Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

She insisted on driving the girls to school, instead of their taking the bus. When she dropped them off, she made Honeychile promise she would go to the nurse’s office at the first sign of distress. Honeychile rolled her eyes and said Whatever and Rayanne attributed her truculence to the effects of the shot she’d given her, which sometimes happened. Zelda got out last and whispered to Rayanne, “Don’t worry, I’ll totally watch her.” She actually winked at the worried mom.

Alone now, Honeychile tried to break it all down. She felt freakishly disrupted. She wondered if she was about to get her first period (Rayanne hadn’t even thought of that). She’d already been twice to the ladies’ room to check but there was nothing. What was it, then? When she finally realized what had been preoccupying her all morning, her mood grew stranger still.

She’d been thinking of Mrs. Collins from the moment she “awakened,” right around the time Rayanne injected her with the EpiPen. Another peculiar realization was that she hadn’t given a single thought to Hildy Collins in the years since her adoption—well, maybe she had but not much of one. That amazing, beautiful woman! As she ruminated on Hildy, Honeychile felt remorseful for not having bothered to contact the person who’d played the most pivotal role in her young life. She never went to visit; never phoned; never sent a letter of thanks or a How are you? text or e-mail. (Did she even have her phone number or e-mail?) She knew that in Hildy’s world, the adoptee’s cutting of ties would be considered healthy, evidence of a rousing success, but still—the conscience-stricken girl couldn’t help but feel that not having reached out was a monstrously indecent thing, an enormous failing as a human being.

Mrs. Collins had been in charge of her case since she was seven years old. She’d stood by Honeychile through it all: the corrupt residential homes, the well-meaning families who shamelessly “returned” her, the lonely hospitalizations and traumatic surgeries. Mrs. Collins was the one who held her hand during those dreadful adoption fair weekends in the parking lot of Macomb Children’s Services—prospective parents came to gawk and sample the wares like at some slave auction—because of her strange looks, she was given cloying attention by people who never dreamed of taking her home. When her heart, soul and pride were in tatters, it was Hildy who gathered her up and sewed Honeychile back together again.

Why was she thinking of Mrs. Collins, and with the insistence of one possessed? It couldn’t be that she wanted to find her birth parents—she never had an interest and still didn’t. She was sure of that. Yet even the cliché possibility of a sudden, involuntary curiosity about her origins unsettled and depressed her. She’d read online about happy, well-adjusted adoptees who wake up one day with such an impulse, out of the blue; apparently it was some kind of instinct, like salmon fighting upstream to die in the trailer-trash gravel where they were spawned and abandoned. Honeychile had another seizure of guilt, knowing the anguish it would cause Harold and Rayanne if she announced that finding those pieces of shit was just something she had to do. They’d of course be supportive and understanding but in private would be terribly hurt, even frightened about the results.

The other strange part of her musings about Mrs. Collins was the movie that was playing in her head. She pictured herself making a surprise visit to Hildy’s workplace—but arriving by locomotive, of all things. The unlikely express started somewhere in the sky, floating gently down until it stopped right outside the building. In the movie, Honeychile stepped out from a sleeper car, very regal and grand.

She had lots of luggage and a porter helped her down the little set of stairs.

2.

The bus, not a train, took Honeychile to that familiar place. Walking the two blocks to Mrs. Collins’s office in downtown Mount Clemens, she began to get excited about seeing her oldest friend in the world.

All this time, the woman who saved her was working just miles away from where Honeychile lived! How is it that they’d never run into each other? (It was better they hadn’t, because this way, Honeychile could show her initiative.) Again, she castigated herself for never having had the simple courtesy to acknowledge Mrs. Collins’s countless kindnesses—then pushed the thought away so as not to ruin what she hoped would be a lovely reunion. She broke into a smile, imagining Hildy’s response to seeing her. Because of her idiosyncratic looks, unlike other children Hildy had placed but hadn’t seen in critical years of growth, there’d be no mistaking the spunky, legendary Renée “Honey” Matlock, the unlikely golden child of Macomb Children’s Services.

Honeychile recalled the time just after an adoption fair when she told Mrs. Collins about overhearing an earnest husband say to an overexcited wife who was enthralled by the prospect of taking Renée home—“Do you think you’re strong enough for the stares and the comments?” “The world can be like that,” said Hildy, drawing her close. “The world can be heartless and cruel but not all of the world. I want you to hear that, Renée. I really want you to hear and know that.” The hug and those words meant everything to a throwaway nine-year-old child. When Harold and Rayanne fell in love with her, Mrs. Collins said, “Do you remember what I once told you about how the world can be? How there are bright suns that shine through to light up the darkness? Well, these two are bright suns. And they want you. They really, really want you . So now it’s up to you, Renée, to be brave. To let yourself feel the warmth of those two loving suns.”

Because by then, she had almost given up.

What would have become of her if it weren’t for Mrs. Collins? Or Harold and Rayanne?

She owed all of them so much.

When she saw the building, there was a brief moment of doubt that Hildy had retired or that her office had moved. As she walked in, the light and the look of the place, the whole amazing, complicated feeling of it assailed her again, with its familiar mixed emotions of high and low. There was a metal detector and to her enormous delight, she recognized the guard. Even the name came back to her:

“Lemoyne!”

“Well, well, if it isn’t the champion!” (He’d always called her that.) “Now, look at you . Look how grown-up you are!”

“I maybe grew an eighth of an inch?” she said drolly.

“Champion, you taller than everybody here. You walk tall!”

“You’re the best, Lemoyne.”

“Who you here to see?”

“Mrs. Collins…”

“Do you have an appointment?” She shook her head. “My champion! Tell you what—I haven’t seen her come in yet, but you can tippy-toe back to her office and see if she snuck by. Gonna need to frisk you, though.” Thinking he was serious, she lifted her arms. “Ha ha! My champion . I’ll let you slide, but just for today . But I’m gonna get fired if you carrying a pistol.”

“Left it at home.”

He laughed again, shook his head and said My champion as she wandered back.

When she arrived at Mrs. Collins’s office, a secretary was on the phone. Honeychile didn’t recognize the woman. Secretaries come and go but Hildy Collins stays.

She hung up and said, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Renée—Matlock. ‘Honeychile.’ Mrs. Collins placed me. Is she here?”

“No, she isn’t,” she said gruffly.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“No, I don’t.”

There wasn’t a trace of friendliness—the lady seemed irritated, even upset—and Honeychile made a mental note to be sure to mention that to Hildy. It simply wouldn’t do for a saintly woman like Mrs. Collins to have a mean bitch sitting there, undoing all her great work. “Do you want to leave your number?”