Give and Take Page 10

  “I need to bring Izzie to her new family as soon as I hear back from Rita. And you need to come with me. To apologize.” Then she holds out her hand. “You’ve also lost phone privileges until you can show us that you’re able to be more responsible.”

  I give my phone to my mother.

  But I’m not ready to say good-bye.

  I find Izzie, gently sweep her into my arms, and sing “Lullaby Blue.” Then I spread out Izzie’s yellow blanket with the frogs and lay her down next to me. I think about Practical Shoes at her mailbox filled with bills, and I grab my purple pen and write. A letter.

  Dear Izzie,

  I want you to know that I’ve loved being your big sister from the first moment I saw you in your mint green onesie and tiny yellow knit cap. Even if it was for just a little bit of time. You have the sweetest cry that doesn’t even sound like a cry. Your eyes are this amazing blue color and your tiny head has this cute sprout of brown hair. And maybe my favorite thing about you is that your whole body smells like powder.

  I know you probably won’t remember me, but I promise I’ll never forget you.

  With love,

  Maggie

  Your big sister for a speck of time ☺

  I fold my note and put it into a pink envelope. I seal it, write Izzie’s name on the outside in all capital letters, and draw a big heart across the back.

  Mom’s talking on her cell. It’s Rita. I hear Mom say that I’m back and okay. Then she hangs up the phone and tells me to get my coat. Dad’s meeting ended. He’s home and staying with Charlie. I’m going with her and Izzie to Caring Adoptions.

  It’s time.

  To apologize.

  In person.

  On my way out the door, I grab my letter and the photos I printed for Izzie’s Life Book. Then I pass a sleeping Batman in the checkered dog bed we got him from Box Mart.

  Lying on the edge of Batman’s bed is Bud the Bear’s missing button.

  35

  Good-Bye, Little Bean

  The car ride is quiet as we head to Rita’s office. Mom’s laser-focused on the road, Izzie’s sleeping, and I’m listening to Marvin Gaye’s “Mercy Mercy Me.” Gramps introduced me to this song after Nana died. I listen until Mom pulls into a parking spot at the agency, turns off the engine, and leans toward me. I pull out my earbuds.

  “I want you to remember that fostering babies is a gift,” she says. “We get the privilege of taking care of these little ones and ensuring they get a good start in life.”

  I nod.

  Mom takes my hands. “Izzie has made an imprint on our hearts. We won’t forget her.”

  “I wish she wouldn’t forget us,” I say. I wish she wouldn’t forget me.

  “That’s not why we foster, Maggie. We foster because these babies need love. And we have love to share.”

  “I brought the photos,” I say, pulling out all the pictures I took for Izzie from her time with us.

  “They’re beautiful. And will be an important part of her story.”

  Then I say, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” she says as she wipes the salty drops rolling down my cheeks.

  I shake my head. “No, not about the walk.”

  Her look tells me that came out wrong.

  “I mean, I am sorry about that, and the yelling, but I’m sorry about something else, too.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “About Bud the Bear.” Then a long pause filled with chunks of guilt. “I found the button on Batman’s dog bed as we were leaving. He took it.” I stare at my lap. “Not you.”

  She gives my hand an it’s-going-to-be-okay squeeze. “Maggie, thinking something is true doesn’t make it so. Even if you believe it with all your heart.”

  I bite my lip.

  “You can’t go around accusing people,” she says. “It’s incredibly hurtful.”

  The lump in my throat expands.

  “I’m your mom. I’ve never lied to you, and I never will.”

  Then Rita’s voice pours into our car. “Oh, thank goodness everyone’s all right!”

  Mom hugs me.

  “I’m a fan of hugging,” Rita says, “but we’ve got a baby to deliver.”

  Mom gives me the now-would-be-a-good-time-to-apologize look.

  “Um, Rita. I’m, um, sorry that I messed up the plans.”

  Mom lifts a now-awake Izzie out of the car. Her eyes are wide-open. Like she knows something important is about to happen. As Mom snaps her car seat into the stroller, the wind blows her blanket off the top of the bag that’s filled with her bottles, diapers, binkies, onesies, and a beanie. I run and get it.

