Page 2 of Stat: Love In Scrubs
“I pressed my palm against the cool window glass. ‘I hope I’m making you proud, Mom. Little Angels is for you.’ The words fogged the glass—proof I was here, breathing, fighting for kids like me. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but tonight belonged to memory, wine, and the family built from broken pieces.
Welcometo Little Angels Academy
The weekend had come and gone so quickly, but I was beyond excited to get back to work. Little Angels Academy was a labor of love. I didn’t even consider this place my job. Every day when I walked through those double doors, my heart fluttered.
We built Little Angels Academy in my mother’s honor, but it was more than that. Kids’ laughter ricocheted down the hallway, mixing with the smell of crayons and disinfectant. Someone was always singing off-key in music class. It was chaos, but it was ours. When I was younger, I always felt left out amongst other kids. I would hear them talk about all the things they would do with their moms, yet I didn’t have those interactions. At least, not until I was older and Maria came into my life, but the voidwas still there, even with all the work my father did to make me feel as if I wasn’t missing out.
This place had created a safe space for kids who lost their mothers, either during or after childbirth. We ensured that we had doctors, therapists, and motherly figures on staff to help advance their development. This place was funded by the lawsuit that my father won against the hospital where I was born. It wasn’t here in Silverrun, but it wasn’t too far.
The doctors openly ignored my mother’s concerns, and so did the nurses. My mother had every symptom that would require them to take a second look, but they didn’t. If only they had done their jobs, my mom would be here today.
I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the feelings that came over me at the thought. My father had reiterated to me countless times that we couldn’t change the way things happened. Even though I knew what he was saying was true, it never changed the pain I felt because of her loss.
We ended up with a nice enough settlement that allowed us to build this place once I graduated from college. My father never spent the money he won in the lawsuit. The way he told it, he couldn’t because it didn’t feel right. To him, it felt like he was accepting money in exchange for her life, and if he was given the choice, he’d give it all back for her.
The feeling was mutual. When I became old enough, he told me about the money and how we got it, but using it for anything material-wise just didn’t feel right. It was how we came up with this place. The majority of the money went into the build and the salaries of the people who were a part of this. We didn’t believe in charging the parents more than what would go toward the development of their children.
Sometimes, when one of the kids slipped and called me “Mama Yara,” it broke me and healed me all at once. I never corrected them. Maybe because part of me knew what it felt liketo crave that presence so badly you’d give the name to anybody who filled the void for a second.
Unfortunately, now, our well was running dry. The spreadsheet on my desk this morning revealed the harsh truth in black and red—we had perhaps six months before difficult decisions would have to be made. When I first reviewed all the money we had available, I realized the mission was much larger than what our account could sustain. It was what motivated me to take action and find sponsors for our cause.
I brushed my hands up the sides of my ponytail to make sure my curls were still neat, then walked into one of my favorite classes, the arts and crafts class. The kids were making pictures to give to a loved one back home. We always reminded them that the parent they still had was doing their best, and we needed to show appreciation where we could.
“Ms. Sinclair!” the kids shouted, hopping out of their seats.
I wasn’t your usual founder who gave money or just ran the academy. I was very hands-on. I made it my business to know each kid personally and by name. I knew who their parents were and what they were dealing with. I wanted them to be excited about being a part of the family we built.
The school housed over a hundred kids. All races and ages were allowed. Most of the teenagers were volunteers in the afternoon. We made sure they also had access to the therapist on board, especially our girls. Coming into your hormones and period with a dad wasn’t for the weak, especially if said father wasn’t as comfortable with handling those things.
I created the place I wished was available to me as a kid.
“Hi, guys. Don’t stop drawing on my account. I want to see those pretty pictures,” I told them.
They nodded enthusiastically. I walked around the room, making sure to speak to each of them, until I came upon Esa. She was a pretty little girl with the prettiest, thickest, and longesthair, and deep mahogany-colored skin. She was one of my favorites. She was usually quiet and stayed to herself. Although most of the kids wanted to be her friend, she wasn’t the type to enjoy being the center of attention.
I think it was one of the reasons I did all I could to show her a little more love. She needed it. When I was a little girl, I was just the same. From what I learned from her grandparents, her father was a doctor who worked often. I figured that because I couldn’t recall a time when I had come across him during pickups, but her grandparents were some of the warmest people I had ever met. She was lucky in that department.
I squatted down beside her chair and smiled over at her. She glanced in my direction with a smile but quickly looked away. Her cheeks had reddened, letting me know she was happy to see me but still shy. I glanced down at her picture, which was stunning for a young girl. I could see it already. She definitely had the skill of an artist. I hoped her father nourished that part of her.
“Hi, Esa-Bella, mella,” I said dramatically, causing her to giggle.
“Hi, Ms. Sinclair,” she responded in a low voice, then brushed her hair behind her ear. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, the way it always was when she was trying not to draw too much attention to herself.
I tapped my finger against the picture in front of her.
“This is so beautiful. I might need you to make one for me! Your dad is going to be so happy when he sees it.”
She puckered her lips up to hold back her smile and not show any teeth. I giggled, causing that pretty smile of hers to peek through. She lifted the picture to show the other two she had created, one for her grandparents and then another for me.
My hand went to my mouth in shock as I looked over the woman with hair like mine in a wrap dress and a baseball cap.I laughed at the addition of the baseball cap. I had only worn it once around the kids, and yet, she made sure to add it here.
“This is so beautiful, sweetheart. Can I hug you?” I asked.
I made it a habit for all staff and me to ask for permission before touching or hugging any student. I wanted them to have control over the things they could. Although the right to touch may seem like a simple thing, it was a significant boundary that even children were entitled to.
She nodded and pushed her chair back away from the table. I opened my arms and allowed her to walk into them. I held her only for a moment and then released her. She sat back down, then picked up the picture and handed it over to me.
“I’m going to put this up in my office. It’s so special.”
