Mum, Dad, hello, you asked us to drop by whats happened? Eleanor and her husband Tom burst through the front door of the Whitaker house.
In truth the event had begun long before. Mother was ill, a grave illness, second stage
She had endured a cycle of chemotherapy, then radiation. Her disease was in remission and a few strands of hair had begun to sprout. Yet it was far too early to relax; the sickness was gathering strength again.
Eleanor, Tom, good evening, come in, said Mum, pale and slight, like a doll.
Children, have a seat. We have an unusual request; listen to Mum, said Dad, a little bewildered.
Eleanor and Tom sank onto the sofa, eyes glued to Mum. Irene, a name now replaced by the mothers own, sighed and glanced at her husband, Peter, as if seeking his steadiness.
Eleanor, Tom, do not be surprised; what Im about to ask is rather odd. In short we beg you.
Adopt a boy for us, please! We cant have another child, and there are other reasons.
A breathless silence fell.
First to recover was the daughter:
Mum, youll be astonished. Weve been planning this for ages but were afraid to speak. Tom and I long for a son, and we already have two little girlsyour grandchildren.
Theres no certainty the third child will be a boy. But it isnt just that; my health is failing.
Masha is due by Caesarean. Doctors say I shouldnt bear another. We thought perhaps a child from the orphanage, a little boy, could join our family.
Then you say the same to us, Mum. Where do such thoughts come from?
Eleanor, I dont even know where to begin, the mother ran a trembling hand over a prickly tuft of regrowing hair, the truth is I feel worse again.
Just then my old friend, Aunt Nancy from my former job, appeared. Remember her? She once had a large mole over an eye that almost covered it. They warned her it should be removed, that it might turn malignant. Yet Nancy came to see me now the mole is gone, her face is clear.
Shed been visiting Grandma Margaret in the countryside, and theyd spoken. Nancy insisted we travel to Margarets cottage; people from all over the shires come to her, shes helped many. I thought, what am I missing? So we went.
Eleanor and Tom listened, breath held, but could not grasp where the tale was heading.
So, children, continued the mother, Grandma Margaret asked me a strange question do I have a son?
When she heard I have one daughter, Eleanor, and two beloved granddaughters, Lucy and Emily, Grandma Margaret pressed, And what of the daughter?
I was startled; nobody but Peter and I knew Id suffered a lateterm miscarriage. A boy had been expected, my first child, for you, Eleanor.
He didnt survive, the mother twisted the edge of her shirt with nervous fingers.
And then? Eleanor asked, eyes wide.
Then Grandma Margaret said adopt a boy. She turned and left. Tears fell as if I were somehow at fault for not preserving that first son.
Now I must give warmth and love to another boy, to restore the balance that has been broken.
And, listening to my own heart, I realised I truly want this. Peter and I can offer a child both comfort and affection, everything he needs.
Not for my own recovery, but because a conscious wish has arisento rescue a tiny life from orphanhood and loneliness. Do you understand?
Mother, I hear you and I stand with you, Eleanor cried, rushing into my arms, lets do it.
Eleanor and Tom had already spoken with the head of the local childrens home, arranging to adopt a little boy. They were invited to meet the children.
I, together with Peter, also went. In the playroom, carpeted and bright, children of three and older frolicked.
Mum, look, that blond boy looks like you, how diligently he builds his little tower. He even sticks his tongue out in concentration, Eleanor whispered, pointing at a child on the floor.
I smiled; the boy pleased me too. From a corner, a muffled voice rose.
I turned in the far corner stood an older boy with sad eyes, whispering just barely audible.
Are you talking to us? Speak louder, I cant hear, I asked.
The boy stepped forward, eyes pleading: Auntie, please take me, I promise youll never regret it. Take me
Eleanor and Tom swiftly completed the paperwork and adopted Oliver. Lucy and Emily beamed, thrilled to have a brother.
Oliver settled quickly, calling Eleanor Mum and Tom Dad. He spent long afternoons with Grandma Iris and Granddad Peter, who lived nearby, the school within walking distance.
He called me oddly, not Grandma but Mum Iris. For some reason that name felt right to him. I, breath held, looked at Oliver and sensed in that moment he was the son I had once lost.
At the doctors urging, I began a new treatment course, but it scarcely eased the ache; I grew weaker.
Oliver stared into my eyes, his hand smoothing his short hair.
Mum Iris, why are you ill? I want you to get better!
I dont know, Oliver dear, sometimes that happens, but Ill try to heal, I promise you, I said, liking the way he called me Mum Iris.
Peter spoke with the surgeon, who pressed for an operation.
What are the chances? Peter asked.
The surgeon answered plainly:
Fifty out of fifty. Well do everything we can, and it may save her.
Peter and I decided to go ahead.
On the day of the operation everyone was on edge. Eleanor kept ringing Dads phone. He had arranged with the surgeon to be told as soon as there was news, and Peter felt like he was perched on needles.
He didnt realise at first where Oliver was. He found the boy in our bedroom, beside the chair draped with my nightgown.
Oliver hadnt heard Peter enter; he sat on the floor, his face buried in my nightdress, crying softly, repeating:
Mum Iris, dont go, I cant lose you again, please! I want you always with me, Mum Iris!
The phone rang, startling both Peter and Oliver.
The surgeons voice was tired, flat, almost joyless, and Peters heart seemed to freeze midbeat
Was that all? Had Iris not survived the operation?
Peter? This is Dr. Michael Hughes. The surgery was tough, but in the end she made it through; your wife held on.
She was on a razorthin thread; Id never seen anything like it, as if some unseen hand steadied her when her life seemed about to snap.
Congratulations, she has more time, there is still a reason to live
Thank you, thank you, Doctor! Peter hugged Oliver.
You understand, everythings fine, our Mum Iris is alive! What joy that youre here, little one.
Forgive me for hearing you plead for Mum Iris, thank you, my dear son!
