In the midst of a busy Tuesday morning at Casa Jackson, the doorbell rings. Half-sitting, half-standing at the computer, I am sifting through a pile of to-do lists, community nutrition education materials, and volunteer applications when I realize that I should probably let whatever parent or visitor has arrived inside.
I walk briskly to the door, opening it with my standard “Yes I am a foreigner, please don’t be frightened, your children are safe here” smile and soft-spoken Hello, welcome, please come in.
A petite knob-nosed woman, clad in flip-flops and a worn, stained tee-shirt over her patterned skirt steps inside. With civility, warmth, and almost flourish, she introduces herself and her companion. As she speaks, a vague memory of this face resurfaces.
Good morning, I’m the mother of Alberto, and this is his aunt. I am here to visit my son.
So many emotions are rocking me, I don’t even know which to go about hiding first. I take a deep breath, smile a little too widely, and greet her enthusiastically.
How wonderful that you’re here! He’s growing very well... a very smart and beautiful little boy. Please, come in, come in.
As I feel my mouth move around these words, my heart drops to my gut and I feel it pulsing and throbbing there. An inner protest begins to mount, quietly at first, until it crescendos to the pitch, volume, and frequency with which my little Beto, her little Beto, the two-foot-tall miracle at the center of it all, demands my attention whenever I need to speak to a tour group or important guest... no no no no no NO NONONONONONONONO.
I want to cry.
******************
In the year that I have been with my little boy, I have only once met this woman. She comes to Antigua weekly for a food distribution, only ten minutes down the road. She does not visit him; she does not call. His father, during Beto’s intake, informed the nurses that ‘If he dies, he dies. We’ve got other ones.’
Beto’s older brother died in Casa Jackson a year before he was admitted, 6 months younger yet weighing still more than Beto did upon on arrival. There are now three children, including Beto, left. I wonder how many he would have to lose before their individual lives begin to hold value.
His parents informed the hospital months ago that they don’t want to take Beto home. ‘You can keep him,’ they say. They do not try to explain or justify their choice. They simply let us know he is ours to care for now.
Two weeks ago, the nurses asked me if I will take Beto in when he leaves the hospital. I am scared; I am overwhelmed. I am unsure if I am ready for such a big step. The association’s lawyer assures me they will help work out the legal issues surrounding him being placed in foster care with me.
I have said yes. I am scared, but I am happier than I have ever been. It is a new level, a different plane of joy. I am realistic about the sacrifices and challenges ahead. There is nothing I wouldn’t give up to keep this little boy safe, happy, and loved forever.
Beto and I talk often about the fun we’ll have soon, when he can leave the hospital and come home with me as he begs to do each evening. We make plans together. He asks me if he’ll have to come back to the hospital to sleep. I tell him no. His face lights up and he squeals in delight. He wants Elmo pajamas, and bubbles, and to eat chicken soup with rice for dinner. He has asked for bedtime stories, and crayons, and to ride in a car from time to time. He wants to go to the zoo.
******************
As his mother and aunt dress themselves in the requisite hospital top and surgical mask, I rapidly ascend the stairs. I find Alberto on the third floor, playing with a new volunteer. He is standing, digging through a toybox, and as he turns, I have the joy of watching his face at the moment he realizes I’ve arrived. He shouts my name and shuffles over to me in his pink pants and tiny Crocs, arms outstretched, giggling.
In one quick motion, I lean down, pick him up, and smother him with hugs and kisses in my arms. 'Good morning, sweetheart! I love you!'
We greet each other as we do each and every day; gleefully and without abandon, relishing those brief moments each day where we belong to each other, and only each other, before babies must be fed or diapers changed, before scheduling or emails or program planning steals me from us.
I kiss his nose and forehead repeatedly as I try desperately to feign happiness and excitement. He hasn’t seen her in so long. Will he remember her? Will he be nervous to go to her? Will he choose her over me?
I grapple with a rising jealousy; a fear that for how inseparable we are, for how he sees me as “his;” for how his sun rises and sets over my shoulder; for all of that, I fear that he will be thrilled to see her. That he will cry when she leaves as hard as he cries when I leave. That when she leaves, he will repeat her name as he does mine: 'Amy Amy Mama Amy Mama Amy...'
