Part 4 (1/2)
He must have seen me flinch at the word ”settle.”
”I know what I just said sounds a bit callous, but it's how I felt.
Having a child of our own was my first choice. Adopting an infant was my second choice. However, we can't always have our first choices in life, and rightly so. My third choice, Destiny, has given me more joy than any other person in my life,” he said and I knew he meant it.
”Do you have any regrets about not having children of your own or not adopting an infant?”
”Not in the least. I've adored Destiny from the moment I set eyes on her,” he said with more love than I'd ever felt from either of my own parents.
”How did you come to adopt her, specifically?”
”Six months after we put our names on the waiting list, we got a call. A four-year-old girl was available. Her parents, who lived in a parish across town, had died in a car crash. At the time, that parish, St. Peter's, was comprised of mostly elderly people. Their first choice a” you see, Kristin, first choices rarely come to fruition, even for the church a” had been to place Destiny in a family in their own parish. Fortunately for us, no qualified families came forward to claim her.”
He paused again.
”I remember the nun telling me on the phone that she had blonde hair. That did it for me. I always wanted to marry a girl with golden locks.”
”What color is Mrs. Greaves' hair?” I asked, curious to see if he'd gotten his first choice.
”Dark brown. At any rate, it was the last time I saw her, but she's been known to color her hair.”
”Has she ever been a blonde?” I asked playfully.
”No, d.a.m.n it!” We both laughed.
”What did Destiny look like when she first came to you?”
”Oh, she was beautiful. Like an angel.”
”Was she scared?”
”If she was, she didn't show it. I think Liz and I and the nuns who brought h er were more nervous than she was,” he chuckled.
”Was she aware of her parents' death?”
”Oh yes.” He nodded vehemently. ”She was extremely sad. She would never cry in front of us but she was sad. You could see it in her eyes. She fully understood her loss, I'm convinced of it. The nun who brought her told us she was too young to comprehend what had happened to her, but I always thought she knew. She was grieving. Not like we adults grieve. That's why most people couldn't see it in her. But she grieved. No doubt about it.”
”How did she grieve?”
”You could see the sadness in her. She went through all the stages of grief, like a four-year-old adult: anger, denial, finally, acceptance. When she first came to us, she cried herself to sleep every night. Countless times, I'd hear her sobbing, grief wracking her tiny body, and I'd go to her room to comfort her. Except she couldn't accept my comfort a” or Liz's either. The minute she saw us, she'd stop crying. Just like that, her tears would dry up.” He snapped his fingers to accent his point.
”Most children cry for attention. Destiny cried only for herself. I tried to talk to her, to tell her it was appropriate for her to cry, appropriate for her to share her sadness with us, but she never responded. Liz called her 'the little warrior,' in anger I suppose, because this tiny human being wouldn't a” couldn't a” accept her as a replacement for her mother. To this day, I'm not sure Destiny accepts Liz as her mother. It's uncanny a” they even look a bit alike, but they're as different as night and day. Liz tried to be the perfect mother for Destiny. No one can fault her for trying, but I don't think Liz ever was able to give Destiny what she needed. Nor was I, for that matter.”
”Those first months must have been hard for you.”
He stopped for a moment to consider my sympathy.
”It was rather tense,” he said. The nuns told us there would be a period of adjustment. It was awkward for all of us. For Liz and myself as instant parents and for Destiny who had lost a family and gained one a” in less than a month.”
”How long did it take you to adjust to each other?”
”Oh, it was a good year, maybe more. I can't point to a moment in time when things changed, but eventually they did.”
He paused.
”Come to think of it, I do remember one Sunday in particular. Destiny and I went to the playground a” this must have been almost a year and a half after we got her a” and from a distance, I watched Destiny play with the other children. She and two other girls were swinging, and for the first time I saw her true s.p.u.n.k. She was pumping her little legs so hard, I thought she'd touch the sky. I saw a spark in her then, that same spark she has today that drives me crazy, and I knew she'd come back to life. It was frightening really, because I also realized how dead she must have been. Contrasting her two personalities, she'd come to us not much caring whether she lived or died. That day, on the playground, I saw how much she wanted to live.”
He gave me a half-smile.
”When the people from the church first told us about Destiny, they all told us how resilient children are. I think they were afraid to acknowledge how much pain there could be in one so young.”
”Why didn't someone in her own family, someone related to the Kenwoods, adopt her?”
”I'm not sure, but I don't think there was anyone. The nuns told us there was a grandmother she was close to a” the father's mother, I believe a”but she was in her fifties and a bit sick, if I remember correctly. There was no other family from what I was led to believe, but we weren't told much. Destiny came to us with the clothes on her back, nothing more.”
”Nothing?” I was incredulous. ”Not even toys or photographs or anything?”
”Nothing. The nuns thought it was better that waya”that she leave her old life behind and start a completely new one.”
”My G.o.d!”
”It was sad,” he said. ”A very difficult time.”
”Is the grandmother still alive?”
”I would presume so.”
”What's her name?”
He hesitated before answering me.
”I'm not sure Destiny should contact her.”
”Why not?”
”It might be difficult for her, coming face-to-face with someone she hasn't seen in twenty-five years. It might bring back her grief.”
”And it might help heal her.”
”Perhaps,” he said without conviction. ”Are you a parent?”
”No,” I said, startled by his question.
”Then you can't know what it's like to try to protect a child. I don't want Destiny to grieve anymore. I saw her grieve once. Once was enough, don't you think?”
I didn't see any point in debating, but I answered his question in my mind. Once was enough if Destiny said it was enough. If she had more grieving to do, she'd do it. I could see the toll her grief had already taken on Benjamin Greaves, but I couldn't let that stop me. I had a job to do, for Destiny and for myself, and I would do it.