A Sea of Stars

“Remember, Maya,” says Mum, when we’re doing up our seat belts, “we mustn’t overwhelm Cat with too much information. She’s nervous and a bit shy, which means we need to give her lots of time and space. This is a big day for her, having all of us together – a massive step. We need to be gentle.”

“Let’s keep it simple,” says Dad, turning Bob Dylan down, “then build up slowly to when we bring her home in a few days time.”

“I do know that!” I snap, feeling really annoyed. “You’ve told me a million times before, you don’t have to keep saying it. I’m not stupid!”

My heart is blazing and the damselflies are whirring sick burps up to my throat. I swallow hard to push them down and wish my mum and dad wouldn’t talk to me like I was a stupid five-year-old.

I wanted to feel happy today. I wanted to be excited about getting a sister and now it’s all gone wrong. I turn the little parcel I got her in my hands. It’s wrapped up in silver paper with pink ribbons. It’s hard choosing a present for someone you’ve never met before and I’m scared Cat won’t like it. I glare at Mum and kick the back of her car seat – not hard, but hard enough for her to glare back at me and sigh.

“Maya, sweetheart,” she says, “this is supposed to be an exciting day. Let’s not spoil it with bad tempers.”

She looks at her watch then tells Dad to pull over at the Surf Shack Café.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” she says. “Let’s stop for a quick coffee so we can all calm down.”

I’d like to tell Mum that I’m only all calmed up because she’s treating me like I’m five! I know this is a big deal for Cat, but it’s a big deal for me too. My mum should know that, she’s read enough leaflets on adoption and she’s been to enough meetings and support groups. She’s even got all these friends on Facebook who’ve adopted children too. And I’ve got no one. All my worries just buzz around my brain searching for somewhere to rest. I’ve never met my new sister before, either!

Dad pulls over and parks next to a pale blue and white VW campervan with a stack of surfboards piled on top. I wish I could just grab one from the roof and go surfing. I leave the present in the car and follow Mum and Dad into the Surf Shack Café. When they see us, Rachel and Gus, the owners, give us a huge round of applause. Then everyone else joins in and we’re the centre of attention, which makes the sick in my throat start to burn.

“Big day today, huh?” says Gus. “I think it’s a totally awesome thing you guys are doing.”

“It just feels right,” says Mum, smiling and finding my hand. “Let’s hope we do well by Cat. It’s lovely that she’ll have so many people from the village welcoming her too.”

Then Gus looks at me.

“How’s it for you, Maya?” he says. “You must be so excited to have a sister at last.”

I nod and fake a smile, but I pull my hand away from Mum’s. Gus makes me a hot chocolate with whippy cream and coffees for Mum and Dad. Rachel hands us three big slices of coffee-and-walnut cake.

“On the house,” she says, “Celebration time!”

The Surf Shack is hot and steamy and filled with sunshine. Everyone’s crushed together on long wooden tables, and laughter and chatter spiral up to the ceiling with the smell of coffee and cake and cheesy garlic bread. Dad grabs some high stools and we huddle together at the bar. I sip my chocolate and try to nibble at my slice of cake because it’s my favourite, but it sits in my throat like a stone. I can’t get the idea of Mum and Dad liking Cat more than me out of my brain. It keeps whirring around and around and I know it’s stupid and it’s spoiling things, but I can’t help it.

I go to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. I go really close to the mirror and stare. I trace my finger over my reflection, around my hazel eyes and my lips and nose. I look horrible today. My face is all tight and twitchy and pale. I’m supposed to look happy; I’m supposed to be excited. But what if Cat doesn’t like me? What if Mum and Dad do like her more? What happens to me then? I practise making a cheerful face. I take a big deep breath, fold up all my worries and tuck them deep inside my heart.

“Can we hold hands?” says Mum, when I’m back from the bathroom. “Just for a moment?”

“Muuuuuum,” I say, checking no one’s looking at me. “I’ll look like a total dork!”

“You won’t look like a dork,” says Dad. “You only ever look gorgeous. Listen to your mum, Maya; this is important.”

I know it’s important. This is the last time it’s going to be just the three of us. It’s going to be so different being four. So weird. And a part of me wishes I could just turn the clocks back. Maybe if I tried hard enough I could turn them right back to Alfie and find a way to keep him alive.

We hold hands and I try really, really hard to block everything else out. I try to push away the sick burning in my throat, and the stupid thoughts and the whirring damselflies and tight skipping-rope knot in my tummy. I try to focus. I cross my toes and hope that Anna and Luca or Izzy and Scarlett won’t walk in, because they’ll think I’m a total freak if they see me like this – and a freak is much, much worse than a dork.

