Whoosh. I hear the toilet flush, followed by the fast whirring of the faucet and the creak of the knob as Otto finishes washing his hands – always careful not to waste water. Running out of the bathroom door, he scuttles back to his bed, hops on in, and pulls the cover over his head.
3.2.1.
Remembering, he pushes the covers off his head and stands on his bed in one fluid motion. “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” Otto exclaims, with wide eyes and a smile to match.
As everyone keeps sleeping, Otto frowns, obviously not getting the reaction he wanted.
“I said, MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!!!!”
Slowly the children start to rub the sleep from their eyes as what Otto has said clicks in their brains. The significance of the day has dawned on them, and they get up (much earlier than usual) and start jumping around hugging one another.
Sending me a knowing smile from across the room, Otto runs to my cot.
“C’mon Opal,” begs Otto, “can’t you try to be happy this one day out of the year??!! It’s Christmas. There isn’t one bad thing about Christmas! It’s a day of joy, laughter, presents, miracles –”
“And family,” I interject sullenly.

With a brief look of disappointment, Otto hops off of my cot and runs to spread his holiday cheer with the rest of the children. Realizing the error of my ways, I reluctantly get up to greet everyone.

Before I know it, I have a row of little girls pleading for me to braid their hair, zip their dresses, and help buckle their shoes. Being the oldest girl here, I have no other choice than to oblige. Though I could never admit it for fear of ruining my reputation, I actually don’t mind that much. The repetitive act of braiding their hair calms me and the thankful smiles make me feel appreciated. As I tie a red ribbon around the last braid and buckle the last shoe, an accomplished grin briefly occupies my face.

A knock startles everyone out of their Christmas daydreaming. With a slight creak of the door, in walks Sister Hilda, slightly thrown off (but not completely surprised) to see so many of us up and ready. On any other day, she would have to drag children out of their beds by their hair during her 8 o’clock wake up calls, but not today. The only one still asleep is Finian – but we’ll get to him later.

A pretty face hides behind Sister Hilda’s habit, and is a strong contrast to her hideous name. In her mid-30’s at the most, she tends to be the most approachable of all the nuns, though she was a strong disciplinarian when she needed to be. I always liked Sister Hilda. She was so kind –though she often seemed, well, nervous, almost, when she was around me. Startled slightly as a curl falls from under her habit, Sister Hilda swiftly tucks the disobedient lock away.

“Nice to see everyone up and moving this early for once,” Sister Hilda says. “Breakfast will be served in 15 minutes –be there on time or go until lunch on an empty stomach.” Turning to walk away, she quickly turns back on her heel. “Oh, and by the way, Merry Christmas to you all,” she adds as she smiles at each of us.

As she exits, everyone hustles to finish getting ready. Walking to the darkest corner of the room, I jump onto the only cot with a body still in it.

“Finiaaaaaan,” I drone as I shake the unwilling body.

“Mrmphhh get off of me,” he mumbles into his pillow.

“Finian! It’s Christmas! Breakfast is in fifteen minutes – get your lazy sack of bones out of bed and ready to go,” I say defiantly.

Reluctantly, he lifts his head, as though this single act was the most physically excruciating of his life. With the urgency of a tortoise, he shuffles his way from the shared bureau to the bathroom, slumped over as if the weight of the world lies on his shoulders.

Finian was not a morning person, to say the least.

Two years older than me, he won the “prize” for being the oldest one among us. Equally as quiet and unhappy as me, we always looked out for each other and tended to get along fine.

Grumpily exiting the bathroom, he walks over to me with an untied tie hanging limply from his neck. Sighing in defeat, he pleads with his eyes for me to help him. Expecting this, seeing as how I have to do this for him any time there is a tie-wearing-occasion, I take the ends of the tie and start looping them with the expertise of a savvy businessman. Just as I’m finishing up, he mumbles a half-hearted “thank you” and “Merry Christmas.”

“It’s 8:12,” wails Elissa, one of the younger, carrot-top girls.

“Come on, everyone,” I say, taking charge and leading the way out of the door and down towards the dining room.

The usual drab place settings have been replaced with St. Josephine’s Christmas best. Instead of a bowl of lumpy oatmeal awaiting us all, fluffy pancakes sit delicately atop all of our plates. Each equipped with our own empty stomach, we eagerly scarf down the delicacy set before us.

All too soon, the pancakes are gone and Sister Hilda walks in to let us know it is time to embark on the walk to church. Scootching out of our chairs with a solitary screech, we make our way to the door.

