Janice Johnson - Kids by Christmas

“If you decide to adopt us,” Sophia said, “can we decorate our bedrooms the way we want?”

“Within reason,” Suzanne agreed. “What’s your favorite color?”

She pursed her lips. “Um, let’s see. Some days purple is. And some days pink.”

Pink and purple. Well, that was reassuring. Suzanne had half expected her to say orange and black. At least in this way, she marched in step with all the other girls her age.

“You two would share the bathroom next to this room.” They followed and she pushed open the door.

“My bedroom.” Suzanne continued the tour, letting them wander to her dresser and look at the framed photos, stroke her coverlet and the hand-knit salmon-colored throw that lay across the foot of the bed, and rock experimentally in the maple-and-caned rocking chair that sat on a rag rug by the window. They even peeked in her bathroom.

“In the other direction,” she said, “there’s room to keep bikes or whatever in the garage. I keep meaning to have a garage sale so I can park the car in there, too.”

“I bet we could do lots of the work,” Sophia said. “We could put stickers on everything, and take money, and try to talk people into buying stuff.”

“I’ll need all the help I can get,” Suzanne said noncommittally. She glanced at her bedside clock. Her time with the kids was expiring rapidly. “Have you had lunch?”

They nodded. Jack was getting braver, because he volunteered, “Mrs. Burton made us eat before we could come.”

“Well, how about a snack? And we can talk a little.”

“Do you got cookies?” Jack asked.

“No, but I made a coffee cake.”

His face scrunched up. “Coffee is gross.”

She laughed. “It doesn’t have coffee in it. It’s a kind of cake that tends to be eaten during a coffee break. This one is lemon. I promise, it’s good.”

They came with her, both stopping to take one last, lingering look at the bedrooms that would be theirs, before bouncing along to the kitchen.

“I like your house,” Jack confided. His face was flushed, and he was increasingly animated. “Sophia does, too. Huh, Soph?”

“Of course I do, dummy!”

Unoffended, he said, “See? We both like it.”

“I’m glad,” Suzanne told him. “Why don’t you two sit down? I’ll get the cake and pour milk.”

“Can we have pop?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any.”

Both looked incredulous again. Sophia voiced their shock. “You mean, you don’t drink pop? At all?”

Suzanne laughed, something she knew she was doing too much. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. She felt giddy. “Of course I do, sometimes. I just don’t always have it. Milk is better for you anyway.”

Their expressions of relief were comical, but also sobering. What were they accustomed to eating? Had they stayed in hotels with kitchenettes? Sophia remembered cooking with her mother, but that might have been years ago. Had they become accustomed to nothing but prepackaged and fast food?

She sat down and cut the coffee cake. As she dished it up, she said, “I do try to eat a healthy diet. Lots of fruits and vegetables and not much junk food. If you’re used to lots of potato chips and pop, you’ll find it’s a little different here.”

They exchanged a glance. If it was in code, she couldn’t break it, even though clearly they were communicating.

“What happens to us now?” Sophia asked, picking up her fork. “How long do we stay with Mrs. Burton?”

“I don’t know,” Suzanne admitted. “I think usually Ms. Stuart would want us to take weeks and even maybe months to get to know each other.”

Despite her full mouth, Sophia said, “But Mrs. Burton says she can’t keep us that long. She said only through Christmas break.”

“That’s what I understand, too,” Suzanne agreed. “I’m hoping you can come here instead of to another foster home.”

Both their faces brightened. “Really?” Sophia said. “That soon?”

“If you want to.” Suzanne set down her fork. “But I don’t want you two to feel rushed. Once you come, you’re going to be stuck with me and my rules.”

“Do you have strict rules?”

“I think they’ll be pretty normal. I’ll expect you to have chores here at home, and to make sure I always know where you are. We’ll set a bedtime, and you’ll need to do homework before you watch TV or play. Stuff like that.”

“Is that all?” the ten-year-old asked suspiciously.

“No, I’m sure it’s not. I don’t like to be lied to, for example. I’m going to ask you to be honest. That’s really important to me.”

“Mr. Sanchez says I’m too honest,” Sophia told her. “He says sometimes I shouldn’t say what I think.”

“Not telling somebody you think their new outfit is ugly isn’t quite the same thing as lying about where you went after school, or what a teacher told you, or whether you’ve done your homework.”

“But if I say the new outfit looks cool, that’s lying.”

“It’s what’s called a white lie,” Suzanne told her. “That means you’re not being honest, because being honest would hurt the other person’s feelings. But instead of telling even the white lie, you can say something like, ‘Wow! Did your mom take you shopping?’ and the person thinks the ‘wow’ was a compliment.”

“That’s sneaky,” Sophia said with apparent admiration.

“For now, I’ll have you both come to my shop after school, not home. You can do your homework there, and we can come home together after I close at five.”

She had to tell them about Knit One, Drop In, including an explanation of the name of the store. Sophia thought it would be way cool—her favorite words of enthusiasm—to learn to knit.

“Is there anything you want to ask me?” Suzanne concluded.

Jack scraped his plate in search of any last crumbs. “What would we call you?”

“Hm. What did you call your mother?”

“Mom,” said Sophia.

“Mommy,” said her little brother.

“Well, definitely not either. Because she’ll always be your mother, in your hearts.”

“Do you still think about your mother?” Sophia asked, sounding a little shy.

Suzanne nodded. “I wish she could meet you, for example. Be your grandmother.”

“Oh.” She looked down.

“I think maybe you should just call me by my name for now. What do you think? Then, later, if you want maybe we could think of some variation on Mom.”

“You mean, we should call you Ms. Chauvin, like Mrs. Burton said?”

She smiled at Jack. “No, you can call me Suzanne.”

Sophia’s forehead crinkled. “How do you spell it?”

She spelled it for them. Sophia frowned, taking it in, while Jack kicked his heels on the chair and gazed out the sliding door.

“Will we have your last name?” Sophia asked.

“Yes, once the adoption is complete. Are you okay with that?”

“Sophia Chauvin,” she tried out loud.

“That’s an elegant name,” Suzanne said. “I like Jack Chauvin, too.”

“It’s lucky Jack isn’t Van. Then he’d be Van Chauvin.” She cackled.

Her brother doubled over and pretended to laugh hysterically. His elbow caught the glass of milk and knocked it over, sending the milk in a river across the table.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he cried, scrambling up, something very close to fear on his face.

“He didn’t mean to do it!” Sophia said, leaping to her feet. “I’ll clean it up, so you don’t have to do anything.”

Taken aback by their reaction, Suzanne rose, too. “I know it was an accident. Everybody knocks things over sometimes. Don’t worry. Here.” She grabbed a roll of paper towels from the holder. “Let’s sop it up with this.”