‘Do you think you could tell me what you are called?’
The little girl continued to stare up at Lizzie as tears formed in the corners of her eyes, and Lizzie didn’t want to push her to speak.
‘How about if we play a game? You can trace the first letter of your name in my hand – do you know your letters?’ Her eyes widened which gave Lizzie hope.
She looked down at Lizzie’s open palm, watching with interest as Lizzie started to trace letters with her finger.
‘You see? My name is Lizzie, and it begins with an “L”.’ Lizzie traced the letter L. The young girl was fascinated. ‘The second letter is “I”, and then I have a “Z”, and another “Z”, and an “I”, and an “E”. Do you think you could write your name in my hand?’
The little girl looked hopeful. She slowly took Lizzie’s hand, and with feather-like fingers she started to trace the first letter, A. ‘A?’ said Lizzie as she began to try out different names. She caught her breath. Could it be Annie? Her own daughter?
‘Is your name Annie?’ she asked breathlessly. The little girl shook her head, and Lizzie felt an overwhelming disappointment. There had been a tiny part of her that had hoped this had been some sort of miracle. The sort you saw in movies and read about in magazines, that brought about happy endings.
‘Why don’t you start with the next letter?’ Slowly her tiny finger traced the letter, B.
‘A, B. Abbie? Abigail? Is your name Abigail?’ The girl slowly started to nod her head. ‘Your name’s Abigail? How about your last name?’ Abigail just shook her head and looked confused as she stared out across the park; maybe it was a hard name to spell, Lizzie reflected. Whatever it was, it appeared that her first name was all she was willing to share, and Lizzie wanted to give her some time. ‘Well, Abigail, I’m glad that you told me your name. Now we don’t need to be strangers any more.’ She stared down at her tiny charge, who looked up and, for the first time since she’d found her, smiled.
27
Lizzie woke up early the next day and looked across again at the tiny person in her bed. The sun was just starting to creep its way through a gap in the blackout curtains, and it had formed a triangle of light across Abigail’s face. The night before, Lizzie had tried again to put her in Tom’s bed and had even read her a story, but at two o’clock in the morning, she’d heard the patter of tiny feet and once again felt the bed dip as the waif-like child crawled in beside her, her little arm hooking itself around Lizzie’s waist, her blonde head burying into her chest. Lizzie’s heart melted. She’d been through so much trauma. And Abigail so obviously needed the comfort. She would never get tired of watching her sleep, the wisps of blonde hair pressed onto her hot red cheeks, her chest rising and falling with a little whiffly snore. It was going to be hard to take her again today and give her up to the Red Cross orphanage, but she kept reminding herself that Abigail must have a family and people that loved her and somewhere out there somebody was looking for her and was heartbroken. And more than anything, Lizzie knew what it felt like to have your child torn from your life. It left an empty space in your arms that could never be filled.
The night before, they’d bathed her and put her to bed in one of Maggie’s old nightdresses. She seemed well-cared for and fed, just totally alone, but no matter how much they tried to coax her, Abigail didn’t seem to want to speak.
After she’d fallen asleep in Tom’s bed that night, she and Julia had stood at the bedroom door, whispering from one to the other as they watched her slumber. ‘So sad that she is so traumatized that she can’t even tell us anything about herself,’ sighed Julia.
‘At least we know her name is Abigail,’ whispered back Lizzie, trying to hold back the emotion in her voice. ‘I had a friend with that name. It means “source of joy”.’
‘Source of joy, it suits her,’ Julia mused quietly, closing the bedroom door.
As they crept carefully down the stairs, the house was pitch dark with its blackout curtains in place but so far there hadn’t been