Not wanting to be in the chatty front of the line where all the ignorant young kids talk excitedly about what they hope Santa got them this year, I stick to the back where I find Finian rubbing his hands and breathing into them in the hopes of gaining some warmth.
Craning my neck and looking ahead at the two lines of children led by Sister Hilda and a few of the other nuns, I am reminded of my favorite childhood story, Madeline. “In an old house in Paris, all covered in vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines… the smallest one was Madeline.” In an old convent in England, all covered with vines, lived thirteen boys and girls in two meandering lines, the angriest one was…Opal. Has a nice ring to it, I think bitterly, as I roll my eyes and scuff my shoe into the stairs leading to the church. Finian nudges me and gives me a questioning look, to which I respond with an “it’s nothing” flick of the wrist. Letting it slide, but obviously not believing me, he holds the door to the church open for me and escorts me in with a hand placed gently on the small of my back.

Entering the cathedral, I am instantly humbled by its grandeur and intricate craftsmanship. Taking our usual pew, the fourth from the back, Finian, Otto, and I mentally prepare ourselves for the wave of people about to arrive for Christmas Mass. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a very religious girl. Not much in my life has led me to believe that there is indeed an almighty being watching over us all. Nevertheless, I do enjoy the reflective time that church blesses me with. When the wave of ‘just-Christmas-and-Easter Christians’ arrive, though, it’s hard to concentrate, due to all the insubordinate new distractions taking up the forefront of my mind.

By the time the priest has started his sermon, I have had about enough. The little girl a few rows ahead has been whining non-stop.

“I wanted to wear the pink tights, Mom! Not the itchy white ones! You’re so mean to me all the time!!!”

Huffing and puffing, and making quiet wailing noises, this little girl makes quite the scene.

“Her mom is mean because she doesn’t let her wear pink tights,” I whisper to Finian and Otto, “That’s funny – my mom is mean for leaving me stranded on the steps of an orphanage when I was only a few weeks old. I think I one upped her there –what’s my prize?”

Each rolling their eyes at me, they turn their attention back to the sermon. I sigh in defeat -what’s got their panties in a twist?

Deep in my own thoughts, the rustling of everyone rising and shaking hands brings me back to reality.

Chronically claustrophobic, I let everyone else leave first. Sitting in the pew, twiddling my thumbs, I am not expecting a visit from the priest, Father Aiden. Stroking his salt and pepper scruff, he ambles towards me. Lifting his pants by the pleats on his thighs, he silently sits next to me. We sit like that for a few moments. Resting his chin on folded hands that are propped up on the pew in front of us, he stares blankly ahead.

“Merry Christmas, Opal” he offers, turning his head slightly and giving me a friendly smile.

“Merry Christmas, Father.”

Father Aiden has been the priest here for as long as I can remember. I have taken quite a liking to him actually. He speaks to me like I was an adult and never has an ounce of a condescending tone in his voice. He is fairly used to my unhappiness, and I think it is a secret goal of his to ‘turn my frown upside down.’

“Now tell me, Opal, what do you want this Christmas?”
“What does one want when they themselves are not wanted? What more could I want than to simply be wanted?” I answer overdramatically.
“Quite profound for such a young girl,” Father Aiden says with a smirk.
“I thought you might like that one, Father,” I say with a slight smile. “I spend most of my time thinking since there is not much to do at St. Joesephine’s – in fact, life there could not be crappier.”
Sighing and knowing where this is leading he says, “I know you do not enjoy life at St. Josephine’s, Opal. I understand that, and I understand that no one can ever fill the hole where your mother’s love was supposed to be. But here’s the thing, everyone has a bit of tragedy in their lives, Opal – there is no way around it. It is going to happen sooner or later – you are one of the blessed few that get it over with right at the start. You’ve had the worst – now there’s nowhere to go but up. It can only get better from here, Opal. Maybe not right away, but someday – you’ll see. After all, you are a wonderful young lady, you deserve happiness.”
Not used to such kindness, I start to feel antsy. Nodding slightly, I say, “Thank you, Father, but I better get going – I’m sure they’re all waiting for me outside. Merry Christmas.”
Rising to let me exit the pew, he nods and says “Merry Christmas Opal – keep that chin up!”
Scurrying to the exit, I quickly look back to see Father Aiden looking up through the sky light and chuckling, as though sharing a private joke with God.

Pushing through the doors, a blast of cold hits me instantly. Looking around, I see that everyone else has left without me – Father Aiden and I must have spoken for longer than I thought.
Deliberately ignoring his request for me to keep my chin up, I stare down at my shoes as I start walking back. What does he know anyway? How can he know that it can only get better? How can he know that if my mother had loved me my life would not have been ten zillion times better? Left alone with only the company of my brain, I start thinking about how life could’ve been – a torturous game that I often found myself partaking in. If I was never left on those steps on that fatal night, thirteen years ago, I could be sitting around a grand fireplace opening presents right now. Surrounded by loving family, I’d rip through each package as my energetic puppy bounced around licking my face. Warm Christmas cookies would be taken out of the oven and my miniscule troubles would drift away as I took a bite and my taste buds took a trip to paradise. Running upstairs, I’d quickly grab the can that was connected to a string that led out my bedroom window and into the window and connecting can of my best friend and neighbor. Wishing each other a Merry Christmas, we’d gush over what goodies we got this year.
As Saint Josephine’s enters my line of sight, I blink away the images in my head while a single frozen tear slides down my cheek. The sounds of a soft cry startle me, as I hadn’t even realized I had opened my mouth. Shaking my head at my delirium, I keep walking. As I hear the subtle cries again, I realize they are not mine, but someone else’s. Stopping for a moment, I try to locate the sound. Over by the evergreen! Briskly walking to the mighty evergreen that stands its ground next to Saint Josephine’s, I see the corner of a baby blanket and a basket, with a light frost growing on it, peeking out from behind the trunk. Running to the opposite side of the tree, I lay my eyes on a beautiful baby girl, crying and shivering in the cold. Hastily I scoop the baby into my arms and run into the warmth of the building.