I may be his mama, but I am not and will never be his mother. I cannot fight biology. I love him beyond measure, but it is not my love or my body that brought this shining little light into existence.
How much easier this love is when it’s just the two of us, the other babies, and my humble little staff of nurses and volunteers. It hurts then, but not to this depth.
It hurts to hear him cry as I sit in my office, knowing that he wants only my arms to comfort him, torn between the ‘greater good‘ of completing whichever priority on the current mountain of tasks must be done for the day and the good that is most crucial to me- that of his comfort. Of his well-being.
It hurts to leave him behind each day, to eat dinner alone, wishing only that I could make him a grilled cheese cut into hearts for supper before giving him a long bath in which he can splash and play, and then tucking him into bed and reading his favorite books. It all hurts... But this, this is new.
'Beto, your mom is here to see you. How fun! You’re going to play with your mom... You’re going to say ‘hi mama!’ and give her a big hug. Are you excited?'
My heart begins to criss-cross with hairline fractures as I watch my little boy processing this news. He is not happy. He is not sad. He is quiet and somber, and peers quite seriously and intently into my eyes as he slowly nods. I pull him to me again and rest my lips on the top of his head, square in the center of a whorl of soft jet black hair, pressing down the cowlick that persistently pops up after bath-time.
I walk down the stairs with him. As we round the corner of the stairwell, his mother is ascending from the first floor. We come face to face. I smile and give Alberto one final, reassuring squeeze before passing him to her, arms open, awaiting this child that is rightfully hers. Alberto looks quizzically at me as he goes to her, but does not resist, and in that moment I know he remembers.
She holds him at her hip, facing her, and he stares up at her with his Very Serious Face. He is not speaking. He is not smiling. I feel like I’m gripping a live wire with both hands, tension coursing through my body. I am sick. I need to step away before I give in to the urge to rip him from her arms and sob desperately 'mine mine mine.'
I go to the laundry room and begin putting away a basket of clothing, taking deep breaths as I fold bibs and onesies and tiny sweaters for premature babies. I feel indescribably guilty. This woman, this poor woman who has faced more hardship in her life than I can ever begin to understand, it is this woman who I want to edge out of her own child’s life- for his safety, to be sure, but still... As a woman, a future mother, a human being, we are too close now. She is not That Woman Who Almost Let Him Die and Has Abandoned Him... no, she is, once again, his mother.
And me, who am I? Who am I to bear this massive responsibility; this right to say which poor, uneducated parents deserve to keep their child and which do not? A young foreigner, not even a parent myself, who tries desperately but will never truly grasp the suffering my patients’ mothers have endured. As I pair tiny socks, I begin to drown in the shame of my own righteousness.
I hear footsteps behind me, and before I see or hear him, I know he is in her arms, looking for me. I turn and see his thin arm outstretched, index finger pointed at me, face growing more desperate. He is seconds away from crying. His mother walks towards me, irritated. I put my hand up to his cheek and he grabs it with both hands, entwining his fingers with mine, and pulls me towards him.
'Beto, it’s time to play with your mother... I’ll be here after, I promise. It’s time to visit with her now. We’ll play together later, sweetheart, later.'
It is not his tears or his cries that ruin me in this moment. It is the way he clings to my hands, clawing at them as I free one finger at a time, only to find another trapped in his tiny hand.
It is the look on his face; this confused, sad, desperate look. It is the pain I see in his eyes, the betrayal he feels right now. I am his security blanket, his comfort... and I am walking away.
He is staring at me with wild eyes sobbing, arms outstretched, calling to me- ‘mama amy mama amy amy mama.’
I smile and apologize to his mother.
I go downstairs, sit in my office and pretend to work. I pull up documents and schedules and to-do lists and I try to make sense of them. I am emotionally dizzy, spinning with this horrible heartache and these empty arms and this sickening guilt and shame and the rising fear that she is here to take him home.
I am not a ‘believer.’ I find myself praying for the first time in years. Dear God, don’t take this child, don’t let this child die like his brother, don’t take him from me...
An hour after arriving, she leaves. I hear the heavy door click shut behind her and walk up the stairs to find Beto sitting on the mat in front of the nurse's station, a blank stare on his face. He looks at me as I kneel down in front of him.
He crawls onto my lap, wraps his arms around my neck, and sighs one word onto my chest.
'Mama.'
