Chapter 3: Scared, Mister
1018 Words
Outside in the hall, Heather said, “Well?”
“I don’t think he likes us,” I admitted, disappointment washing through me.
I had been taken with him. Of course I had been. Like every child we’d met, I would have adopted him on the spot and taken him home. I did not care about the HIV, the accident, the fire, his scar tissue, the skin grafts he would need and continue to need, his mother the convicted drug dealer. I did not care that he had a problem with continence, that he would wet the bed or s**t his pants at the most inappropriate times. I just wanted to take him in my arms and do some loving on him and show him that everything was going to be fine.
“You’re the only couple who’s ever asked to see him,” Heather said. “I don’t think he knows how to process it. He’s scared.”
“I imagine he is.”
“I would really like to see him find a home, but he’s so…well, he has problems. First of all, he’s deaf, but he also has the HIV to worry about and the burn tissue. He was four when the accident happened. I’m not sure what he remembers from his life before that, but…well, I’m sorry, guys. I thought for sure he’d want to get to know you. He had a really nice placement at the deaf school in Bangor, but he couldn’t handle being around other students. He gets crazy when people touch him—it’s almost impossible to get him to sit down inside a classroom with other students.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Maybe he just needs a little time.”
“Time is the one thing he doesn’t have, Mr. Cantrell. The older he gets, the less likely anyone will adopt him. He’s been in two foster homes, but he always winds up back here, and this is where you go when no one else wants you. We only have two people on staff who know sign language, but with all these budget cuts and all the rest of it, we just can’t give him what he needs. We try, of course, but once children reach a certain age, we have to resign ourselves to taking care of them as best we can with limited resources. I mean, once they’re no longer cute little babies, it’s like society just forgets about them. I just wish I could find a home for—”
There was a loud noise in Tony’s room, a grunting sort of howl that reminded me of my son, Noah, and his meth baby rages. This howl was followed by a weird bang.
I hurried back to the door.
Tony was in the midst of hurling his schoolbooks at the window, grunting and groaning, tears streaming down his face, which was twisted with rage and unhappiness.
I went into the room, circling around so he could see me as he grabbed another book to hurl at the window.
Stop it! I signed, moving slowly to put myself in front of him.
He looked up at me, nostrils flaring, tears running down his cheeks, his glasses slipping down his nose.
Stop it, I signed again very gently, very slowly. No. Don’t. Put the book down. Please.
He had a book in his hand—it was an early reader.
His eyes blazed with anger as he looked at me.
Put the book down, I ordered, pointing to the floor. Please.
He glared at me for a long moment as if to see whether I meant what I said.
I pointed to the floor again.
Please, I said, gazing back at him.
He dropped the book as though the strength in his body had suddenly vanished.
His face caved in.
I motioned for him to give me a hug, but he merely looked at me through his tears and misery, so I stepped forward very slowly, showing him that I intended to hug him.
No! he signed angrily, but I ignored him, put my arms around him, and pulled him gently to me.
He struggled for about a minute, pushing against me in a wild, desperate, terrified sort of way, grunting, howling, moaning, but then he began to cry against my stomach. I rubbed his back and shoulders, told him to hush and shush and that everything was going to be all right.
After a few minutes of being loved on, he began to relax.
Eventually I crouched down, held out my hand.
He wiped his eyes as he looked at my hand. I nodded, as if to say Take my hand. He reached out slowly, took one of my fingers into his own, not looking at me. Then he began to draw circles in my palm again. This seemed to soothe and calm him.
Be my friend? I signed.
Scared, mister.
It’s okay.
Scared!
I’m scared too.
True?
I nodded.
Please? I signed. I want to be your friend. I want to help you. It will be okay, T-o-n-y. I promise.
He looked around the room at his few possessions, seemed nervous, hesitant.
We want you to come for a visit. If you don’t like it, we’ll bring you back right away. Okay? We want to get to know you. Please give us a chance.
I could see an inner struggle going on inside those blue eyes, part of him wanting to trust, another part fearful, suspicious, afraid.
Do you want me to help you pack some things? I asked. We need a few clothes, your toothbrush, stuff like that. You can take your teddy too.
He looked up at me, his eyes welling with tears.
What is it? I asked.
Scared, mister.
Don’t be scared, honey. Teddy will be with you, and me and J-a-c-k will take care of you.
Scared, mister.
It will be all right. I promise, T-o-n-y. Do you believe me?
He stared at me for a long time, biting his lip, twisting his hands together.
Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
- Writer