Standing in the foyer, I toss the basket aside and bounce the delicate bundle on my hip for a few moments as I anxiously look around for a nun.
“Sister Ellenora, Sister Ellenora?! Is that you? Come quick!” I demand as soon as I see a habit at the end of the hall.
Jumping at the sound of her name, Sister Ellenora turns and darts her wide eyes all around before landing on me. Looking like the definition of panic, she makes her way towards me, her eyes growing bigger and bigger with each step.
“Just my luck,” I think. Of course the only nun around during an emergency is the anxious skittery one. Sighing, I remind myself that beggars can’t be choosers.
The second her eyes land on the baby in my arms, a look of sheer terror encompasses her face. Honestly, you’d think I was holding a ticking time bomb – not a baby.
Obviously uncertain of what to do and only moments away from a full on panic attack, she says, “I better go get Mother Superior for this,” in a shaky voice. Turning her back on me, she runs down the hall screaming “SISTER FREDRICA, SISTER FREDRICA, COME QUICK!!!!”
Making a mental note never to pick Sister Ellenora as the one person I’d take with me if trapped on a deserted island, I look down at the young girl staring at me, with eyes of wonder, as drool slides down her chin. Her crying has stopped for now, but her cheeks are still red and bitten by cold. Loosening the blanket from around her neck, I look down as a tiny piece of paper falls out of her blanket. Bending over to pick it up, I flip it over and find one word written in flowing script.
Colette.
Smiling at the lovely name, I mouth “Hi Colette,” at the precious newborn, to which she responds with a gurgle and a smile.
“Opal,” calls Sister Fredrica – Mother Superior here at St. Josephine’s.
Looking up, I see her walking towards me, the true embodiment of calm and composure, as Sister Ellenora trots nervously behind.
“Opal, would you care to explain?” she says, nodding her head towards Colette as worry lines gently start forming in her brow –I don’t blame her; St. Josephine’s isn’t doing too well financially and babies can be quite the burden.
“Of course, Sister. After church I stayed and spoke with Father Aiden for a while. By the time we were finished talking, everyone else had already left so I walked back here alone. I was about to come inside when I heard crying over near the big evergreen outside. I ran towards it, and sure enough…” I say, as I lift Colette higher as proof.
A look of shock briefly passes over Sister Fredrica’s face. “You mean to tell me she was left out in the cold under the tree? Why, the poor thing!!! You very well may have saved this precious baby girl’s life.”
“Colette,” I offer.
“Excuse me?”
“Colette. Her name is Colette,” I say, nodding towards the note that I had replaced in her blanket.
“Well then, Opal, you very well may have saved Colette’s life.”
Turning to Sister Ellenora, Sister Fredrica says “Sister, we have a Christmas baby –kindly go make arrangements.”
Turning back to me, she says, “Take her upstairs and see if you can get her to take a nap. Make sure you keep her warm and I will send someone up with a bottle of warm milk for you to give her. You’re old enough now –I think a bit of responsibility will do you good.”
Turning on her heel, Mother Superior leaves me. Standing there. Alone. In the foyer. With a newborn baby girl. Who is now my responsibility. Yowza…