  “As long as our baby’s fine, we’re all gonna be fine,” Rita says, winking at Mom. “Now, let’s get this little one to her new family.” She shoos the three of us inside.

  We park Izzie’s stroller at the door. Mom takes my little sister and asks me to stay in the waiting room for a bit while she and Rita introduce the adoptive couple to their new baby.

  On the walls are photos of babies with notes attached. I read them all. Under a picture of a mom, a dad, a baby girl, and a yellow Lab, it says Happy Holidays. Thanks for making our family complete. Love, Sage, Gabe, Rose, and Huey. Once I get through the happily-ever-after wall of photos, I leaf through the pile of magazines on the table. Parents. Adoptive Families. Working Mother. On the bottom of the pile is the Caring Adoptions newsletter, and on the front page is a piece written by a girl named Amanda.

  My name is Amanda, and I was adopted at birth. I’m writing to thank my birth mom for giving me the opportunities I’ve had in my life. We’ve never met, but as a seventeen-year-old, I recently realized she made an adoption plan for me because she loved me, not because she didn’t. She loved me enough to know that I needed more than she could give. I know when the time is right, I will meet my birth mother, and when I do, I will begin by saying thank you.

  Mom sticks her head out of the room and waves me in. It’s time for the second half of my punishment. This half is way worse. Apologizing to the adoptive couple.

  My legs feel stiff. I shuffle to the door and quietly walk into the conference room with the long wooden table. There’s a vase with lilacs which fills the air with smells of love and possibility.

  The two people across from me stand up. Asher is tall. At least six feet, with huge hands, lots of dark hair, and bushy eyebrows. Maya has long black hair tied in a ponytail, her eyes are like the night sky, and she smiles big as she holds Izzie close.

  “Hi. I’m Maggie,” I say as I sit in the seat next to Mom.

  “My name’s Asher, and this is Maya.”

  Mom nods to me.

  I look at her and then the couple and say, “I’m sorry about today. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  “Thank you,” Asher says. “We’re glad you’re okay and just happy to have our little girl.”

  Their little girl.

  “She’s so incredibly beautiful.” Asher smiles at Maya.

  “And now we’re a family,” Maya says with happy eyes.

  Izzie starts to cry. Maya pulls my baby sister close.

  A piece of me is happy for Izzie. But there’s another piece that wants to take her in my arms and sing to her.

  Mom doesn’t notice. She’s busy sharing Izzie’s routine. When she eats, sleeps, and bathes. How much she eats, sleeps, and bathes.

  Asher writes down every word Mom says about Izzie’s care.

  “And if she’s crying,” I say, “she likes to be held high on your shoulder while you sing ‘Lullaby Blue.’”

  Asher and Maya look at each other and then at me. “We don’t know that song,” Maya says.

  Right there in the middle of the conference room with the long wooden table and the yellow flowers, I sing “Lullaby Blue.” Asher scribbles down the words while Maya hums in Izzie’s ear. They seem excited and nervous, and I forget that I’m sad.

  “These are for Izzie.” I slide the photos across the table.

  Asher
picks them up. “They’re beautiful. We’ll put them in her Life Book so she knows her whole story from the day she was brought into this world.”

  “And this.” I put the pink envelope on the table.

  “We’ll be sure she gets this, too,” Maya says in a voice coated with softness. Then, “I know you call her Izzie. That’s lovely.”

  I smile.

  “We plan to name her after Asher’s mother who passed away two years ago.”

  I look over at Izzie. She makes sweet little sucking noises.

  “Her name will be Delilah,” Maya says.

  “That’s beautiful,” my mom says.

  I squeeze the frog binkie that I put in my pocket on the way out of the house. The one Mom doesn’t know I brought.

  “But I do think Isabelle would be a beautiful middle name,” Asher says.

  Happiness hugs me, and I ask if I can hold her one more time to say good-bye.

  Maya hands me this perfect tiny human. I hold her close and whisper in her ear. “You’re going to a new home and a new family. But know that in my heart, you’ll always be my little sister. I love you. Good-bye, Little Bean.”

