The child was born at the stroke of midnight. Just as the digital clocks in the delivery suite flickered and changed from 23:59 to 00:00 in a flash of green light, my son arrived. The doctor and midwife exchanged anxious glances as the on-duty paediatrician quickly scooped up his still, bluish form, laying him on the changing table and urgently reaching for the suction. He wasnt breathing. In my hazy state after the all-consuming pain, I turned my head a little and watched the doctor’s actions without any flicker of emotion.
Is he dead? Hes not crying The thought tumbled dully around in my mind. Then, finally, my newborn gave a faint, almost inaudible squeakfrail at first but gathering strength until it burst into a powerful infants wail, echoing through the hushed corridors of the hospital at that silent hour. The doctor, midwife, and paediatrician stood around the baby, gazing at him in silence.
There was something peculiar about my son. His spine curved in a strange way between his shoulder blades, forming two almost symmetrical elongated humps that stretched down nearly to the middle of his chest.
How can this be? the stunned paediatrician repeated. Ive nevernever seen anything like this. It cantsurely it cant be Its just not possible
In the morning, when Dr. Harper came to my room to try and explain my newborn sons condition, I recoiled, curling my lip with disgust. So hes a freak as well, is he? Typical. Well, I dont want him. I didnt want a child to begin withlet alone one like that. Fetch the paperworkIll sign him away
And so, on the appointed day, I left the hospital as unburdened and unattached as Id arrived, while my son remained behind, completely unaware that his mother had abandoned him before hed even drawn his first proper breath.
At the childrens home, the nurses called him Michael. Yes, Michael, and nothing else would do. The carers dressed him in large, ill-fitting shirts so that his deformity wouldnt be quite so noticeable.
But even if his body had been flawless, he would still have been different to the other little onesthose wailing, wriggling, squabbling children always at odds with one another. There was an uncanny vitality of seriousness in his blue eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes.
He would often stare out of the window, listening to something deep within himself, straining to catch, to understandsome mystery he felt but couldnt yet grasp.
One day, as a line of toddling two-year-olds were being marshalled down the corridor towards some activity, Michael heard it. From the slightly-open door to the matrons office came the sound of music. It was unlike any of the nursery tunes he knewthe sort they tried to march to, flailing thin arms and tripping over unsteady legs. This was differentlike a warm, gentle breeze lifting you softly from the ground, cradling you, lulling you
There were no words, but there was a spirit in it, a spirit that wrapped itself around Michael, whispering secrets meant for no one but himself.
He stopped, causing chaos in the neat line, and began swaying in time with the music, heedless of the little ones bumping into him or the staffs flustered efforts to move him along.
In that moment, everything inside his little head fell into place. Thisthis was what hed strived to hear through the shouts of his companions, the wind rattling the iron drainpipes, the pipes humming in the washroomthis was his Music.
Eleanor and Simon had visited every childrens home in the county. Eleanor, born with a condition that made having children of her own impossible, and Simon, her ever-supportive husband, had completed all the training, sorted all the forms, but stillthey waited. Which child was to be THEIRS? Birth gives you no choice, but here in a room of children who had lost the love of parents, they hadnt found the one who felt like their own.
Hand in hand, they approached the gates of the childrens home. In the sandpit, toddlers pottered about, girls trundled rag dolls about in pramsnormal childhood commotion, full of giggles and shrieks.
But one boy, drowning in a far-too-big coat, stood motionless, listening intently to a sparrow singing on a branch. At that moment, Eleanors mobile rang.
Mozart. Eleanor adored classical music. And the boyhe startled; his eyes lit as if a spotlight had flared within him, and he began to rock gently, in perfect rhythm and tempo to the music, while Eleanor and Simon stood frozen, oblivious to the phones persistent ringing.
They saw HIM. Their son. A kindred spirit shimmering in his eyes.
Yes, I know hes sick, disabled Eleanor told the matron, exhausted after an hour of persistent attempts to persuade her to take another, healthier child. I understand what Im taking onrehabilitation, yes, of course. Children are not chosen, she explained, you love the one youre given, no matter what. Ill take him. Whatever it takes.
Mum? Michael left the piano and rested his head on Eleanors hand. Why am I like this, Mum? Why not like the others?
Eleanor stroked his crooked little back gently. You see, my darling, were all different. On the inside and the outside. You, me, Dad As for your back, I told you beforethose are your wings, just like an angels. They arent open yet, but they will, I promise.
And she hugged him, kissing his warm little head, then sat beside him at the piano and they played together, and Michael played with a feeling that most grown musicians never quite achieve.
And, truly, in that moment his wings unfurled behind him, seen only by Mum, Dad, and perhaps Michaels guardian angel watching from behind, smiling as the music rolled forth like a great river, rocking sweet Michael gently in its current.