Burdened by the weight of the world in my arms, I trudge upstairs. Walking down the corridor, I stop hesitantly at the third door on the left. Taking a deep breath, I prop Colette up on my left hip as I turn the knob, slowly, with my right.
I go unnoticed when I first enter the room. Everyone is milling and jumping about, smiling from ear to ear as they gab over the joys of Christmas – clearly enjoying a sugar high from the plate of precariously stacked Christmas cookies that sit atop the bureau. Looking to the back of the room, I see that Finian is the only one to have noticed me – or more importantly, Colette. Raising his eyebrows and darting his eyes quickly between Colette and me, I raise my finger to my lips to signal his silence. It was an unnecessary act, though – Finian wasn’t much of a talker, anyway. Tiptoeing my way towards my cot, I make sure not to draw any attention to myself.
“OPAL HAS A BABY!” screams four-year-old James.
“That lasted long,” I think bitterly as I gingerly place Colette on my cot.
I hear a collective gasp as everyone pushes each other out of the way so as to get a spot around my cot. With the reflexes of a mama cheetah protecting her young, I snatch James’ grimy finger before he gets the chance to poke Colette – what is it with boys and their never-ending fascination with poking things?
“NO ONE TOUCHES HER – ARE WE CLEAR?” I bark, fearing for Colette’s health.
Shocked, everyone nods in unison.
A small knock at the door alerts us of the arrival of Sister Hilda, Sister Ellenora, and the newest nun here at St.Josephine’s, Sister Marianne. They carry a small crib, a pile of blankets, and a warm bottle of milk, respectively. Everyone hustles away from my cot and moves to the other end of the room where they murmur in hushed tones about the new addition to the St.Josephine’s family.
“Well this sure is an odd sight,” remarks Sister Hilda as she takes in me and baby Colette.
Smiling, I take the crib from her and start setting it up next to my cot. Not particularly interested in making small talk with the nuns, I take the blankets and bottle from Sisters Ellenora and Marianne with a gracious smile and give them both a quiet, but sincere, thank you.
Before exiting the room, I hear Sister Hilda say from over her shoulder “Take good care of her, Opal. If you need anything at all, we are here to help,” and then as an afterthought, “She’s lucky to have you.”
Keeping what she said in mind, I lift a wide-eyed Colette from the comfort of the cot and onto my lap. Reaching over to grab her bottle off of my nightstand, I support her head as I start feeding her. Getting the feeling that I’m being watched, I glance to the side and see that everyone is staring at me with wide eyes and open mouths. Seeing that they’ve been caught, they quickly turn the other way and try to act nonchalant (as if they weren’t gaping just moments before).

Colette is the youngest to have come here in quite some time, and therefore seems quite mysterious to everyone. It might be a day or so before normalcy is restored –right now she is like a circus show that everyone wants to see. The responsibility that she comes with scares me, but she is my responsibility and I feel more and more envious each time one of the other children tries to sneak a peek at her. She’s mine –don’t they understand? They can find their own babies lying helpless under an evergreen tree!

As Colette eagerly finishes the bottle, I place one of the blankets on my shoulder, turn her over, and attempt to burp her. The action feels foreign to me, but before long I have a rhythm going and I think I’ve been successful. Placing her gently in the crib, I turn around to get a clean blanket to cover her with, but by the time I face her again, she is already sound asleep.

Just over four months have gone by and I have loved every day I’ve spent with Colette. Each day I feed her, bathe her, and spend the entirety of the day playing with her. Taking her to church, I’ve loved having her beautiful smile to stare down upon. On a few occasions Sister Marianne and I have taken her on walks outside. Confiding in me, Sister Marianne told me that the fact that she will not be able to have children of her own is the one thing she truly regrets about her decision to become a nun.

For once in my life, I feel as though I have a purpose. Every day I wake up knowing I need to be here for Colette. Therefore, I wake up every day with a smile on my face.

Sitting with Colette in the convent library, I find the dusty old copy of Madeline and leisurely read to her my favorite childhood book. As I finish, I look at her in amazement and think of all the things that changed the second her mother left her under that tree. She’s so young, yet the course of her life has already been completely altered. Every person who would’ve touched her life, every person who’s life she would’ve touched, every experience she would’ve had, everything she would’ve done, every goal she would’ve aspired to fulfill – will now be completely different due to that one solitary act of being left. Her mother had the power to change her daughter’s life forever – whether it was for the better, we will never know. All we know is her mom had that power – and used it.

The mere thought of anyone not wanting Colette is bewildering and impossible for me to wrap my head around. (That’s a lot coming from me – the mayor of ‘I-don’t-like-you-so-stop-bothering-me-and-let-me-sulk-in-peace-ville.’)

