:: Stars Falling All Around Her Head ::

It was a stark room that Margaret sat in.  She sat at her desk, tediously filling out the report in front of her in her perfect Catholic-school girl handwriting.  The sunlight filtered in through the dusty white blinds, spilling over the worn linoleum tiles on the floor, the metal filing cabinets in the corner, rusty from a leak in the ceiling nobody had ever bothered to fix.  The only sound in the room was the scratching of Margaret’s pen on the paper—scratch, pause.  Scratch.  The scratching ceased as a new sound entered.  A quiet knocking interrupted Margaret’s work.  She sighed as she called out for the visitor to enter. 

A young woman opened the door, her white sneakers making no noise as she entered.  “We just got two more, Ms. Hunt.  An baby girl and a boy who looks about two.” 

Margaret sighed once more.  This was usually the most depressing part of her job.  She rose and walked with the woman down the hall to the admitting room.  She closed her eyes and tried to remember if she had something left in the bottle of aspirin she kept in her desk.  “Do they have names?  Any sign of abuse?  Is the mother with them, or father?”  After each question Margaret shot out, the other woman gently shook her head. 

“A neighbor found them.  The police brought her.” 

“Well, at least we’ll get some questions answered,” Margaret remarked despairingly as she opened the swinging door into the room where new children were examined.  A tiny baby lay in the scale on a table, as a doctor examined her.  On a chair in the corner sat a small boy, his faded overalls dirty, his legs banging softly against the chair legs.  A large, angry-looking woman sat next to him.  Her hair was still up in curlers, covered by a bright pink shower cap. 

“I’ve got stuff of my own to attend to, miss!”  She shook her finger at the woman who had entered Margaret’s office a few minutes earlier.  “I’ve gots none enough time for myself, much less for any stupid brats!”  Margaret noticed the boy shrunk back further and further into the chair with each word the woman spoke. 

“I’m Margaret Hunt, the director here.  Perhaps if we just leave these two with Dr. Bartlett,” she nodded at the man who was now listening to the baby’s heartbeat with a stethoscope, “and go back to my office, we can get your story and you can be on your way.”  She smiled politely at the woman, hoping that charm would quiet her, as well as soothe the scared boy. 

“Thank God for miracles! Someone ‘round here with half a brain!”  Soon, Margaret was settled back in her office chair, with a tape recorder the only addition to her desktop.  

“May I have your name, address and telephone number, please?” 

“I’m Alice Mackenzie. I stay at 4703 Washington Park, Apartment 3C.  I ain’t gotta phone.” 

“And would you tell me how you came to find these children?” 

“I seen ‘em before, they lived with their mamma, up on the next floor.  They was prob’ly worse off than I am, if’n that’s possible.  Today, I was gettin’ up and ready for work, when I heard this awful racket comin’ from upstairs.  Finally, I couldn’t take no more of it, so I went up there and started bangin’ on the door, but no one answered.  I opened the door, and there was that lil’le red-haired boy cryin’ somethin’ awful. On the bed was the mamma, dead as a doornail.  I called the police and they told me I had to come down here and make some kinda’ statement, plus what I told them.  As if I gots time to be wastin’!”  Alice leaned forward and banged her thick palm on the desk as she finished her statement. 

“I thank you for coming, Ms. Mackenzie.  Just a few more questions and you can be on your way, I promise.”  Margaret pasted a large, fake smile on her face, wishing the woman had already left.  “Now, do you know these children’s names?” 

“I think the little boy’s name is Jamie or somethin’ silly and girlie like that.  I never heard the girl’s.” 

“Have you ever seen their father or any other relative we might be able to contact?” 

“Nope.  I never pay much attention to the goings-on of neighbors.” 

“Well, thank you again.  We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”  Margaret stood up to show Alice out. 

“There are no signs of abuse.  The boy is obviously emotionally traumatized from finding his mother dead, but I’m hoping he can get over it without too much difficulty.  According to the county hospital records, he’s 14 months old.” 

“But Dr. Bartlett, he looks about 2 years old!”  Margaret countered, fully aware that if the doctor said he was 14 months, he was 14 months. 

The doctor gave her a steady look before answering.  “He’s 14 months.  Now, about the girl.  She has obvious lung problems and is extremely underdeveloped.  I studied the medical reports given to me by the hospital.  She was a month and a half premature.  The mother was ill when she went into labor.  The lung problems can be fixed, and she can probably eventually lead a very normal life.” 

“But we don’t have the facilities to deal with a child with those kinds of problems!”  Margaret exclaimed after hearing the detailed explanation of the girl’s illnesses. 

“There’s nowhere else to send her.  I’ve already checked with the special needs unit.  They have 15 more children than they were built for.  And all of them are much more serious than this girl.  She has to stay here.  There’s no other place for her.”  He paused thoughtfully.  “Unless you can pass her off to a naïve set of prospective parents.” 

