Page 77 of Aperture

“Wait,” I shake my head, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?”

Her eyebrows draw together in the same confused look that mirrors my own face.

“He didn’t tell you he was adopted?”

Before I can answer she begins to shake her head back and forth quickly. “Dammit. I shouldn’t have said anything. This is not my story to tell.”

I place my hand over hers. “I understand that, but please, I just want to know him,” I say honestly.

She nods understandingly.

“Theo came to live with us when he was six. I was eight at the time. My parents weren’t able to have any more children after I was born. They tried for a few years but eventually decided to look at adoption. They ended up doing their home study and getting registered as potential parents through the foster care system. They had only just become available to start looking at available children when a social worker called them about Theo.”

It’s obvious that this is difficult for her. She takes a moment to gather herself and continues.

“He had been very badly neglected. He was very underweight. My parents never shared any details with me, but whatever he had gone through must have been horrendous.

He barely spoke for the first six months,” she recalls. “The doctors said he was perfectly capable, incredibly intelligent, in fact, but he just didn’t want to. The only time I heard his voice was when he would wake up screaming at night. It was horrible,” she recalls, as a shiver runs through her body.

I cannot believe she is describing Theo. My Theo. He’s so charismatic and funny. I can’t believe he went through something like this.

“I do know that his mother had died,” she continues. “That much I’ve learned over the years. Also, he never knew who his father was and there was no other living family so my parents were able to adopt him.”

My heart is breaking listening to her describe his young life.

Sarah continues. “It took a long time, but slowly he started to come out of his shell.Between therapy and the love my parents gave him, he adjusted and became a normal littleboy.” She stops for a brief moment. “Well, mostly normal.”

“Mostly?” I inquire.

“I mean, he had some anger issues, which is completely understandable. He would lash out sometimes and kick the dog, or fight with kids at school.”

“I can’t even imagine that,” I say. “That sounds nothing like the man I know. He’s so caring and sweet.”

Sarah smiles. “He is. He outgrew that stuff pretty early on.”

“I wonder if he remembers his mom?” I ask. His distrust of people, particularly women, is beginning to make sense as she speaks.

“I’m not sure,” she answers. “He’s never talked about it, so we never bring it up.

He was the cutest kid though. I think I have a picture somewhere around here from right after he came to live with us.”

She gets up and goes into another room. I’m reeling from this information. There is so much Theo hasn’t told me. I understand why, but it is important information that he’s purposely left out.

We’ve had so many personal discussions. He knows all about what happened to my family. My heart drops as I think of our conversation at the beach on our first date. He told me he wanted to be a parent to give his child the things he never had. I thought he was just speaking in generalizations at the time, but he was talking about safety and security.

My God, that poor child.

Sarah returns and places an old worn-out photo in front of me. It’s a 4x6 photo, obviously taken a long time ago. In the center of the photo is a small boy. His hair is disheveled and his amber-colored eyes are sunken and completely void of all emotion.

He is so incredibly thin, with sharp, skeletal shoulders visible under the tank top he is wearing. His pajama pants are too small, loose at the waist due to his underweight status, but two inches too short. He’s not wearing shoes. My gaze scans his face and body again and stops at what he's clutching in his tiny hand, as my pulse spikes and my heartbeat thunders in my ears.

“I had forgotten about that,” Sarah muses.

“He used to carry that red scarf everywhere,” Sarah says. “It was like his security blanket. One day he just stopped carrying it,” she remembers.

I can barely focus on anything she is saying as I stare at that red scarf. My whole body feels paralyzed. I barely register the noise when the teacup I was holding hits the floor and shatters into pieces.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer numbly, stumbling back. “Is everything alright?” she asks with furrowed brows, as she reaches for a roll of paper towels.