  Then I hand my baby sister to her forever family and walk out the door.

  36

  One More Little Human

  The drive back from the agency is filled with holes and missing. When we get home, Charlie hugs me tight.

  “Want to build a Lego castle?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Want to play Litmus?” Dad asks.

  “No, thanks. I really want to go to Wade’s Pond. Is that okay?”

  “How about we all go?” Mom says.

  I bite my lip. “I kind of want some time alone.” My parents look at each other. “I know I made a mistake earlier today. A really big one. But that won’t happen again. I cross-my-heart promise to be back in an hour.”

  They exchange another glance.

  “Please,” I say.

  “You have exactly one hour,” Mom tells me.

  I grab my bike and pedal fast to the pond. When I get there, I set the alarm on my watch for forty-five minutes. I don’t want to chance being even one minute late. I take out my Go On, Change the World! notebook from my backpack, sit on a tree stump, slip in my earbuds, and close my eyes.

  The wind kisses my cheeks, and all I see is Izzie. The baby who used to be my sister. The baby who smelled like powder. The baby who is not my baby anymore. The sadness squeezes my heart like the ivy that grows tight around the maple tree at the edge of the pond. I open my eyes and draw everything I can remember about Izzie’s tiny nose, round face, and sprout of brown hair. The tears flow, but I don’t stop. I need to remember. I don’t want to let go.

  As I draw, I wonder if this empty feeling will ever go away. And if it does, will the memories go with it?

  My alarm buzzes. My time’s up.

  I hop on my bike and get home before the one-hour mark. Mom and Dad are in the family room playing Litmus with Charlie and Dillon. The category is music. I’m still not ready to join in.

  I can’t pretend everything is normal.

  I can’t pretend our family of five didn’t have one more little human this morning.

  * * *

  The next day, Ava stops over after school. We’re hanging with Bert when she reaches into her jacket and hands me a small cardboard box with a blue ribbon.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “Just open it,” she says.

  I take off the bow and lift the lid. Sitting in the middle of the box is a necklace with a silver heart charm. On it is an inscription: TO MAGGIE, MY BFF WITH THE BIGGEST HEART.

  I hug Ava, slip on my necklace, and look in the mirror. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

  “What’s beautiful?” Charlie wants to know.

  I walk over and show him my gift. His brown eyes grow big. “It’s pretty. And shiny.”

  “Thanks, Bear.”

  “But it’s not your birthday,” he says.

  “I know. It’s a just-because present.” I run my fingers along the charm, remembering the gecko necklace from Nana.

  “I knew your sister was feeling sad,” Ava says.

  “Because Izzie isn’t our sister for keeps anymore?” Charlie asks.

  “Yep. I thought this would make her feel better.”

  “Does it?” Charlie says. “Can jewelry do that?”

  I nod.

  Ava looks at me. “Jewelry might not have magical powers. But your sister does have a great big heart.”

  A warmth runs through me like a cup of hot cider with cinnamon.

  “Do you know who has the biggest heart in the entire world?” Charlie asks.

  “You?” I answer.

  Charlie shakes his head.

  “Batman?” Ava says.

  Charlie laughs.

  “Bert?”

  “Nope. A blue whale,” he says, then darts off down the stairs.

  Ava turns to me. “Okay, so maybe you have the second-biggest heart.”

  37

  Remember Me

  Dr. Sparrow’s office smells like buffalo chicken. I can’t believe it’s been four days since I said a forever good-bye to Izzie. My heart still hurts in the place where she used to be. It’s like a dark well. Today, the girl with the long, shiny braid is in the waiting room when I get there. This time, she doesn’t look sad. The man I think is her dad is talking on his cell under a sign that says THANK YOU FOR TURNING OFF YOUR PHONES. I move into the seat next to my waiting-room friend.

  I offer her a stick of gum and wait to see if she keeps the wrapper, but she doesn’t. She tosses it into the trash and then tells me about her dog named Lou, an Australian shepherd puppy who keeps eating her sneakers. She shows me the back of one of her green high-tops, which has a chunk missing from the heel.

