Alessa, a city defender, and Marci, an adoption agency employee, face memories and burdens, but their paths converge, forming resilience and redemption in this story by Anumita, in the Special Feature, exclusively for Different Truths.

Alessa tugged on her sleeves, and every time she pulled her jacket’s cuffs, her shirt sleeves underneath got rolled up. The more she pulled to straighten it, the more, it curled inside. A frail hand touched her shoulder with a light tap. Brushing her hair from her eyes, she saw an elderly white lady’s blue, smiling eyes. Alessa did not know how to respond; not only was her English weak, but such kindness was foreign to her.

The lady spoke slowly and demonstrated that she needed to open her jacket. The almost-packed subway train was making her feel warm. Misunderstanding her intentions of helping, Alessa yanked her jacket off. The elderly lady let out a giggle, and her blue eyes twinkled. Alessa stared at the lady as her wrinkled arms straightened her jacket sleeves.

With her four fingers holding on to her own shirt’s cuffs, she said, “Sweetheart, hold on to your sleeves like this and then slide the jacket’s arms in.” Seven-year-old Alessa followed her direction and slid her jacket on. The shirt sleeves underneath did not bunch up. The elderly, blue-eyed lady patted her head and said, “You are welcome, child.” She left the subway at the next station.

Aleesa looked bewildered as she did not thank the blue-eyed lady nor did she smile at her, yet the lady was kind to her. How is that possible? Lost in her thoughts about all the difficult times that she had been through, she did not hear the harsh voice of her guardian calling her to get off the subway.

The ride on the subway was different today, as those smiling blue eyes made her feel special. Loved. Or was it?

***

The melodies of the pan flute and the fresh, cool breeze of the mountain, then an ear-deafening explosion. Alessa sat upright in her threadbare bed, sweat matted her dark hair around her round face, and her heart thumped so loudly that she could not hear the rattling of the subway train just a few yards away from her room.

Alessa, the defender, is the meaning of her name. Defender of what, she thought. She could not defend her family, she could not defend Pequeño Andre, she could not defend her cabrito, and now she cannot defend herself.

It was almost 6 a.m.; she had to be ready for another show to the midway home. Show of all those children who were brought from countries where political unrest destroyed lives and split families apart. She was here in New York, far away from her little town south of Cuzco, among the hills of Peru.

***

Marci was not sure what she was getting into. All her life she made decisions for herself and never felt a tinge of doubt. But today was different; she was at an adoption agency. All her friends were either married or divorced, but most had children.

For Marci, the need for companionship was never an issue. The men she knew could not handle her crazy work schedule or her intellectual bent of mind. Other than physical needs, she could not spend prolonged time with the so-called male species. She had many friends who adored her to the core.

While staring at herself in the bathroom mirror this morning, she ultimately said it aloud, “Well, what can I say? I am different.”

***

Last month, Molly, her roommate from her days at college, had a car accident. Merci took care of her eight-year-old daughter during the day as she worked on her stories for the column, she posts every week for the local paper. Being an independent contractor, she had the luxury to be at any place and work. She was also the editor for a few online magazines, and that made a more than decent package for her to afford a place of her own on the Upper West Side of the city of New York.

Every day, when Molly returned from her doctor’s visit and therapy, her daughter would run and cling to her as if the world depended on her mother. Merci never knew such a bond of love. She was an orphan left at a fire station and brought up in various foster homes.

With Molly’s encouragement, Marci decided to adopt. She visited various centres and never felt anything for the children she saw, only a faint pity. Pity was the feeling the rest of the world felt for her when she was growing up.

***

Today was different, as Marci climbed the old staircase to the third floor of the dusty building. One of her journalist friends was writing a story about children of countries of political unrest and she invited Marci to come along. The children in these facilities are here for adoption and to be put into the system of foster care.

Marci felt a shiver up her spine as the thought of their future crossed her mind.

The first door on the left was the restroom, Marci signalled her friend to let him know that she would be right back. The door creaked a bit and as it swung inward, a little girl scooted towards the sink. Her head bent as she washed her hands and face.

“Hi,” said Marci, out of habit. The reflection of the huge eyes in the skinny face of the dark-haired girl rooted Marci to the floor. She stood staring at her. The huge eyes, in the reflection, clouded and fear created in and the slight frame darted out of the door.

Marci felt her blood shoot into her brain and her heart contract. What was this feeling? Why did she have such a reaction to this girl? She had been to many sites with her journalist friends and covered many calamities and places with unrest before. She has seen many children and people in much more devastating conditions. Then what happened just now?

***

A few minutes later Marci joined her journalist friend and noted down some of the interviews and details that she wanted to incorporate into a similar story of her own. Ms Flores, the director of the centre, asked if they wanted to see and talk to some of the children. Marci and her friend nodded and followed into the back room of the office. Children of different ages and structures were in the room, the only thing common in them was their look in their eyes. A strange mixture of uncertainty yet tinged with hope.

Marci’s friend asked permission to take a few pictures and started to talk to the children to come together.

One little frame sat near the window, in her thoughts, far from everyone and everything happening in the room.

“Aleesa, ven aquí ahora,” said Ms. Flores with a syrup-like flavour.

Aleesa what a beautiful name, thought Marci. Those eyes, they fixed on her, and nothing seemed to matter. Without blinking Aleesa turned to Ms. Flores, “Has anyone yet asked to adopt Aleesa?”

“I would like to get the paperwork started now,” a defiant Marci said, as she filled out the forms and signed the documents for the process to start. She knew it would take almost six months to a year for her to get her license to adopt or foster.

***

Every day, Marci took a taxi midway home to spend time with Alessa. For the first week, Aleesa sat quietly without even looking at Marci. Doubt and fear slowly crept into Marci, making each day more difficult for her to make the trip home. Then a big story took her attention away, and she missed three days.

A phone call from an unknown number showed up on her phone as she was gathering her papers. Absent-mindedly Marsi settled the phone on her shoulder and ear, “Hello.”

“I not good? You not come?” said a whisper from the other side. Marci’s heart skipped a beat. A tremble ran through her. “Alessa, is that you?” Marci could barely speak. “Sί,” came back the reply.

Marci entered the midway home and saw Aleesa sitting on the staircase. Sitting down beside her, Marci opened her palm and let it rest. Just like a timid puppy, Alessa slid her tiny bony fingers onto it. Marci kept as steady as she could, she knew trust had been earned. Once there is trust, faith follows, and love will not be far behind.

Marci was learning to love. And Aleesa was learning to love again.

Picture design by the author

Anumita Roy

Anumita Roy is an artist at heart and legal/medical interpreter by profession. She creates word images in her verses and loves to write short stories. Mother of children in the spectrum, she advocates special needs issues in whichever way possible. Born in India, brought up in several countries, makes her a true global citizen. She now lives in the Columbus, Ohio, with her family and follows her passion for writing and advocacy being the Managing Editor of Different Truths.

See Full Bio