminded me of my grandmother's garden.

Mara was playing with the girl, showing her pictures from her phone, watching her laugh with the stuffed cat. I understand she is truly beginning to accept the child as her own already. But I think it's her way of coping with her own fate of not bearing ours, the finality of her own body's betrayal. I truly want my love to be happy. If the child brings back the love I knew, then why not? The child seems more calm and mannered than most kids here, more composed than the younger children racing through the common room. She would do well in school and other activities I plan to set up for her-the tutoring, the music lessons, the carefully curated social introductions. I didn't realize then that I, too, desperately wanted a child-as my wife. How funny I came to realize that later, like a man discovering he's been holding his breath only after he gasps for air.

I continued my conversation with the lady on the adoption of the child, letting my wife enjoy creating some bond with the girl, the sound of Mara's laughter like music I thought I might never hear again.

"We wish to adopt her. Is there anything aside from her past tragedy we should be aware of?" I said, looking at her, trying to read what her stiff posture concealed.

The lady glanced at the girl for some minutes. I couldn't understand why she acted that way, why her attention kept returning to the child with that particular intensity. I just observed her body language: stiff and tense, irritated and weary, as if the girl's presence exhausted her. And Jack-anxious, his hands finding each other and separating in a nervous rhythm. What was going on now? She glanced back at me, and I saw something shift in her face, some decision made.

"Could we finish the adoption in my office?" she asked.

I nodded, turning to Mara and letting her know I'd be back, before following her and Jack down the hall to what I assumed was her office. While walking, I was observing the environment-the kids playing, laughing at the television, the kids sleeping in various rooms with the abandon of those who have not yet learned to fear their dreams. I wanted to go to a charity center in Switzerland, something with international credentials and spotless reputations, but Mara said we should try the one close by to us. I didn't think it would be a good idea, but now I don't mind being wrong. I was shocked to see such a child here, in this modest building with its scuffed walls and fluorescent lighting.

We reached her office and she motioned for me to go in. So I did, as did Jack. She closed the door with deliberate care and went to her seat. I sat down with the folder I brought for the adoption. I glanced at her desk and saw her nameplate: Emily. Seeing she had no wedding ring-not even a band, the finger pale where jewelry might have sat-she's not married. The observation arrived unbidden, filed away without purpose.

Miss Emily sat down and sighed, then raised her gaze on me, not blinking, like she was looking for something written behind my eyes. I stared back. I was getting tired of the act, the assessment, the silence.

"Is there something you want to ask? Your stare is quite acknowledged, Miss Emily," I spoke, firm, already tired of the uncomfortable staring contest.

She blinked and slouched back in her chair, and sighed again, the performance of someone carrying weight they haven't been given permission to set down. I was beginning to think something was wrong with the girl that she couldn't say so easily, some defect concealed beneath the calm surface.

"Sir, do you really wish to adopt Flower?" she finally spoke.

"Flower?" I said.

Was that the name of the child? I turned to Jack and raised my brows. I believe he told me and Mara she had no name, that she was a blank slate waiting for our inscription.

Jack noticed my expression and spoke quickly, as if correcting a record before it sealed:

"She is called Flower by the other kids and her caretaker, Mrs. Dawn. It's... it's not an official designation."

I was getting a little agitated at his sloppy cues with information, the holes in his story, the gaps where facts should be. So she's called Flower. I don't think the name does well enough for her-too simple, too sweet, like calling a cathedral "building" or a symphony "sounds." We can change it and give her a better name, something that carries the weight we intend for her future.

"Sir, it's true she was found in a shipwreck, but she doesn't act like other kids. In some situations, she has displayed unusual behaviors and manners."

I raised my brows. "What unusual behaviors and manners?"

They gave each other a glance. I didn't like the silent communication going on about the girl I was taking as my daughter, the language of shared knowledge I wasn't privy to.

"I don't take kindly to the conversation you both seem to be having," I said flat out.

Miss Emily blinked and apologized-words without weight. I was getting irritated, but I had to get the information first. I had to know what I was bringing into my home.

"Sir Valet, she just brings unusual outcomes. When she arrived here, she was violent with anyone who came close to her. We had to sedate her to treat and check her. She did stop her violent outbursts after some time, but we realized another unusual thing-she seemed to be able to make animals quite obedient to her," she said.

