Page 7 of Sweet Distraction

She turns her head as she stands and moves slowly toward us. She doesn’t smile nor does she frown, but rather just looks at Jackie, then Alan, before shifting to study me—the stranger in the group. Her eyes hold a weight and wariness a three-year-old shouldn’t have nor can I fathom. It’s almost as if that stare of hers questions if I’m as safe as the other two people I’m standing with.

“Hey there,” I say softly as I crouch down so that we’re eye level. She’s currently grabbing hold of Jackie’s leg like it’s her only lifeline. “I’m Willow.”

Nothing. No change in expression. No blinking. No response whatsoever.

“That’s okay,” I add quickly making sure I remain at eye level with her so that I’m not towering over and intimidating her. “It’s a really weird name. I’d look at me with a name like that too.”

For a brief second, she gives a flicker of a smile and relaxes her features slightly before they harden again.

It’s something, and I’ll take it.

“You know that you don’t have to speak, right?” I say, assuming that everyone’s asking her to talk. “Sometimes I don’t feel like talking either.”

She pulls her bunny tighter against her and twists her lips.

“I like the quiet. I get overwhelmed when there’s too much going on, and then it makes me not want to talk at all. So I don’t because it’s easier. Is that what you’re doing?” I ask, making her feel like she’s making the choices for herself.

She might be three, but when your world is out of control, having some kind of say matters.

She nods ever so slightly. Her lips part but no words come out.

“When I feel that way, sometimes I use hand signals to tell other people what I want or how I feel.” I lean in closer and whisper, “That way I get what I want but don’t have to talk. You can try it if you want to.”

She shifts on her feet, and a curl falls out of her pigtail into her eyes. She brushes it away but keeps her eyes on her bunny.

I try again. “Like, if you want juice or a snack or . . . just to go play on the playground.”

At that, her eyes lift again to meet mine. She points to the playground and nods.

I smile. “You want to go play with the other kids?”

She nods a bit more enthusiastically this time.

“Awesome. Look at you learning how to talk with your hands. I knew you were super smart. High five?” I ask and hold my hand up. She studies it as the smallest twitch curls up the corners of her lips before softly tapping it. “Woo-hoo! Now go play, and we’ll be right here when you’re done. We’re not going anywhere, okay?”

She takes a step toward it. Stops. Alan and Jackie both encourage her to go play, and with one more glance for reassurance, she’s then off with her bunny bouncing against her hip as she walks timidly toward the slide. It’s as if she knows she’s supposed to want to play, but inside she’s still trying to process how this world still exists without her mom in it.

“She went from vibrant and full of life to this,” Jackie says, compassion owning her voice.

“Nothing will replace her mother or erase what she went through. Taking it day by day is the only way to handle it,” I say as Poppy drops her bunny before quickly picking it up and having what appears to be a silent conversation with it as she picks pieces of grass off it.

Can I do this? Am I able to provide the stability and soft place she needs to cope with this tragic void in her life? Even more so, do I want to do this?

“Do you mind if I go play with her?” Jackie asks, already taking a few steps Poppy’s way. “She just seems so lonely, so unsure of herself.”

“Of course,” Alan says and then recrosses his arms over his chest as we both watch Jackie scoop Poppy up in her arms and spin her around. It’s not long before I feel the weight of Alan’s stare on me.

“Just ask what you’re going to ask, Alan,” I say, eyebrows raised and decision made the moment I saw Poppy.

But he knew that. He knew I wouldn’t be able to say no.

“So? Do you want to help? Do you think you can do this?” he asks.

I blow out a long, measured breath to try and bite back the emotion that has owned me since I pulled that pink slip out of the envelope. My sense of purpose was gone. My faith in the system that we’re here to help kids was stripped. “I don’t need a handout,” I say, although figuring out how to pay the bills in the coming months had crossed my mind more than a few times.

“No one’s giving you one. You lost your job. I have a job to offer. You are the most compassionate, intuitive person I know who just so happens to love kids and knows how to deal with them. And I happen to be in need of a person who is all of those things.”

“You’re being too kind.”