April Flash tale #2 - "Repeat"

“Do we have to?”

It’s the same question they asked last year. And the year before that. Wynona and Whitney (not names I would have chosen for them) look at each other and then back at me. They think hunting for Easter eggs is childish. They think I’m overly sentimental, that I want to treat them like they’re still kids, as if they weren’t all grown up.

Right on all counts.

“Sooner you’re dressed up, sooner you can hunt for eggs,” I tell them. And so the twins – just turned twenty-four if you can believe that – get up from the couch and head upstairs.

I don’t follow. I wait. I always wait, just like I wait for them to come back and visit every year. My girls, the only kids I ever fostered, fifteen years ago the social worker dropped them off. They were scared, skinny, pale. They were afraid of the dark, refusing to be separated, and they had seen so much abuse and neglect with their young eyes.

“Miss Joanna,” calls Whitney from the top of the stairs. “These dresses won’t fit.”

I smile. It’s the same comments more or less, same uncertainty, every year. “They will, honey,” I call back. “Just help each other. Be good sisters.”

I don’t need to keep an eye on them. I’ve been having them visit for Easter every year since they left my home, since their aunt and uncle took them in. Nine months those girls were in my house, nine months of catching them up with school, teaching them about routine and discipline, and love. They didn’t know what a bedtime story was until they came here, they’d barely had a homecooked meal. And they had never been dressed up properly, never had the chance to be little princesses.

Nine months. By the time Whitney and Wynona left, it was time for them to go, they were ready to be with their own family. Fostering isn’t forever, I knew that when I signed up.

But I loved those little girls. I cried so hard when I saw their empty bedroom, I thought I might never stop.

I did, of course. But I didn’t stop missing them, worrying about them, wishing I were still part of their lives.

“You’re family now,” their aunt told me on the phone. “We’ll come visit; you can visit them. They still need you.”

She kept her promise, but it wasn’t the same. How could I settle for visits when I had been their mother for all that time? I watched as they grew older, became teenagers, too old for bedtime stories, too old for playing princess, too old to confide in Miss Joanna.

I lost my only children, and I understood all too well that they would never be those innocent, vulnerable, precious little girls again.

Except for one day a year. Because of magic, because of something I can’t, and don’t feel any need to, explain.

I sit on the couch and listen for the changes. High-pitched giggles, squeals of childish excitement. They don’t need my help getting dressed, they’re not babies.

But they do need my help fixing their hair. Wynona comes down first. She has chosen the pink dress, she always does.

It’s a perfect fit. Of course it is, she’s nine years old, and the dress always fits.

“Miss Joanna, can you- “

“Of course, sweetie.” I motion for her to turn around, stand in front of me, and I begin to braid her hair.

“You always know just what I want,” she says. She sounds calm, almost smug. Of course I know. I always know.

Just like I know Whitney will come down in a couple more minutes, looking adorable in her blue dress. She’ll be madder than a puffed toad because she can’t fix the bow on the back, but I’ll soon calm her down. I’ll brush her hair; I’ll fix her bow.

When they both look perfect, I’ll lead them out to the deck, and they’ll see two Easter baskets and they’ll know it’s time to search the back yard for plastic eggs filled with candy.

I’ll wave at them. “Off you go,” I’ll say. I’ll hold up my phone, snap some pictures and video.

And just like last year, like the year before, one of the girls will hesitate. Because there’s two Easter baskets, but they only want one.

“Can we share?” one of them will ask. 

The other will smile and nod, and I’ll say, “Of course you can.” And my eyes will fill with tears, and they’ll ask what’s wrong, and I’ll shake my head. “Nothing. You’re just too sweet, both of you. Sweet sisters.”

I’ll put my arms around them and then I’ll let them go, watch from the deck as they charge down the steps and onto the grass, holding the basket between them and searching for candy. And I let myself enjoy the moment, and I relax into it, watching my girls, and even though it will end, I know that I can look forward to doing it all again next year. 

THE END