Who Would've Thought?

A couple years ago, out of the blue, Macy started asking us all about Alabama. She was the inspiration for the following fictional story I entered into a short story contest for Family Circle. I never would've thought her dream of visiting would've come true so soon!

Although I did not win any awards for this story, it was fun to write, and the contest gave me a deadline, something aspiring writers always need.

Thanks to Myles for his feedback and technical support, and to Ann and Melissa for their suggestions and encouragement.

Sweet Home, Alabama

I remember the first time you asked me about Alabama. You were at that fun stage when one minute you were melting my heart, and the next you were having a meltdown on the floor. “I don’t wanna take a nap!” you’d wail, fists pounding, legs flailing. “I’m NOT tired!”

About every other afternoon when I won the battle and you actually did fall asleep, I’d catch up on things around the house. Usually, I’d end up on the couch folding laundry, reading e-mail, or taking a snooze myself. You’d come out from your bedroom with matted hair to find me. You’d stand in front of me, holding your strawberry “blankie” and shout, “It was a zooooo in there!”

Then I’d ask with much surprise, hands on my cheeks, “Oh, but, why, my dah-ling?”

You’d respond dramatically, “Because, I’m SO, SO sweaty!”

I’d laugh, then you’d giggle and jump into my arms.

Our little post-nap ritual changed the day you came out of your bedroom and asked, quite seriously, “Mom, when are we going to Alabama?”

We were living on the West Coast at the time. We’d never been to the South or talked about it. I didn’t even know you knew that word.

“Well… I don’t know,” I said, my arms outstretched.

You never jumped.

You stood there clutching your pink “blankie” with your mouth open, staring somewhere behind me.

Then, you focused your big, blue eyes on mine, continuing, as if to prove you really did know what you were talking about.

“You know, Mom! There’s lots of little flowers and the band is always playing.”

“Oh,” I said, pulling you onto my lap.

You rested your head on my shoulder, and I stroked your silky hair, savoring your snuggle, trying to think of what had prompted this vision.

Some kids have imaginary friends. I guessed you just had an imaginary place. You and your buddy, Zack, imagined having a dinosaur park in his backyard. He’d show up at our door, wearing a safari hat and sunglasses, holding his mother’s garden trowel in one hand and his sand pail in the other, asking, “Can Sophie come dig today?” We’d read books about dinosaurs. When in the world had we ever read to you about Alabama?

When you hopped off my lap to choose a book, you suddenly looked so tall to me, and I could feel that awful surge swelling up from my chest and into my throat. Your cute, little “button” was now poking out beneath your favorite Tee-shirt from Grammy. I hated retiring your clothes thinking that nobody else would ever get to wear them.

***

You wouldn’t let me forget about Alabama. You started asking me questions, not just after nap time, but during bath time, dinner time, story time…

At first, I found it kind of funny.

“Mom, why do we say Allie then bama?”

“I don't know. We could probably find out.”

But you were serious.

“When are we going to go to Alabama?”

“I don't know. What do you want to see?”

“All the sunshine.”

After a couple weeks, it wasn’t funny anymore. This wasn’t just a stage or a phase. It was becoming an obsession. You seemed to be thinking about it or dreaming about it ALL the time. I was beginning to feel like something was supposed to happen, but I didn’t know what. I wanted to be patient, but was becoming irritated. By this time, you started getting mad at me, feeling like I was ignoring your demands. . . I’m afraid I was.

While I was looking over your preschool registration form, you grabbed my face with your hands, looked me in the eyes, and demanded, “M-O-M, when are you going to take me to Alabama?” “Oh, honey, I don’t know when you’ll get to go to Alabama, but you will get to go to preschool!”

I was excited for you to go. You’d have fun and meet new friends, which I knew you needed. You were good about playing by yourself at home. It was all you were used to, but you liked being around other kids, too. I longed for another, for you not to be a lonely only, and so did you, but the doctors told me it was too risky. You’d lovingly pat my belly and ask, “Is there a baby in there yet? When are you going to get a baby in there? Zack’s mommy has a baby in HER tummy. He gets to be the BIG brother. ” How do you explain something to an almost 4 year old that you don’t want to believe yourself? I was beginning to let the thought of adoption make its appearance, but Daddy was pretty focused on getting through grad school, so I decided not to approach him yet.

Alabama continued to make more than just an appearance in your mind.

“I had a bad dream, Mom.”

