Rescuing Julia Twice (34 page)

Knowing about Ranch for Kids should make me feel like there's an alternative, a last resort if things don't work out. But it doesn't. It fills me with dread and sadness, which serves to fire up my adrenaline and make every neuron in my body work harder and faster every hour of every day to make sure Julia is never so far gone and out of control that we feel as though we have no other choice but to have someone else raise her.

A year down the road, we have lots of eureka moments. We see the work and focus paying off. We know she'll never be free of demons, but now there are more good days than bad, the opposite of how things were six months ago. She's calmer. I don't often see that depraved look she gets in her eyes. She's more communicative, which I guess is partly because
most children have a big language jump between four and five. It occurs to me that her ability to converse and express herself and understand what we are saying has been a big component to achieving success.

I smile when I see Julia lift and squeeze Alex, our smallest cat. “She's mine,” she says, pressing her face in Alex's soft fur. Julia never showed any possessiveness or favoritism toward a teddy bear or any one toy when she was younger, so this display of affection and the declaration that Alex is “mine” is a big deal.

“I'm going to help Julia get dressed,” I say to Ricky. “Can you feed the cats and get our breakfast ready?”

Today is the year-end concert at Playgarten.

“Hands up,” I say, slipping one of the pretty dresses we bought in Bloomingdale's over her head and onto her stocky body. Then, I make two pigtail braids. I don't know whether to ask her if she knows the songs or whether to let the excitement of dressing up and looking special propel her. If I am overly assertive and communicate to her I want her to perform well, it will backfire. Unconsciously, the idea of making me proud of her generates angst, as it always does in her mind. If she succeeds, I'll love her more, and if she allows that, she could get hurt if that love goes away. I understand the counterintuitiveness of her psyche now, so on this occasion I play it cool. When I drop her at school at 8:15
AM,
I say, “Daddy and I will be at your concert later. Good luck.”

Ricky and I are walking around the lake before Julia's concert. We hold hands and enjoy the silence. On one side of the lake, swans dip their heads like ladles in soup. Ducks congregate in the shallows. The path is not crowded, even though it's a perfect June day. As we round the bend, I notice in the corner of my eye a white flickering flash of a tail in the woods. I hear a rustle in the trees. Not fifteen feet from the well-trodden
path, a doe nurses her spotted fawn. Mama's wide eyes flit back and forth furtively while her baby nourishes itself. I grab Ricky's arm and whisper, “Look, look at that.” I gaze longingly. Tears trickle down my cheeks.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“It's so beautiful,” I say, shaking my head. “Natural.”

I pause for a minute.

“You know, things are really so much better with Julia. The other day we were in the supermarket and when she called out ‘Mama,' I noticed how hearing her call me that no longer seemed foreign … but still. I don't know. Look at how natural it is between this deer and her baby.”

“I understand. I really do,” he says, embracing me. “But it's not too late. She's coming around. She knows you're her mama. And she knows what that means.”

I burrow into him.

“You think so?” I say.

“You know it,” he says.

He's right. I do.

“Let's keep walking. We've got to be at the school by 11:30,” I say.

Julia is always in the front row, on the end, at school concerts. She's the smallest one. It reinforces my fear of her being an outsider. Today she is on stage, bright-eyed, looking adorable, and singing the songs she's been taught. She's a little light on the hand movements, but she's humorously eyeing fellow students for cues. That she even cares is amazing. She's up there singing the songs. Progress. When it's over she flies into my arms and says, “Did I do good, Mommy?”

“Better than good,” I say. “Awesome.”

Julia taps the school bus window with her balled-up fist and waves to me. She slides into the first seat on the right side so we can hold each other's gaze until the bus rolls past our driveway. Each day since kindergarten started three weeks ago, I choke on tears after the boxy bus morphs into a wisp of yellow streak and disappears. I hobble down our long path to the front door wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Julia's been in a school setting for three years, and I've never had trouble with the departure. I'm realizing you have to be bonded with someone to feel the wrench of separation.

There was a time when women with older or grown children would glance at Julia and then look at me with moist eyes and sigh, saying, “It goes so fast. Enjoy it.” I'd smile and nod as though I empathized, but inside I'd be saying,
if only.
There were times when I felt like I had nothing but time, and time had nothing to offer me. Now I understand I have something to cherish. Maybe that's why I cry when the bus leaves. Or maybe I cry for the time when I didn't know this.

I met with Julia's kindergarten teacher before the school year started. I wanted her to know Julia's story so she would be prepared. I told her Julia was adopted and she did not bond easily. The early years were difficult. I credited Playgarten with doing a great job of evolving her and explained we were also working with her at home. I didn't delve too deeply into detail, and I certainly didn't want to bias the teacher or brand
Julia as a problem child, but I begged her to keep an eye out and let me know if she observed any kind of learning or behavioral issues. Before I left I said, “Just so you know, we have not told Julia she is adopted. We don't believe the time is right yet, so please understand, what I'm telling you is in strict confidence.”

Each day at 3:30
PM
Julia bounds off the bus, chatting her head off about her day, waving something in her hand. A drawing. A chart. She talks nonstop about Mrs. G. and the other teacher, who apparently gives her a lot of extra hugs. She tells me about circle time and how she's not really sleeping when the other kids are napping, but that's okay, “Right, Mommy?”

“Right, Julia,” I say, “as long as you let the other kids sleep.”

“I do, Mommy, and I pretend I'm sleeping too.”

I'm sitting in a comfy chair in my home office, mindlessly stroking the silky coat of my newly adopted black-and-white cat. I should get back to my desk, but it's hypnotic to sit with him. He purrs like an engine, making my hand vibrate and allowing my mind to wander. Occasionally he lifts one side of his face and rubs it against my shoulder. We can't get enough of one another. He follows me around and I look for him when he's not by my side. We've only known each other for a few weeks, but I feel as though we've been together for a lifetime. It is that kind of love: unquestioning and profound. I fell for him easily and effortlessly, all heart, no head. He's the fifth cat to join our brood, but he attached himself to me like no other cat has done before. I didn't need weeks or months to prove I was trustworthy. He didn't test me or warm to me slowly. He allowed me to love him instantly, and I did. Patch, as I named him because of the patch of black fur on his white chin, attached himself the way a puppy does. You fall deliriously in love with a puppy the
moment you lay eyes on him or drink in his smell. It is miraculous that a two-year-old cat who was discarded in a state park and left to die by some coldhearted human had room in his heart to trust again.

They say when you are ready to be a student, a teacher appears. This ten-pound feline has come to me for the divine purpose of showing me what instantaneous unconditional love looks like. He asks for love. I give it. I love him back; he knows it. The love deepens daily. This is what should have happened with Julia. But it didn't. It came when she was ready.

I am driving Julia to a swim lesson. She's strapped in her car seat. As always she's talking nonstop. For safety's sake, I've learned to tune out her soliloquies because I'm afraid they will hypnotize me and I will slam into a tree. We're one block from the Y when she says, “What did I look like when I came out of your tummy, Mama?” I swerve the car as though I'm trying to avoid a deer in the road and straighten the wheel again, stunned and speechless. Julia repeats the question. After stammering I say, “Julia, do you have your bathing cap? Your flip-flops?” hoping to distract her, which is usually easy.