The child enters the world exactly at midnight, at the very moment when the digital clock in the delivery room flashes its green light and flicks from 23:59 to 00:00. The doctor and midwife exchange glances as the duty paediatrician hurriedly gathers up the motionless, bluish little body, places it on the changing table, and hastily prepares the suction. The baby isnt breathing. The new mother, her head barely turned, watches the doctors movements without emotion.
Maybe hes already gone? Hes not crying, drifts through her mind, still muddled by the lingering pain.
At last, the newborn lets out a feeble, barely audible squeak, which gradually grows stronger until it becomes a loud wail that echoes down the quiet corridors of the maternity wing. Doctor, midwife, and paediatrician stand gathered around the cot, quietly, intently observing the baby.
He is unusual, this child. His spine, coming up to his shoulder blades, curves in such a peculiar way that it forms two almost symmetrical ridges stretching down to the middle of his chest.
How can this be? the astonished paediatrician keeps repeating. Ive never, ever seen anything like it Its simply impossible
When the doctor visits Emily the next morning to try and explain her sons condition, she curls her lovely lips in distaste.
So, on top of everything, hes a freak Well, thats just brilliant
No, I dont want him. Do what you like with him, I dont need a deformed child I didnt even want a healthy one, to begin with, and now this Bring me the paperwork, Ill give up my rights
And so, right on schedule, Emily leaves the maternity hospital, light, indifferent, and unburdened. Her son is left behind, completely oblivious to the fact that the person meant to be dearest to him has turned her back on him.
At the childrens home, they name him Oliver. Only Oliver, nothing else. The nurses dress him in baggy shirts that cover his deformity, perhaps so it wouldnt be so obvious.
But even were his figure perfectly formed, he would still stand apart from the other little onesthose wailing, squabbling, forever tussling and sharing children. There is something uncannily grown-up in his blue eyes, fringed with long, black lashes.
He often stands at the window, listening inside himself, straining to catch something he can sense but not yet understand.
One day, as a tottering column of two-year-olds process to some group activity, he hears it. From the slightly open door of the managers office, music drifts out. It isnt like the simple childrens songs they march to, swinging their weak arms and lifting their clumsy feet as soldiers. No, this music is more like the winda warm, gentle wind, lifting him softly above the ground and cradling him.
There are no words, but the music has a soul, a living presence that seems to embrace Oliver, telling him secrets no one else needs or could ever know.
He halts in the corridor, disrupting the neat little procession by rocking gently in time with the tune, unmoved by the children bumping into him and the ineffectual attempts of nurses to get him moving again.
Suddenly, it all makes sense in his small head. What hes strained to hear amidst the shouts of his companions, the whispering wind, and the rumble of the pipes in the washroomthis is it, his Music.
Sarah and James have visited every childrens home in Surrey. Sarah cannot have children of her own, so they decide to adopt a little one. But the trouble isfoster parent classes completed, paperwork sortednow comes the CHOICE. What kind of child is theirs? After all, you dont pick the children you give birth toyou just love them as they come. Yet among all those lonely children, they havent seen the one whose soul calls out to them.
Hand in hand, they approach the iron fencing of the childrens home. Toddlers play in the sandbox, girls pushing dolls in prams, a hum of sweet laughter and playful shouts. Only one child, in a long, ill-fitting coat, stands very still, listening to a sparrow chattering on a branch. Just then, Sarahs phone rings.
Its the tune of Mozartshe does adore classical music. And the child he shivers, his eyes flash with sudden, bright light, and he slowly rocks from side to side, perfectly in rhythm with the melody. Sarah and James are transfixed, their phone ignored.
They see HIM. Their son. The kindred spirit shining out of his gaze.
Yes, I realise hes seriously ill, disabled Sarah calmly assures the manager, who tries again and again to suggest a healthier child. Im ready to take responsibility… Rehabilitation? Of course…
For ages, Sarah patiently answers all the questions, insisting, We dont choose our childrenwe just accept them. And I will take him, no matter what
Mummy? Oliver moves away from the piano and lays his head on Sarahs hand. Why am I different? Why am I not like the others?
Sarah strokes his deformed back kindly. See, love, were all differentinside and out. You, and me, and Daddy, too. Your backI told you, darling, those are your wings, just waiting to unfurl. And one day, they will, I promise
She hugs him and kisses his warm crown, then sits beside him at the piano. Together, they play, and Olivers playing is so full of feeling, so true that even many grown musicians cannot match it.
And truly, his wings unfurlseen only by Mummy, Daddy, and perhaps, Olivers guardian angel, who stands behind him smiling, as music pours out in a wide, flowing river, rocking a happy Oliver on its endless waves.