"Is that all? She had a traumatic experience at a very young age. I think violent outbursts should be considered in that context. And many children have affinities with animals."

She nodded and continued, her nod the kind that precedes worse news.

"We haven't really understood how she is exactly, but she also caused the death of a child here."

I froze. The word death hung in the office like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore. What were they saying now-death?

"How exactly?" I asked, curious, my voice carefully neutral.

"Yes. When she arrived here in August 2000, we had a child called Tom. A year later after her arrival, Tom was found dead. Before that, there were some animals leaving weird bite marks on the children. We couldn't find out what, but after her arrival, it all stopped-and Tom was found dead in the playground by morning," she said.

"How is this correlated to Flower?"

"Sir, Flower was the only person Tom seemed to be extremely cautious about. He was a very troubled and ill-mannered child, yes, but I can't explain the way he had desperately hidden away from her," she said.

"So you both are saying that the little shy child killed someone?" I spoke, annoyed, my voice rising despite my attempt at control.

"No. Just that she has some eerie and subtle mannerisms. I just want you to be aware of the unusual patterns we've managed to uncover," she said.

I was getting really annoyed. How can they assume she caused a death from some incidents? And why? What prejudice dressed in concern's clothing was this?

"Why did you suspect she caused it? And why had you not spoken about it first?" I asked, flat.

She went quiet. She didn't have any real answer to this. It was mostly her irritated look from earlier toward Flower. Could it be because of her skin? Her hair? Some discomfort with her otherness? I was really hoping that wasn't the case-to call a child a murderer because she makes you uncomfortable.

"Answer me. Why are you saying she caused the death, Miss Emily?" I said.

"She... is just too quiet. She rarely expresses herself. Sir, please-I mean no ill will toward her. I just wish for you to be aware."

I was clenching my jaw. Unbeknownst to me, my face was beginning to show irritation, the muscles tight with the effort of restraint. I let out a sigh, trying to regain composure. "Thank you for the advice and caution. If that's all, could I get into the files and her medical records to get the process for adoption done? I also brought the required files needed," I said, stern, not entertaining their conspiracy any longer.

Miss Emily looked defeated and nodded. Jack was helping with the files, his anxiety now directed toward the paperwork, the process, the escape from this uncomfortable conversation. I couldn't care less, but I would be watching for the girl's manner and behavior going forward. I highly doubted she killed someone. I read her medical report carefully-she seemed overly healthy, almost suspiciously so. Just avoid some meals. No allergies. So she's a picky eater. Nothing that explained Emily's fear.

It took some minutes, but I was done. I stood up and thanked them both briefly, then left the office and headed down the hallway to my wife and new daughter.

Seeing Mara smiling so brightly and looking more herself, I don't think I made a bad choice adopting Flower. I hugged them both from behind, hearing my wife giggle, that childish music I thought I might never hear again. How I've missed that sound.

What was surprising was Flower letting me hold her. She didn't stiffen or pull away. I looked at her. She seemed happy to see me-truly happy, the expression reaching her eyes in a way I didn't expect.

"So they call you Flower, huh, little angel?" I said in a teasing manner.

She smiled, her little teeth visible, and nodded twice-deliberate, measured, as if confirming a hypothesis.

Mara's eyes glinted brightly, tears and light mixing in the gold. "Flower? Oh, Drew, that's so adorable. We'll make it official. Safira Flower Valet."

She was cuddling Flower in a loving embrace, and I saw the girl relax into it by degrees, learning the shape of maternal affection as if memorizing it for later study.

She really likes Flower. And so do I.

Mara and I finished up the required files for adoption, and we are to come get Flower after six months. I got to meet her caretaker, Mrs. Dawn, a heavyset woman with kind eyes and a grip like a farmer's, and got to know about my soon-to-be daughter. She told me Safira is "a good girl, a quiet girl, but good. Just needs the right family."

On the way home, Mara kept talking about all the changes and decorations we had to make for her. We didn't leave without giving her a new name: Safira. From the Arabic for sapphire, Mara explained, for her eyes. For the precious thing we have found.

I had a lot to do for my daughter's life now. Planning, preparing, protecting. And I actually think I'm going to love every moment of it.

I don't think about Emily's warnings again. Not for years.

Not until it's too late.