The Cinderella List. Judy Baer
day of his birth was still etched into her mind like carving in stone. A protective bond had formed between them that day that couldn’t be broken. Marlo knew she’d do just about anything for her little nephew—especially anything that would make his life simpler and more enjoyable.
She rang the doorbell, opened the door and walked inside knowing that her sister had already been up for hours. The day care she ran opened at 6:00 a.m. for early arrivals.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Jenny called. “You’re just in time to help me cut sugar cookies.”
Marlo kicked off her shoes—Jenny hated dirt on her carpet—and headed toward her sister’s voice. Jenny was at the large island rolling a sheet of cookie dough. Cookie cutters in the shapes of bucking broncos, cowboy hats and a cowboy on a horse littered the area. The sweet aroma of vanilla permeated the kitchen.
“Hey, sis,” Marlo greeted her. “How are you this morning? You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night. The little hamster wheels in there just wouldn’t quit whirling. I kept thinking about my day-care kids and Brady.”
Marlo looked out the door to see Jenny’s day-care brood playing outside in the grass. They were laughing and running with red, blue and green balls, bouncing them off the ground and each other. Several had one hand in the air, swinging it in a circular motion. Brady, meanwhile, sat just outside the French doors to the deck, intently watching the other children.
“Why isn’t Brady playing, too?”
“He’s afraid.” Jenny’s chipper demeanor slipped a little. “He’s okay when everyone is inside and I keep the din down to a dull roar, but the minute the kids go outside, he refuses to join them. It’s progress to get him onto the deck.”
“Why do you think that is?” Marlo asked calmly, suppressing the prick of sadness she felt at her sister’s statement. She picked up a cutter and began to press out cookie shapes and lay them on baking sheets.
“He took a tumble and got a nasty scratch on his elbow last week and he’s refused to have anything to do with the kids when they are running ever since.”
Marlo stared out the window at the back of her small nephew. His slender neck and frail shoulders didn’t look strong enough to hold the beautifully shaped blond head covered with baby-fine curls that always smelled of strawberry-scented shampoo. He appeared as fragile as the hummingbird currently dipping its beak into a nearby feeder. His white-blond hair and porcelain skin gave him the appearance of an otherworldly being, an angel, delicate and easily broken. It was no wonder, Marlo mused, that Jenny didn’t push him to play with the other little rowdies on the grass.
Jenny wiped her hands on a towel and moved to stand by Marlo. “It breaks my heart,” she said softly. “It’s my fault he’s not out there playing with those kids.”
“Don’t be a goose,” Marlo said sternly. Even though she empathized deeply with her sister’s pain, one of them had to remain clear-headed. “Of course it’s not your fault. It’s terribly unfortunate but the fact is that children can be injured in childbirth.” Gently, she reached for her sister’s hand. “No one blames you for Brady’s issues.”
“Well, they should blame me.”
“Oh, Jen…” Marlo had prayed fervently that the unproductive guilt Jenny harbored be removed from her, but it was obviously not happening yet. What made it all the worse was Jenny’s seeming inability to turn what had happened over to God. Instead, she continued to blame herself, never allowing the wound to heal.
“If I hadn’t been so determined to tough out most of his labor at home, they might have known the umbilical cord was twisted and compressed. But no, not me. And look what it did to Brady.”
Brady had been born oxygen deprived—hypoxia, Marlo thought they had called it—and the still, pale infant had been whisked away to a neonatal intensive care unit as soon as he was born. The result had been this beautiful, delicate boy with a lowered IQ, slowed language skills, poor balance and coordination and a marked inability to concentrate. Jenny had never forgiven herself. Marlo wished her sister would focus more on Brady’s precious qualities—his loving personality, his perpetual good cheer, his sensitivity, the traits that made Brady who he was—and less on those other qualities.
“Babies are born in traffic jams, on kitchen tables and, in some countries, right in the fields. Childbirth is a natural process, Jenny, not an illness. How could you have known what was happening?”
“I’m his mother. I should have known.”
Marlo’s own chest tightened when her sister talked like this. “Forgive yourself and go on. God forgives us. If He can do that, then you should, too.” After five years, Jenny still hadn’t let go of her guilt and turned it over to God.
“Give the boy some credit for knowing himself, Jenny. He’s not ready for roughhousing right now. Better he sit on the porch than get hurt.” Marlo ground a cookie cutter hard into the soft dough. She hated sounding unsympathetic, but sometimes it was the only way to snap her sister out of this mood of blame.
“I don’t want him to be a porch-sitter for the rest of his life!” Jenny dug for a tissue in her pocket, turned away and blew her nose.
When she turned back to Marlo, her cheeks were flushed. “You’re right and I know it, sis, but sometimes…”
The damage to Brady’s brain had left him with weak reasoning abilities and powers of logical thinking. Occasionally he was impulsive and unable to absorb the idea of consequences. Sometimes this worked in his favor, other times it did not, such as the time he’d decided to test what his mother meant by “hot” on the stove and came away with a second-degree burn on the palm of his hand. Other times he was abnormally cautious, like today.
His attention span was brief; he cried easily and was susceptible to perceived slights. But there were gifts, as well. Brady was exceedingly sensitive to people’s emotions. More than once, when Marlo was feeling down, he’d given her a perceptive hug and a pat on the arm. “It’s okay, Auntie Marlo,” he’d say. Sensitive Brady could read and identify with another’s hurt or pain, and yet he couldn’t count past five.
“His irrational fears are getting worse,” Jenny continued. “Next, we’ll have an agoraphobic on our hands, as well.”
“Aren’t you the cheerful one today?” Marlo finished laying cookies on the baking sheet and put it into the oven. There was no point pursuing this line of conversation further, so she changed the subject. “I take it that this is cookie decorating day?”
“A cowboy theme. The kids outside are pretending to rope cattle.” Jenny poured Marlo a cup of coffee and pointed to the kitchen table and chairs. “Sit.”
They sat and Jenny stared into her cup a long time before continuing. “We can live with his disabilities, but not with his fear. The doctors say that someday he could hold a job, but not if he’s afraid of every unexpected sound or movement.”
“He’s not six yet. He has time to learn.” Perpetual optimism was another trait Marlo had learned from her aunt Tildy.
Even if she hadn’t believed in Brady—and she did—she would never admit it to Jenny. Sometimes she felt as if she were propping up the entire family, and it was an exhausting endeavor.
“But how? And when?”
Brady, hearing the voices in the kitchen, left his perch on the deck and came inside. His pale, angelic features made Marlo want to scoop him into her arms and ward off the outside world that was so alarming to him. Instead she put out her hand for a high five. “Put ’er there, buddy. Wassup?”
Brady giggled. “You talk funny.”
“Why aren’t you playing with your friends?”
“Too hard.”
“You mean they play too hard?”
He