November 2nd, 2011

I am sitting on a plastic chair in a small, lemon-yellow room. The sunlight fades outside and slowly, darkness falls like a blanket over me and the baby in my arms.

He lifts his head up momentarily, eyelids heavy from the combined exhaustion of spending a night in the street outside the local fire station, and his constant, anxious crying for “mama.” He creeps a tiny hand underneath the bottom of my mask, settling it underneath my chin, and drops his head back onto my chest. His other arm finds its way around my neck, in my hair, and he rubs it between his little fingers and settles into  my arms.

I rub his head, rub his back, pat his bottom and rock him gently. We sit, quiet, save for his occasional weak moans and choked murmurs of “mama.” I can’t even begin to process what this little baby must be thinking. At a year and a half old, he is old enough to know his mama. Old enough to look for her in every face that enters his room. Old enough to remember her and want her arms around him for comfort, not those of a stranger. Old enough to be scared and confused and traumatized, not just due to the physical experience of being abandoned and the loss of his familiar caregiver, but by his thoughts and confusion surrounding it all.

I put my hand to his cheek, feel its fullness in my palm, and try to imagine what sort of horrible circumstances or tragedy must have led his mother to abandon this beautiful, sweet, perfect, loving eighteen-month-old boy outside of a fire station several hours away. We pass two afternoons like this before he’s comfortable enough to sit within arm’s reach of a volunteer or nurse and play with another child.

Four short days later, I’m sitting in the office, updating the volunteer schedule, when our social worker walks in followed by four bomberos. A tall, sturdy man in full firefighter gear holds the hand of a very small boy. He is crying and trembling and looking with wide, frightened eyes at the six adults standing around him. Our social worker tells me he was just abandoned by his family. His parents brought him to a medical home and informed the staff that they were simply unable to care for him any longer. 

He is five years old. His name is Santosdavid or Santodavia or something unusual and unfamiliar to me. He is stripped naked, weighed and measured, given a bath and pajamas. The bomberos take picture after picture of him in his new ‘home,’ telling him to smile. I bring him a coloring book and crayons and try to tell him, in my suddenly very broken Spanish, that things will be okay.

After the bomberos leave and the nurses go back to their rounds and medications and charts, I go to his room. He is sitting in the crib, left open for him to get down if he should like to, coloring a picture of Wolverine. I compliment his choice of colors, his staying between the lines, his hair. He smiles ever so slightly and bobs his head almost imperceptibly to respond to me. 

I pull a chair next to his crib and sit by him, put an arm around him while I try to make small talk about his picture. His slight, hesitant smile crumples into tears and he begins to tremble again, shoulders shaking, tears squeezing out from his tightly-shut eyes. He grimaces as he cries. He is trying so, so very hard to be brave; to make it through this horribly confusing, scary day.

I ask him if I can hug him. He nods slowly through his tears and trembles. I pull him onto my lap and hold his head under my chin, against my chest, and wrap my arms around him. He seems both so big and so small at the same time. He is three times the size of the babies I normally hold in my arms, but still, so young. So hurt. 

I choke down my own urge to cry and try to comfort him. What do you say to a five-year-old who has just been abandoned? What do you say to a child who may not understand ‘forever,’ but who knows their life has changed in a very big way today? How do you tell a small child that no, Mama isn’t coming back, but we’ll be here... for a little while, until the foster family (at best) or orphanage (most likely) is ready for him and the judge decides it’s time to go? 

Todo va estar bien. Estamos aqui para ti. Te amo mucho. (Everything will be okay. We are here for you. I love you.)

I hold him and rock him and wipe the tears from his face. He calms for a few minutes at a time, occasionally mumbling between shaky sighs, “Mami se fue.” (Mommy left). He begins crying again. The escort returns to bring the volunteers back to the main campus. I put him back in his crib and promise to return. He begins to cry. I ask him to wait for me, repeat: Voy a regresar, te prometo (I’m coming back, I promise). He nods and holds back a sob.

I return a half hour later. He is standing in his room kicking a soccer ball around with one of our local volunteers. He sees me. His eyes light up. I jump into their game and the volunteer goes to change more diapers. We play soccer for a few minutes. I jump around and speak in silly voices and shout “GOOOOL!” He giggles. 

I step out for a few minutes to change some of our smaller babies’ diapers. He peeks around the corner and smiles widely when I see him. I’m chattering to him about the babies in the room, the music playing downstairs, the dogs barking outside. He is smiling.

We return to his room. Three-and-a-half year old Azucena is determined to mold him into her new best friend. She kicks the ball back and forth with him several times. He is standing, foot in the air poised to kick, when he begins to cry again. He puts his foot down, hangs his head, and his shoulders shake violently. The only audible sound is a slight squeak at the end of each silent, heaving sob. I sit down and pull him onto my lap again.

We sit there for almost an hour and a half as Azucena colors in the coloring books she brought in for him and peppers him with questions. He turns his head into me, hiding his face, periodically turning back to glance at Azucena before returning his head to my chest. I try to balance making conversation with my very persistent, curious little friend and comforting him. I ask him if he wants to play. He shakes his head and wraps an arm around my waist. He cries quietly in my arms the entire time.

I ask him if he’s tired, if he wants to lay down. He nods slowly and asks, quietly, nervously, if I’m leaving. I tell him no, I can stay. That I’m leaving later, but I’ll stay a bit longer. Until he’s in bed, until he’s ready to sleep. I get him a pillow and some blankets, put them in his crib, and pick him up to put him in it. He wraps his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist. I sit with him for a few minutes like this before he tells me that he’s ready to lay down. In the moonlight, in the now-empty, quiet room, he begins to talk as I tuck him in.

I can see the moon. See? Outside? It’s big. ...Oh no, that’s not the moon. That’s a light! I reply to him about the dogs barking outside, the neighbor’s music, the trucks rattling by. He is laying under the covers, only a small head peeking out, flanked by two hands at the top of his covers. He smiles as I make conversation and silly jokes. I can’t help but wonder how strange I am to him; this red-haired stranger with funny, broken speech.

I tell him I need to make a phone call and that I’ll be leaving soon, but that I’ll come back and sit with him for a bit longer before I go. He nods and smiles. 

I’m standing in the main playroom, on the phone for a few moments, talking to the nurse at her desk filling out the patients’ charts. I hang the phone up, turn to head back down the short hallway, and see my small friend standing in his footie pajamas a few feet outside of his doorway rubbing his eyes.

Quieres quedar aqui con las amigas, or quieres regresar a tu cuna? Voy estar aqui por algos minutos. Yo puedo sentar con tigo por un poquito mas tiempo, si quieres estar en tu cama. (Do you want to stay out here with the ladies, or go back to your bed? I’ll be here for a few more minutes. I can sit with you a bit longer if you want to lay down in your bed.) 

He turns toward his bedroom and pads the few feet back to his crib, climbs in, and waits for me to tuck him in again. I tuck the covers around him, whisper softly about how much fun we can have tomorrow playing with his new friends. I promise to return, tell him I love him, tell him everything is going to be okay. I put my hand on his cheek and listen to him whisper for a few minutes until his breath comes slower and his eyelids begin to fall.