Margaret smiled wryly.  “I’ll look into it.  Thank you.”  She stood as the doctor left the room.  

Sinking back into her chair, her eyes flashed darkly. She swiveled the chair until she was looking out the window, at the perfect blue sky, at the cheerful white clouds that swirled by.  “What am I going to do?”  She asked the sky.  “Where am I going to find someone willing to take a sickly 4 month old baby girl?  And her 14 month old brother?”  She gazed at the clouds, trying to find an answer among them.  Then she giggled happily.  “That one looks like Sister Helen from 8th grade social studies!  Mean old hag!” 

“He’d be perfect, Win!”  The petite blonde woman cooed in Margaret’s office. 

“He does look just like you, Mr. Frayne,” Margaret added, hoping to make the “sale”, as she called it. 

The redheaded man frowned.  “I don’t know.  He seems awfully depressed about something.” 

“But Win!  He’s an orphan!  Of course he’s unhappy.  There’s only so much that an institution can do about loving children.  And his name is James!  Just like your uncle’s.  Please, Win!  I already love him so much.”  Katje looked up at her husband with imploring eyes. 

Finally, he laughed.  “Woman!  You know I can’t resist you when you look at me like that.”  He turned to Margaret.  “All right, draw up the adoption papers.” 

Margaret smiled.  One down, four million, three hundred thousand more to go. 

“We want a girl. Preferably younger than 6 months,” the woman was dressed in an expensive suit, which perfectly offset her dark skin color and chestnut-brown hair.  She clutched an expensive leather bag in one hand on her lap, her legs crossed primly at the ankles.  Margaret, after not much trouble, was able to pinpoint her accent as coming from the Upstate Finger Lakes area.  

Margaret walked slowly to her files, and pulled out several thick folders.  On the bottom was Cathy, the little girl with the lung problem.  She didn’t really expect her to be wanted by this couple, but still—it never hurt to try.  

One by one, she passed pictures of the baby girls to Mrs. Raybourne.  She would coo over the cute cheeks of one, the adorable big eyes of another.  She would hand them to her husband, stern in his black suit and power tie.  And one by one, he would shake his head and pass the picture back to Margaret. 

Finally, Margaret opened Cathy’s folder.  “This girl is 5 months old.  Her mother is deceased and all efforts to find a father have failed.”  She reluctantly handed the picture over. 

“Oh look at those green eyes, William!  So like your mother’s!  And that golden hair!” 

Margaret sighed.  If the Raybournes were as shallow as she believed them to be, they would never in a million years take Cathy after they heard about her illness.  She briefly considered not telling them, letting them walk out with a seriously ill girl, completely devoid of any knowledge of how to help her.  The thought flew as quickly as it came, leaving Margaret only with the knowledge that at any rate, the couple had the money to care of the girl. 

“I must tell you that Cathy was born premature, with a serious lung disease.  If treated, she can lead a perfectly normal, happy life.  But treatment would be drawn out and take a great deal of money.  This would put a great burden on your own family.  I notice from your file that you both have a young son already.  Please consider him before you chose a child like her.” 

Her words fell on deaf ears.  William was staring at the picture of the baby girl.  He stood up as he handed the picture back to Margaret.  “She reminds me of my grandmother,” he remarked softly, in an accent Margaret had only heard in movies like Gone With The Wind.  He quickly turned back in to Mr. Wall Street though.  “Money is no issue.  We would do all we can for this girl.  Take us to see her, please.”  

Margaret sat in that same stark room, almost 15 years later.  Her fingers clipped swiftly over the keyboard as she filled out her reports.  The buzzer on the intercom rang. 

“Yes, Anne?”  She asked, never looking up from the monitor. 

“Phone call on line 4.” 

“Thank you.” Margaret finished her thought then picked up the phone.  “Margaret Hunt.  How may I help you?” 

“Ms. Hunt.  My name is Leah Raybourne.  I believe your office handled my adoption almost fifteen years ago.  I’m looking for my brother.” 

“I’m very sorry, Ms. Raybourne.  All files are sealed once the adoption has gone through.  There’s no possible way I could help you.” 

“I see.”  The soft southern voice on the line had suddenly become very cold.  “You’ll be hearing very soon from my lawyer.”  After an abrupt click, Margaret found herself staring in surprise at the phone’s receiver.   The combination of Scarlett O’Hara and Donald Trump in the young woman’s voice had triggered a faint memory in the back of Margaret’s mind.   She quickly typed into the computer, tapping her fingers impatiently on the desk as she waited for the machine to find the file.  She groaned loudly as she read the report.  She closed her eyes as she automatically reached for her trusty bottle of aspirin. 

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