“Really? What did you dream about?”

“I dreamed that I wanted to go to Alabama, and I didn't get to go.”

I was afraid even if we did take you, which we weren’t planning on any time soon, it would be a letdown.

“Mom, when are we going to go to All-ah-bama?”

“ I don't know.”

“I asked you that like six weeks ago!”

“ Alabama’s very far away. What are we going to do when we get there?”

“Feel the sun on our back on the bench.”

I guess I don’t know who was more frustrated, you or me.

“When are we going to go to Alabama? I've asked you that like 65 times in my life!!”

You were becoming more and more independent, which was definitely bitter sweet. When I did get up the courage to nonchalantly mention adoption to Daddy, he suggested trying Foster Care to test the waters. I knew he’d always wanted more children; he was just afraid of the unknown, like me.

One day when I stepped out to get the mail, I saw you hunched over the sidewalk. I noticed your back was rounded like a turtle shell with your little head poking out, analyzing your chalk drawing, and it dawned on me that you hadn’t mentioned Alabama for a few days. I hadn’t noticed right at first. It was like when you have a bad headache that slowly goes away and then suddenly you realize, “It’s gone! I feel better!” I let out a sigh of relief, glad that you’d finally moved on. I did feel a slight twang of guilt, fearing that we had let you down, forcing you to finally give in and give up on us.

I tossed the credit card applications into the recycling box, “our mountain,” as you called it, and sat down to flip through my new women’s magazine, a birthday present from Grammy. I could see you through our front window, standing up, now, brushing the chalk dust off your knees.

When I glanced back down at my magazine, I heard myself gasp. Alabama. In bold print, the words, “Huntsville, Alabama, population 171,327” were staring me right in the face. Out of all the family-friendly cities that could have been featured in the whole United States of America, this magazine chose to highlight Alabama this month? Really? What was going on?!

***

Daddy and I started going to the required Foster Care classes. We started buying things like locks for our cupboards to get ready for the inspection.

Then, one day, you started commenting about Alabama again, this time even more thoughtfully.

“Maybe one day when I grow up, maybe my husband will get a job and take me to Alabama. That would make fair.”

Daddy, who was working like mad to finish his dissertation, joked with me one night while we were brushing our teeth, that maybe he should be applying for a teaching position at the University of Alabama. Maybe he was right.

The next day, you and I were holding hands, strolling into the grocery store, when you let go to run to the gumball machines. Glancing at the newsstand, I felt the headline choke me. “University of Alabama Professor Kills 3, Wounds 3.” I felt so confused, so sick to my stomach that I couldn’t think straight. I don’t remember walking back to the car. I remember you chatting up a storm, but can’t remember a thing you said.

Daddy tried to convince me that there was no deep meaning, that it was just The Yellow Effect. “You know, it’s what happens after you buy a yellow car. You start seeing yellow cars everywhere.”

After that incident, your persistent questions and hopeful visions seemed downright eerie.

“Mom, when are you going to take me to Alabama?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“After we get to All-a-bama, my dream will come true! I saw a car drivin' down the street, and it was going to Alabama, so I hopped in. Someday my dream will come true...yeah, someday.”

***

After dropping you off at your first day of “real” preschool, I came home to loud silence and a blinking light on the answering machine. It was Ronnie from Family Services letting us know she had someone for us, asking us to call her back. I told myself I should be ecstatic. I should be clicking my heels, jumping for joy. This is what I’d been hoping for, planning for, waiting for. But, I couldn’t help second-guessing myself. Was I ready for this? Is this really what I still wanted? Were you ready for this? What if you were jealous? What if this little child didn’t want us?

***

Traffic was horrible. We could hear snare drums and trumpets, reminding us that we’d forgotten about the Homecoming parade. Daddy was driving, thank goodness, since I was a nervous wreck. You were asking us lots of questions from the backseat, most of which we couldn’t answer.

After signing in and filling out some paperwork, the receptionist suggested we wait outside by the playground, noticing your energy level, I think. When we stepped outside, you took each of us by the hand, pulling us over to the far side by the fence. We sat down on one of the benches, warmed by the sun. Despite the empty slides and the monkey bars in front of us, you sat there quietly and contentedly between us, squeezing each of our hands.

“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.”

The office doors swung open and a group of kids burst through, racing to the playground. I searched, wondering who she might be.

You spotted her first.

She was wearing a pink dress with lots of little flowers.