Page 171 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
‘It’s simple. You hold them, rock them, love them, and tell them how great they are. I nurse them through their inherited addiction. Then, when they’re healthy – and many, many do get healthy – you go out and find them an amazing family. I personally make sure each one is a good fit.’ Clara stiffened, and looked proud. ‘I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve turned people down if I thought that they couldn’t provide a good enough environment for the child. So’ – she exhaled – ‘that’s my story.’ She pottered over and joined me on the leather sofa. ‘What’s yours, Atlas Tanit?’
I gave Clara a brief outline of my life, focusing on how I had become the adoptive father of my five wonderful daughters. I also mentioned my brief trip to New York in the forties, and my encounter with Cecily Huntley-Morgan... who I was sure the business card had once belonged to.
‘Cecily... was she black?’ Clara asked.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘She was a white Englishwoman.’
Clara looked surprised. ‘It would have been quite a thing for a young white woman to come to Harlem to support black rights in the forties. I only ask as the natural assumption is that the little girl who was left on our doorstep a few days ago is a descendant of this woman you met.’
I gave a confirming nod. ‘It would be the logical explanation.’
‘Maybe one of her kids fell in love with a black man and someone in her family didn’t like it. Who knows. In any case, is there any way you can contact her?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid not. I had my lawyer investigate the possibility but... she died of malaria in 1969.’
‘Huh,’ Clara said, pondering the situation. ‘Did you find out if she had any children?’
‘The thing is,’ I continued, ‘Cecilydidhave a daughter. She told me when we had lunch all those years ago... but she was never registered under her own name. From memory, she had taken in the abandoned baby of a Kenyan woman. Legally, the child belonged to someone else, so it isn’t possible to trace her.’
Clara began to fiddle with her hair as she took in the details. ‘So.’ She looked at me with her shrewd brown eyes. ‘What next?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, what do you wish to do about the child who was left on my doorstep, Mr Tanit?’
‘Oh.’ There was an uncomfortable silence.
Clara slapped a hand across her knee and gave me a grin. ‘Oh, come on! Are you seriously telling me that you get a call, drop everything and fly halfway across the world just to satisfy some curiosity about a business card?’
Clara’s burst of energy rendered me speechless. ‘I...’
She shuffled closer to me. ‘You’ve spoken about these five beautiful adopted daughters, all of whom seem to have arrived in your life through mysterious happenstance. So, when you get a call about a newborn baby girl who has your details from thirty years ago attached to her basket, are you seriously telling me that you’re not here to take her home?’ She raised her eyebrows at me.
‘I hadn’t really—’
She gave me a friendly shove on my shoulder. ‘Of course you have, Atlas! May I call you Atlas?’ I nodded fervently. ‘There’s no need to act coy or shy about it. Not with me. Not with what I do.’
‘I suppose that... yes, I have contemplated that the universe is trying to tell me something.’
‘Maybe it is, honey. And just so you know, I would havedone exactly the same thing. Thirty years that business card of yours has survived somehow. Isn’t that incredible? Cecily thought,I’ll keep this thing, in case one day I need it. And guess what? One day she did... I think we’d better go and meet this baby.’
I followed Mother Hale up the stairs of the brownstone, which she took carefully but purposefully. As we climbed higher, a sound of crying became louder. When we reached the third floor, Clara turned to me, looking a little grim. ‘You might need to brace yourself. This part can be tricky for first-timers.’ She led me into a room populated by about a dozen very young babies in cribs, some of whom were being tended to by women in smocks.
‘They all seem so distressed.’
‘That, my dear, is because they are. These are the babies we think have been born addicted to drugs. It’s heartbreaking.’
The children seemed to howl and screech. It was a sound that came from their very core, and it distressed me greatly. ‘Their crying... I can’t explain it. It’s different to what I’m used to.’
Clara met my eye. ‘I know. As difficult as it is to comprehend, they’re begging for a hit of whatever it was their momma was taking.’ I shuddered.
Clara led me past one baby who trembled in her crib. The entirety of her tiny body was physically shaking, and her little limbs flinched and jerked violently. ‘Is she all right, Clara?’ I asked nervously.
Mother Hale took her glasses from her pocket and peered into the cot. ‘There now, child.’ She reached her hand into the crib and gently stroked the baby’s hair. ‘You stay strong now, my girl, you stay strong.’ She gently tucked the baby’s arms back into the swaddling cloth, and tightened it up. ‘Babies suffering from withdrawal are naturally irritable. Wetry to wrap them up all snuggly to help.’ She moved her hand to the baby’s neck to feel her pulse. She waited for a moment before nodding at me. ‘She’ll be okay. These are the hardest times for them. Hilary?’ Clara addressed one of the women in smocks, who was rocking a baby with a particularly high-pitched wail. ‘How are Simeon’s seizures?’
‘Not a single one today, Mother Hale,’ Hilary replied.
Her face broke out into a broad smile. ‘Now thatisgood news. And Cynthia?’ Clara addressed another woman, who was looking into a different crib. ‘Has Grace managed to keep the food down?’