Yawning and stretching her little arms, Colette lets me know it’s time for her nap. Leaving the library, I barely make it two steps before I am confronted by Mother Superior.
“Hi Sister Fredrica,” I say in my best ‘I-don’t-want-to-talk-to-you-but-I-also-don’t-want-to-get-in-trouble-for-being-rude’ voice.
“Opal! How are you and Colette doing?”
“We’re doing just fine, thanks,” I say, trying to scoot around her.
Blocking my path, she says, “Well I’m glad to hear it –why don’t you leave Colette with me for a while so you can have a chance to be with your other friends.”
“That’s really alright –” I start.
“No, no, I insist – really.”
Not wanting to get in a fight with Mother Superior of all people, I unwillingly oblige and hand her Colette. Watching them walk away, Colette gives me her signature gurgle and smile over Sister Fredrica’s shoulder.
Traipsing upstairs, I feel utterly odd not having that bundle in my arms. Pushing through the bedroom door, I collapse onto my cot and shut my eyes tight. When I finally peel them open and take a look around the room, I see that the only people in here are Finian, Otto, and a few of the younger girls, Elissa included, playing with dolls over in the corner.
Otto looks up from the card game he and Finian are playing and gestures for me to come over and join them. Sitting on Otto’s rickety cot, he collects the cards and deals them again.
“Gin Rummy okay by you, Opal?”
“Is that a serious question?” I ask, “When is Gin Rummy not okay by me?”
Scooping up my cards, I rearrange them into the makings of a winning hand of sets and runs. Careful to not show my cards, I nudge Finian.
“What?”
“You’re to the left of the dealer – you go first.”
Blushing as I point out his insecurity about not knowing his right from his left, he adds the face-up ten of clubs to his handful of cards and throws down a three of hearts.
They haven’t even had three turns respectively when I slam my final card face-down in the discard pile.
“GIN!” I scream excitedly.
Ever the sore loser, Finian throws his cards in exasperation.
“You cheat! Cheater! There is no way you won that fast!” exclaims Otto.
“I did not cheat,” I say defiantly, “and besides – I thought cheaters never win, and I believe I just won,” I say as I fan out my cards for them to see my three to queen run in spades.
“CHEATER!” they yell simultaneously.
Otto jumps onto his cot and points his finger at me. “Cheater Cheater Pumpkin Eater!!!!!!”
Laughing, I roll my eyes, “It’s not cheating – it’s skill!!!” I say with a smirk.
Walking away I hear Finian mutter “She always wins. I vote we never play with that cheater ever again.”
“Boys,” I think, shaking my head. God forbid they ever lose to a girl.
I don’t take their taunts to heart, though. With their egos aiding them, they will surely ask me to play again – wanting desperately to show off their masculine bravado and beat me. We’ve gone through this cycle many times. They ask. I play. I win. They yell.
Deciding to leave the room and give them time to calm down and come to terms with their [completely fair] loss, I run into Sister Ellenora in the hallway. Jumpy as always, she clutches her heart with fright when she sees me.
“Hi Sister,” I say with a slight nod.
“Hello Opal,” she says. Being the terrible conversationalist that she is, she searches the floor with her eyes.
Her head snaps up and her eyes relax as she thinks of something to say; “You must be so happy for Colette!”
Is this lady crazy? “I’m sorry Sister – happy about what in particular?”
Rolling her eyes she says, “Well, about her adoption of course.”

Seeing my face instantly drop, she starts wringing her clammy hands and stutters, “Uh, y-y-you knew about that, r-r-right?”
Not bothering to give her an answer, I race down the staircase through the hallways to Sister Fredrica’s office. Banging on the door I scream, “SISTER, SISTER!!!”
She is probably expecting me; the door opens instantly and she gestures for me to enter.
Her calm and collected stature infuriates me further. “COLETTE WAS ADOPTED??!!”
“Yes, the family picked her up about ten minutes ago,” she says nonchalantly.
“Collette was adopted and one, you didn’t tell me anyone was even interested in adopting her, and two, you think it’s something to be passé about and just say yes, she was adopted ten minutes ago with no further explanation?” I yell.
“Well, Opal. The thing is – I was hoping you’d be a little more mature about this and be excited for Colette. Not angry. I’d expect this childish behavior from some of the others – but not from you. Frankly, I am quite disappointed.”
Still angry and flustered as ever, I storm out of her office, not wanting to hear about how “disappointed” she is. B****. Yeah! I said it! Send me to hell! Oh wait –I’m already there!!!
It should definitely be a rule that you are not allowed to make someone in charge of a baby and then not tell that person when that baby is being adopted! I mean, if I had a dollar for every time that happened I’d have…one dollar. THAT’S BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE HAS THE COMMON SENSE AND COURTESY TO NOTIFY THE PERSON IN CHARGE THAT THEIR BABY HAS BEEN ADOPTED!!!
Rushing down the hallway with angry tears streaming down my face, I don’t even see Sisters Hilda and Marianne coming towards me.
Not knowing they’re there, I jump when Sister Hilda cries “Opal! Dear! What’s wrong?!”
Not wanting to talk, I try to get past them while blubbering.
Grabbing my arm, Sister Hilda drags me into one of those rooms that are for admiring from afar but serve no purpose and are too fancy and stuffy to actually live in while tutting under her breath and giving me a “Oh no you don’t, missy.”
Sitting across from me and taking my hand, Sister Marianne says, “Honey,” pausing, “is this about Colette?”
Just the sound of her name kept the waterworks flowing and all I could do was nod pathetically.
Rubbing my back comfortingly, Sister Hilda says, “We know you loved her very much. You saved her life and then cared for her as if she were your own. We understand you’re upset that she’s gone –but now she can be brought up by a loving and supportive family.”
Surely snot ran down my face as I choked on my words. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye!”
“A lovely family adopted her. The Finkles. They live just a few streets away. I’m sure they would let you visit her every once in a while,” says Sister Hilda.
“Or babysit,” suggests Sister Marianne.
Knowing that they were just trying to make me feel better and that something like that would never happen, I just nod. Colette Finkle?! Suddenly I have the urge to vomit. How can they adopt someone with such a gorgeous name and then subject her to such an ugly last name? Finkle? Blech.
Silence drags on for a few more moments and Sister Hilda continues rubbing my back maternally.
Quietly I say the words that have been tugging at the back of my brain the whole time. “I’ve been here for thirteen years and no one has adopted me – Colette wasn’t even here for thirteen weeks, and she’s already adopted.”
Unable to deal with their looks of sympathy any longer, I leave the room, make my way upstairs, collapse onto my cot, and pull the covers way over my head.