  I want to show her a picture of Batman and Bert, but I realize I don’t have phone privileges back yet. Before I can tell her about the time Batman ate through the insulation of our house, it’s my turn.

  Dr. Sparrow rolls her spinning chair from behind her big wooden desk so she’s sitting across from me. Just me. Mom’s in the waiting room, reading a student’s college essay about cooking menemen with her Turkish grandmother. Dr. Sparrow’s neck is decorated with a bright-pink polka-dot scarf.

  “How are you today?” she asks.

  “Izzie isn’t Izzie anymore,” I say, trying not to blink. Because if I do, I know the tears will flow, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop them. “She’s Delilah.”

  “That must be hard.”

  “It is.” I interlock my fingers and squeeze tight. “I promised Izzie that I’d remember her, but I’m so scared I’ll forget.” I let out a big breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  “Have you?”

  “No, but what if I do?”

  “Your brain will help you remember the things in life that are important to you. I promise,” Dr. Sparrow says.

  “But Nana’s brain didn’t help her remember the things in life that were important,” I say. Then, in the smallest of voices, “Like me.” My mouth twists in the way it does when I’m thinking and feeling a lot at the same time.

  “Maggie, I know that was hard. Really hard. But you’re a healthy twelve-year-old who can make, keep, and recall memories.”

  I nod.

  “I need you to trust the process … and me,” Dr. Sparrow says.

  “I do. Most of the time. I just miss Izzie and wish she’d remember me.”

  “The photos you took and the letter you wrote will be a part of her Life Book. But the truth is, Maggie, sometimes we do a wonderful thing just because we can. Because it’s the right thing to do. Not because we’ll be remembered for it.”

  I know she’s right, but that doesn’t make the sad feeling of missing disappear.

  When I get home, I walk to Gramps’s house.

  He’s sitting in Nana’s folding chair in the backyard. I show him my photo album. “What do you do when you
miss Nana?” I ask.

  “This, I guess,” he says. “I like to have her around me. So I sit in her green chair, read her celebrity magazines, and garden.” He laughs. “And sometimes I spray her perfume in the air just to keep me company.”

  “I was going to say that you smell good.”

  His smile shines. “Thanks.”

  “I know Izzie was only with us for a speck of time, but I miss her huge.”

  “Love has a way of taking hold.” He walks over to the tilting tomato plants and hands me a stake. I push it into the ground, cut a sliver of white twine, and tie up the tops of the drooping plants. “Now, to keep the rabbits away.”

  This is the same battle Nana used to fight. She’d say, “Don’t let their cuteness fool you. Those bunnies will eat your entire garden.” Gramps and I each take an end of the chicken-wire fence he bought at Box Mart, unravel it around the garden, and then secure it in place.

  Gramps steps back. “That should do it.”

  “Nana would be proud. The garden looks good,” I say. “You haven’t killed anything.”

  He laughs.

  When I get home, I smell like a basil-and-tomato salad. Batman prefers an all-bacon scent but licks my face anyway.

  Today’s entry in my Go On, Change the World! notebook:

  1.  Eat fresh tomatoes.

  2.  Don’t trust cute bunnies.

  3.  Be brave, like Gramps.

  38

  Skip It

  After school the following week, I hop on my bike and ride to the pond. I try not to think about the two napkins I have to toss today or the hole in my heart where Izzie used to be. I ride down Queens Drive, across Baron, and cut through the path by Sycamore Lane. I crouch down low to miss the overgrown vines with the prickers. Last time I took the shortcut, I forgot to crouch, and ended up with scratches all over my shoulders. I looked like I’d been attacked by the big fat cat with emerald eyes that slinks around the neighborhood. Dillon calls him Voldemort.

  The cool air feels good on my cheeks. I slow down as I get closer to the pond. I lean my bike on the maple dressed in red leaves and pick up the perfect stone with a flat side. Dad showed me and Dillon and Charlie how to skip rocks at the beach last summer. Dillon got his to skip four times, mine skipped twice, and Charlie’s sank. I flip the stone and it splashes once. Then another stone skids past mine. I turn around.