Rosie

Rosie

Angels in song and prayer watch over the small patch of earth under which she lies. In meditation, I could not help but compare the broken wing on the concrete angel to the broken child that lay below. Three angels for one little girl; one has a broken wing, and, the script says simply, “Rosie.” We knew nothing about her when she appeared on the corner of the city street barefoot and barely dressed. We know nothing about her now except that from the beginning, she too was broken; as broken and imperfect as my grief as I stand here on the anniversary of her death.

Rosie, her angelic face, suddenly and completely captivated my attention that first day at Children’s Services. The dark curls framing a heart-shaped face, dominated by crystallized ginger eyes graced by long, lush lashes, perfectly proportioned lips under a small, slightly turned-up nose. A most beautiful child; her expression hopeful as she stared unwaveringly into my eyes. How had this small refugee from who knows where ended up standing alone on a busy street corner in Los Angeles? There was no answer; fingerprints and DNA even when submitted to a professional ancestral matching process, offered not a clue, and. the child’s only response to questions was her name —Rosie. The labels had been roughly cut out of the torn yellow tights and ruffled blue shirt she wore that Wednesday in May when they found her there, barefoot on the sidewalk.

I reached out, and she slid her own small hand into mine, a perfect fit as we left together; Jane and Rosie, foster mom and daughter. They estimated her age to be five, and she appeared to be in good health, but those were the only knowns. She didn’t speak, other than her name, and didn’t seem to know what to do about the shoes on her feet; she would remove and put them back on relentlessly each and every time she sat down. She enjoyed baths, especially bubble baths, and would slip down the back of the tub and under the water until I, thoroughly frightened, would pull her up again. She ate anything without complaint except fish, but, like all children, loved ice cream best of all—Cherry. She loved being by water and we would picnic by the creek in back of the house for lunch often. After finding her quietly playing too close to the water, I had to stress that she was not allowed there alone. We attended several group play dates via Children’s Services but after only a few minutes the playmates would avoid Rosie, and, she would sit on the sideline and stare at them. It was as if she had never associated with other children.

I would read to her, and she listened intently, staring at my face rather than at the pictures in the books, enjoying my expressions more than the story. She would hold and stare at my hands, fitting her fingers in between mine. It was during one of these occasions that the first indication of trouble began. With her fingers between my own, she suddenly bent her hand forward with amazing force, bending my own fingers and wrist backwards until blinding pain shot through my hand and up my arm. I shouted, “Rosie, no,” but she simply lifted both corners of that beautiful mouth into a smile and kept up the pressure until I was off the bed and onto my knees. Three broken fingers later, I understood that the pain of others was not something she responded to. If I tried to explain pain and harm, she just ignored me lead me away to watch TV. She smiles at any display of power or strength fostered on another person or creature.

Despite months of counseling the problems became serious and I became fearful. One by one, all living things in the house that demanded my attention disappeared. The fish missing from their bowl was blamed on Sneezy the calico cat, who, in turn, didn’t come home one night. A few weeks later, Rex, the Cocker Spaniel, got caught in the doggie door and broke his neck. The next week, the parakeet Spooky flew the coop. My best friend Carol tripped over Rosie’s foot, fell, and struck her head on the edge of the coffee table and Rosie laughed out loud when I jumped to help. That was the very first time I had heard Rosie laugh. When I tried to explain my growing fear to the therapist at Children’s Services, he implied that perhaps I was exaggerating coincidences, and, that she could really be considered a “feral child”, who must have been kept in isolation. Rosie never indulged in unpleasant behavior in their presence; a perfect angel. The administrators, when informed that I believed Rosie should be placed in an in-house program, urged me to hold on as they were close to a permanent placement with adoptive parents. I tried to explain, out of the child’s presence, that in my opinion Rosie was not adoptable. This went unheard. Unheard by all but Rosie, who somehow became aware of my efforts and was amused. No more smiles, no more stories. She offered only a speculative stare when I attempted to communicate.

It was storming the night I found Rosie wading the creek. She was naked and barefoot, dark hair wet and hanging down her back. She looked at me and smiled as a bolt of lightning hit no more than a yard from where she was standing. Unafraid, she ran through the water, slipped, fell and went under. Panicked, I started after her running alongside the creek as the storm increased in fury, and, the current drew her out and away towards the river but I couldn’t keep up.

They searched for days before her body was found. Still never identified, the small girl was buried. I myself designed the stone, marked simply ” Rosie,” that was placed over her grave. A broken Angel for a broken child.