The next few weeks consisted of me isolating myself and moping around (so not much different from B.C. – Before Colette). Which I was more upset about, I didn’t know – the fact that Colette was gone, or that she was able to get out of this hell hole so quickly while I’m still here. The realization that people don’t want crotchety grown children – they want smiling giggling new born babies – causes me to pull the covers farther and tighter over my head.
Eyes shut tight, I jump and flip over when someone taps me on my back. Seeing that it is just Sister Marianne, I groan and flip back over, pulling the covers closer around my body.
“Opal, there is someone here to see you.”
“Mrmph. Go away!!!”
“Opal, a family is here to see you.”
“Ha. Ha. Real funny.”
“OPAL! LISTEN TO ME!”
“NO! YOU LISTEN TO ME! NO ONE IS HERE TO SEE ME! YOU’RE JUST TRYING TO GET ME OUT OF THIS BED! And even if someone was here to see me, they won’t want me – you or one of the other nuns probably called in a favor so someone would pretend to be interested and lift my hopes!! WELL I’M NOT FALLING FOR IT!”
“THAT’S ENOUGH OUT OF YOU,” yells Sister Marianne as she grabs me by my collar and pulls me out of my bed.
“I’VE HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH OF YOUR ANTICS!!! MAKE YOURSELF PRESENTABLE AND BE DOWNSTAIRS IN TEN MINUTES. DON’T YOU DARE MAKE ME COME BACK UP HERE – I’LL BRING MOTHER SUPERIOR WITH ME IF I HAVE TO.”
I’ve never seen this authoritative side of Sister Marianne. I’m kind of – intimidated? Doing as she says, I turn to get ready as she leaves the room. I’m the only child still in here – everyone else has gone outside to play in the freshly fallen snow. Lifting the loose floorboard next to my cot, I take out my hairbrush. Going to the mirror, I try to tame my locks to no avail. Stopping, I look at the back of the brush questioningly.
“Why?” I mouth at the picture as I place it in the oversized apron-style pocket in my dress.
Sighing and straightening the front of my dress, I move to the bathroom to scrub some of the grime off my face.
As I scrub I wonder who (if there actually is someone) will be waiting for me downstairs. I’ve had a couple of nice parents and plenty of freak shows come here to meet me – needless to say, none of them have wanted me.
But though I had been up and down crazy street plenty of times, there were also the Stevensons who seemed awfully kind and were both teachers who loved to volunteer in their spare time, and the Clarks that had a daughter two years older than me who was just dying for a little sister. How I would’ve loved to have left St. Josephine’s with either of them.
No such luck.
As I make my way down the grand staircase, I see a man standing with his back towards me, clad in an olive green tweed jacket, and speaking with Sister Fredrica. Seeing her look past him, the dark-haired man twists his neck around to see what she is looking at. Upon seeing me, he turns all the way around and gives me a warm smile.
“Mr. Wexler, I’d like to introduce you to Opal.”
My insides flip as I realize there is actually someone here to see me. Making sure to keep my fingers crossed, I wonder if this will be my chance out of this place –if this will be the good thing Father Aiden hinted towards.
“Hello,” we both say simultaneously.
Chuckling at our timing, he scratches the back of his head and looks to Sister Fredrica for further direction.
Seeing that we are both waiting for her, Sister Fredrica says, “Well, why don’t you go have a seat in the library. Unfortunately, I have other business that I have to attend to. Sister Hilda will take it from here. She is already in the library – Opal, please show Mr.Wexler the way.”
“Absolutely, Sister,” I say.
“Thank you, Sister,” he says.
Leading him down the hallway, I am unsure of what to say.
“Umm…so…Mr. Wexler –”
“Please, Bert,” he says.
“Bert?” I repeat.
“Well, Bertram –but most people just call me Bert.”
Arriving at the library, Bert opens the door and gestures for me to enter.
“Well, this is going pretty well. He seems like a gentleman and has yet to prove himself insane,” I think to myself.
Sister Hilda is sitting in one of the stuffed arm chairs that have seen better days.
“Opal!” she says, “Feeling any better?”
As I shrug, she looks Bert over. A flash of some unrecognizable emotion crosses her face –anger maybe?–before she reaches out her hand and introduces herself.
Shaking hands she says “Hi, I’m Sister Hilda. I will leave you two in here to chat. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
“Thank you Sister. It was nice meeting you,” Bert calls as Sister Hilda makes her way out of the room.
“Were you sick?” Bert asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. It’s none of my business, but Sister Hilda just asked if you were feeling any better and I noticed you don’t seem exactly… happy.”
Realizing that I probably have my usual pout on my face and that that is probably not the best way to win him over, I instantly try to brighten my face and say “Oh, it’s not important. I’m fine now. Thank you.”
“So…,” he starts, “I’m not really sure how this works,” Bert admits.
Softly chuckling, I let him know that we are just supposed to chat. Get to know each other. Then the rest is up to him and his wife.
“Wait a minute,” I say, something finally dawning on me, “Where is your wife,” I inquire “or are you single?”
Rubbing his hands together nervously Bert says “I left Cynthia at home today. Umm, you see, the thing is, unfortunately,” taking a big breath, “my wife is deaf.”
Obviously thinking he’d get some big reaction from me, he looks a bit perplexed but relaxes his shoulders when I give a simple “Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Yes, well, we really wanted to have a child, but Cynthia is afraid to because there would be a higher chance of the baby being deaf, because of its mother’s genes, so we agreed to adopt. We thought it’d be a little more practical to get an older child who can maybe help out around the house and could learn sign language. Besides, it would be very frustrating for Cynthia if we adopted a baby, because she wouldn’t hear him or her crying when they needed her – and that would make her very upset.”
Understanding completely, we continue chatting. After a while I drop the happy act and he seems quite amused by my sarcasm. He was extremely funny and insightful; talking to Bert felt as normal and second nature as breathing. Time passed quickly as he spoke of his home and the wonderful opportunities he and Cynthia would be able to provide me with. We chatted about his hobbies (astronomy, bicycling, and cooking), what it is like for me living here at St. Josephine’s (utterly dreary), and life in general. Getting off on long tangents, we were both shocked when Sister Hilda re-entered and told us we had been chatting for three hours and that it was time I got ready for dinner.
Sad to be leaving, I wave goodbye to Bert and leave the library. About to do as Sister Hilda said and go get ready for dinner, curiosity gets the better of me. Rushing back to the library door, I press my ear up against it.
Barely audible through the thick wooden door, I hear a muffled Bert say, “She seems absolutely wonderful. I’m sure Cynthia would love to make her a part of the family – I know I would!”
Jaw dropped, I stare at the door. “Is this really happening? And with someone who is not a freak show?” I think unbelievingly.
Quickly pressing my ear back to the door, I hear Sister Hilda say, “Oh. Wow. Are you sure? She is quite a handful. Quite moody. Often times she will spend days at a time locked up in the children’s room and just sulk. She really drains the life out of the room with her imminent scowl. Plus, she can be quite irresponsible and disrespectful. She is always yelling and back-talking to the Sisters and me. Back-talking. To nuns. I really don’t think she would be a good fit for you and your wife.”