“I just want to say thank you,” Mum says, looking at me and then at Dad. “You know… for being my family. For loving me even when I’m all anxious and panicked. For being patient when I’m shut up in my studio making mermaid sculptures for hours.”

Dad doesn’t say anything, but a lump the size of a frog keeps bobbing up and down in his throat. He gazes at us one at a time and gently squeezes our hands. Then his voice croaks open. “I love you, my special girls.”

Tears well up in my eyes and I can’t help it. I forget about Anna and Luca and looking like a dork and I forget about all the crazy thoughts spinning through my brain because I know deep down that none of that really matters. I know that my mum and dad love me.

“Thank you too,” I say. My voice goes squeaky and fat silver tears spill over and leave snail trails on my cheeks. A huge wave of love pulls through me. “You’re the bestest parents in the world, even though you worry about me way too much. I love you. And I’m glad that when I was a tiny star I chose you to be my mum and dad.”

Mum’s cheeks flush pink and Dad can’t stop smiling through his tears. And I want to smile and cry too because I mean what I say. But there’s this earthquake rumbling beneath me, this empty place growing bigger inside.

“Dad,” I say, “do you think adopted children pick out their birth family and their new family when they’re just tiny stars in the sky? Do you think they know deep down what’s going to happen to them?” And I can’t help adding, “Do you think Alfie knew he was going to die?”

“I’d like to believe that’s the case, sweetheart,” he says, “but no one really knows, not absolutely for sure.”

We drift like clouds into our own private thoughts and I stare at my slab of coffee-and-walnut cake. I hope Dad is right. Because then somehow dying or getting adopted wouldn’t seem so bad. Somehow, whatever’s going to happen to me wouldn’t worry me so much because it was all meant to be.

I just wish someone would tell me if it actually is true or not, or that I could zoom up to the stars and ask them, or up to heaven and ask Alfie.

We drive into the city and when we arrive at Cat’s foster home, 14 Navy Way, my legs turn to jelly. Dad knocks at the door and a kind-looking lady with a very big bottom, soft green eyes and three little kids clinging to her legs appears.

“Hello,” she smiles. She looks at me. “I’m Tania and you must be Maya. Lovely to meet you.” She bustles us all down the sunny hallway. “Come on, come on in.”

Then we get to this other door. It’s painted white and has little black chip marks and sticky grey fingerprints all over it. Tania stops at the door then looks at me and smiles.

“Ready?” she says.

My tummy starts flipping and twisting and knotting because I know that Cat is on the other side of the door. I cling to Mum’s hand. My knees are virtually knocking against each other and I wish Alfie were here too. Tania opens the door and a girl on the sofa with beetle-black hair and cherry red lips half stands up then sits back down. She makes a little wave at Mum and Dad and then starts twiddling her fingers, keeping her eyes stuck fast to the floor.

“Here she is,” says Tania. “Come in and say hello.”

We shuffle in and sit down. My heart is drumming in my ears so loud all the other sounds disappear.

“Hello, Cat,” says Mum. “This is Maya.” Her eyes start brimming over with tears. “And, Maya, this is Cat.”

Cat flicks her eyes up to me then sticks them back on the carpet, like the pattern is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. She keeps twiddling and twiddling. Mum sits down next to her on the faded green sofa and gently shuffles a little bit closer.

“Hi,” mumbles Cat.

“Hi,” I say, my voice cracking open.

And then my legs wobble and I stare at the carpet too. I’m feeling so dizzy that the pattern starts swirling around, making me feel sick again. I don’t know what to do. I should say something friendly or serious because this is a really serious moment in my life. This is my sister. My sister!

I’ve waited for her forever and here she is in front of me and I’m just standing here like a dummy. I take a breath and try to say something, but my mouth’s gone dry and my tongue keeps sticking to my teeth. The words in my head start fluttering around like snow in a snow-dome, whirling in the wind and I can’t sweep them up together to make any sense. They keep bundling and sticking in my throat like damp litter. I’d like to hold on to Mum’s hand, or Dad’s, but I’m frozen to the spot. I’m scared, if I move, the coffee-and-walnut cake will come back up and make big mess on Tania’s carpet.

Meeting your new sister for the first time isn’t something you can prepare yourself for. It’s not something you can read about in a book or have a lesson on at school. I thought today would feel really special, like when people bring a new baby home from the hospital, bundled up in a blanket.

Tania coughs. “How about some tea?” she says.

Cat glares at her.

“There’s no reason to wait around,” she says. “I’ve been in this dump long enough.”

Tania sighs and wipes a smile across her face. Then the silence looms again and all we can hear are breathing noises and Mum dabbing a tissue at her stupid quiet tears of joy.