Valerie Hansen - Samantha's Gift

Amused, Rachel looked up into his kind face and caught a glimmer of deeper concern. He’d apparently been trying to distract her with his silly banter and was now waiting to see if he’d been successful.

She assumed a pseudo-serious expression, made a fist and punched him lightly in the upper arm as she said, “Thanks, buddy. It’s good to know you’re standing by in case I need avenging. But I don’t think he rides a bicycle, so that’s out. Guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”

Turning, she reached for the doorknob. So did Sean.

His hand closed gently over hers. Their inadvertent touch sent tingles zinging up Rachel’s arm and prickled in the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck.

She quickly slipped her hand from beneath his, hoping he couldn’t tell how bewildered her unexpected, fervent response had left her. Or how close she’d come to actually shivering just now!

“Allow me,” Sean said, gallantly opening the office door for her and stepping back with a bow.

Rachel took a deep breath and held it. She sidled through the open door without looking up or glancing back at Sean. Principal Vanbruger wasn’t the main reason for her nervousness anymore. Sean Bates was.

Not only were her original butterflies still having a riotous party in her stomach, but the moment Sean had accidentally touched her hand, they’d invited all their friends—and a few hundred moths, to boot!

Rachel’s bumfuzzled state of mind became of secondary importance the moment she entered the principal’s office and saw who, and what, was waiting for her.

Her gaze lingered a moment on the two adults, then went to a withdrawn-looking little girl sitting on a chair in the corner, lower legs and feet dangling.

The child’s shorts and T-shirt were faded and much too big for her, but that wasn’t the saddest part. Everything, from her posture to her placement in the room, screamed lonely, immediately capturing Rachel’s heart.

Principal Vanbruger rose from behind his desk. “Ah, good. Ms. Woodward, I believe you know Ms. Heatherington, from Health and Human Services in Little Rock.”

Rachel nodded. “Yes.” She shook the social worker’s hand formally. “We’ve met.”

He gestured toward the child. “And this is Samantha Smith. Samantha, this is your new teacher, Ms. Woodward.”

“Please, call me Miss Rachel,” she told the shy little waif. “All the other children do.” Wide, pale blue eyes stared up at her from a cherubic face surrounded by unkempt blond curls.

Approaching slowly and pausing in front of the child, Rachel said, “I see we’re all out of my favorite kind of chair. Can I share yours? I’m pretty little. There should be room for both of us.”

Samantha’s only answer was to scoot to one side. Rachel perched on the edge of the seat at an angle and laid her arm across the chair’s low, curved back. That not only helped her balance, it formed a pose of guardianship, offering unspoken protection in a world of staid, intimidating adults.

“Samantha’s parents died,” the social worker said. “She’s in foster care right now. I’m working on getting her placed with relatives in Colorado, so I doubt you’ll have to bother with her for long. She hasn’t been behaving very well, I’m afraid. Just try to keep her out of trouble and make the best of it till the paperwork comes through and we can send her out of state.”

Tactful, as always. Rachel wanted to jump up and scream, How dare you be so matter-of-fact? Can’t you see how frightened the poor thing is?

Instead, Rachel settled back into the chair, lowered her arm and pulled the little girl against her as if they were already fast friends. The glare of animosity she sent across the room belied her casual posture.

“I can read all the details in the files later, Ms. Heatherington. There’s no need to discuss any of it now.”

Without waiting for a reply, Rachel leaned down and whispered in Samantha’s ear, then stood, holding out her hand. “If you’ll excuse us—we’re going to see my classroom.”

The social worker opened her mouth to object and was silenced by the righteous anger in Rachel’s backward glance.

“I’m going to show Samantha the playground, too. Then she’ll know where everything is when she gets here tomorrow.”

Wisely, Principal Vanbruger shooed them on their way with a wave of his hand and a firm “Fine. Go. I’ll take care of things here.”

Rachel was thankful he had interceded. If she’d been forced to stay in that woman’s presence much longer she was afraid she might have expressed a very un-Christian opinion. That wouldn’t do. It was bad enough to be thinking it in the first place.

Proceeding down the sidewalk to the double doors that would take them to the interior halls of one of the low, nondescript buildings, Rachel kept up a friendly banter.

“It’s not far to my room. Here we are. Look. First you go in these glass doors by the big letter A.” Pointing, she led the way. “Then you find the room with a green door. It’s right here. See the K on it? That stands for Kindergarten. I put a smiley face in the window, too, so all the kids can be sure this is the right place. Can you see that?”

The five-year-old nodded solemnly.

“I like to smile big like that. It makes my whole face happy,” Rachel said as she reached for the doorknob. “Let’s go inside and see where your seat is going to be. I have new crayons and pencils for you, too.” She felt the child’s grip on her hand tighten. “Do you like to draw and color?”

Another nod.

“Good. Me, too.”

Rachel swung the door open and ushered her new student into the colorfully decorated classroom. One whole wall was plastered with letters of the alphabet, arranged amid the flowers and vegetables of a cartoon-like garden. In the foreground, a bunny made of the letter B was nibbling on a carrot that was bent to resemble a C. On the opposite side of the room there was a sink, bookcase and bright blue cabinet with banks of cubbyholes. Red, blue and yellow plastic chairs surrounded four low, round work tables and echoed the same vivid colors.

Above the chalkboard, Rachel had fastened gigantic numbers, one through ten, and a more sedate version of the ABCs. No flat, vertical surface remained undecorated. It had taken days to pin the pictures and cutout letters to the bulletin boards. Judging by the look of amazement and awe on the child’s face, the effort had been well worth it.

“Did you go to preschool?” Rachel asked.

“Uh-uh.”

She talked! Thank You, God! Rachel felt like cheering. Instead, she kept her tone deliberately casual. “That’s okay. We’ll learn our letters and numbers here in my class, together.”

“I’m five,” Samantha said softly.

“I’m a little older than that,” Rachel countered with a grin.

“Teachers are supposed to be old.”

“That’s right. You’re very smart.”

The child beamed. “I know.”

At least she hasn’t lost her sense of self-worth, Rachel mused. That was a big plus. Obviously, someone in Samantha Smith’s past had done a wonderful job of making her feel worthwhile. That confidence would help her adjust to whatever troubles came her way, the loss of her parents being the worst one imaginable. It was hard enough growing up with parents, let alone coping without them.

Except maybe in the case of my own mother. The thought popped into Rachel’s head before she had time to censor it. There were some people who could give advice in a way that made the recipient glad to follow it. Then there was Rachel’s mother, Martha. When Martha Woodward spoke, she acted as if everyone should be thrilled to profit from her superior wisdom. To disagree with her opinions was to invite condemnation. Rachel was, unfortunately, very good at doing that.