Bursting through the door, I stare incredulously at Sister Hilda as my blood continues to boil.
Both shocked by my entrance, Sister Hilda and Bert just stand there like a pair of deer in headlights.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’M ‘QUITE MOODY, IRRESPONSIBLE, AND DISRESPECTFUL?’ WHAT DO YOU MEAN I WOULDN’T BE A GOOD FIT? FINALLY SOMEONE WANTS ME AND YOU’RE TRYING TO TALK THEM OUT OF IT???!!!”
At a loss for words, Sister Hilda says “Opal…dear…”
“HOW DARE YOU! HOW COULD YOU?”
“I-I-I didn’t think they were a perfect fit for you. That’s all –I had only the best intentions –”
Cutting her off I scream “Well of course the Wexlers won’t be a perfect fit. The only perfect fit for me would’ve been my mother, but that unloving wench doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me, now does she?!”
“Maybe I should step out for a moment while you two figure this out,” Bert nervously suggests.
“Yes, I think that might be best,” Sister Hilda replies.
“But let’s not forget that Sister Hilda obviously does not know what is best if she thinks denying me the love of a wonderful family is best!” I add as he shuts the office door behind him.
“Opal,” Sister Hilda says as she reaches for me while Bert makes his way out.
Shying away from her touch, Sister Hilda sighs and starts removing the veil and wimple of her habit.
‘What is she doing?’ I think uncertainly.
When the veil is gone, revealed are effortless curls that frame a stunning face. Soft cheekbones accentuate knowing eyes that are matched with a subtle smile. Encrusted with diamonds and pearls, a perfectly swirled brooch lies pinned above the breast on her tunic. A poised aura surrounds this timeless beauty standing there before me.
Jaw dropped and blinking several times, I am at a loss for words.

“M-m-mom?” I ask uncertainly, not sure if I should be thrilled or furious. I choose to remain the latter.
“Opal, honey, sit down.”
Doing what she says, not because I want to but for fear that I will pass out, I take a seat.
Twiddling her thumbs and playing with her hair nervously, she says, “My aunt, your Great Aunt Geraldine, was a nun. I was always extremely close with her and she always told me she wanted nothing more than for me to become a nun, but I knew that wasn’t the life for me. She passed away suddenly –only a few short days after I told her I was pregnant. Convinced I killed her, I left your father, my boyfriend at the time, and waited until you were born – promising I would become a nun as soon as I had you. Little did I know I’d love you so much. I had a difficult time giving you up, though I knew I had to for Aunt Geraldine. Choosing a convent with an orphanage, I figured I’d leave you on the steps here and join a few days later. That way I could see to it myself that you’d never leave me. You’d always get to be with your mom, even if you didn’t know it – I only had the best intentions. I knew you wouldn’t be happy with any other parents – you’d always be wondering about your mom, am I right?” she asks hopefully, finishing what seemed like a monologue that she had rehearsed at her mirror every night before bed.

Taking a few moments to absorb what she said, I respond with a defiant, “Wrong.” Pulling the brush out of my pocket, I say “I always wondered about the woman painted here. When I was younger I always hoped she was some wonderful women who dreaded giving me up. I dreamt I had been kidnapped and left here – that my mother had never wanted me to be put up for adoption. I dreamt that she spent every day painstakingly trying to find me, and that one day she would and we’d live happily ever after. As I grew older and less ignorant, though, I realized that that woman couldn’t have loved me. Didn’t love me. Didn’t want me. I never imagined, though, that she’d be so cruel as to tie me down to an orphanage. If you truly loved me, you would’ve given me away and detached yourself –you would’ve let me live my life –you would’ve set me free. OR BETTER YET, YOU WOULD’VE CHOSEN ME OVER YOUR DEAD AUNT,” I yell, never imagining I would be so angry when finally meeting my mother.

“Opal, you don’t understand –”

Yelling back at her, I say, “No, you don’t understand. You don’t understand what it is like to live your life knowing your mother didn’t want you. I’ve spent my entire life thinking that I don’t belong here on this earth because my mother didn’t think I belonged here in her arms!” Feeling vulnerable having said one of my deepest most personal thoughts, I keep on yelling at my ‘mother,’ “You know, one of those ‘uplifting’ pamphlets in the foyer says ‘putting your child up for adoption isn’t a birth-mother’s rejection, but an unconditional love that inspires her to put herself last and do all she can for her baby.’ NEWSFLASH, that means you must have an unconditional hatred for me if you would put me up for adoption and then NOT LET ME GET ADOPTED – thereby doing NOTHING that you can for me; your baby.”

“I understand that you aren’t ready to just jump into my arms and do some mother-daughter bonding, and I understand that I was wrong, and I understand that you may not be able to forgive me right away, but we can be together in secret, now! You have your mother in your life as your mother –doesn’t that make up for all of this?”

Pondering what she says, I think about how much I wanted to just run up to my mother and give her the biggest hug and hear her tell me how much she loves me and how much she wants to be a family.

“Not. Even. Close,” I say, “I. Can. Never. Forgive. You.”

Throwing the brush at her and flinching slightly as it smashes to the floor in a million pieces, I run out of the library. Taking the stairs two at a time, I burst through the door to the still empty bedroom. Looking around, I get ready to pack up my things. I’ve made up my mind –I’m leaving this place for good. Just because my mother couldn’t live without me and needed me under her thumb does not mean I can’t live without her. I’ve lived in this prison for thirteen years. Each day I have the capacity to learn, but no one teaches, and so I just sit here and waste away. There is nothing for me in here. Nothing for me to do, and certainly no one for me to be. Is this what my mom wanted? For me to have no opportunities and now, even if I do get out, to be so far behind that I have no options for the future? I have no idea who I am.
Scurrying around the room, I suddenly realize how stupid I am being –I have nothing to pack. Deciding to leave my unhappy memories behind, I run out of the door and am immediately confronted by Sis – Mother Hilda.
“Please, Opal. I know this must not be easy for you. It wasn’t easy for me to keep it from you! Imagine all of those Mother’s Days that I didn’t get to celebrate with you!”
Glowering at her I say, “Why yes, ‘mom,’ that does sound terrible. And unfortunately we will never get those Mother’s Days back. I’d say we can celebrate the future ones, but I doubt they make a ‘World’s Most Selfish Mom,’ mug,” I say sarcastically, with my voice full of disdain.
Ignoring the hurt in her eyes, I dodge past her and run down the stairs. I run past a confused Bert, past all the nuns, past my friends, and most importantly, past my past. Escaping through the convent doors, I run. And run. And run.
Clearing my mind, all I concentrate on is going as far and fast as my feet will carry me. I have no clue where I am headed or what I will do there; all that matters is that I am far away from my mother’s oppressive grasp. As the repetitive running motion calms me down, I realize that it never mattered who my mother was or where I came from – all that matters now is where I am going and who I am going to be.
“Opal!” calls a winded Bert.
Still running, though, steadying my pace, I think about how life isn’t going to wait around for me forever – my new life starts today.


And with that, Opal smiled a genuine smile from ear to ear.