The child was born precisely at midnight, just as the digital clock in the delivery room flashed green and clicked over from 23:59 to 00:00. The doctor and midwife glanced at each other, while the on-duty paediatrician hurriedly scooped up the limp, bluish little body and, laying it quickly on the changing table, reached for the suction pump. The baby wasnt breathing. The mother, barely turning her head, watched the doctor’s actions with a distant lack of interest.
Is he dead, then? Hes not crying… her thoughts circled, still clouded by the aftermath of overwhelming pain. At last, the newborn let out a weak, barely audible squeak, which slowly gathered strength and soon swelled into a loud, ringing cry that echoed along the hushed corridors of the maternity ward in the dead of night. The doctor, midwife, and paediatrician stood quietly around the baby, studying him with intense focus.
He was an unusual child. His spine, up to his shoulder blades, bent in such a way that it formed two almost symmetrical, elongated humps running nearly to the middle of his chest.
How can this be? the astonished paediatrician kept repeating. In all my years, I have never, never seen anything like this… Its just not possible… Simply not possible…
The following morning, when Dr. Fletcher came to see Anna, he tried to explain her newborn sons condition. Anna curled her lovely lips in disgust. So hes a freak as well… Just my luck. No, I dont want him. Do whatever you like with him. I didnt want a healthy one, never mind this… She reached for the paperwork to sign him over without a second glance. When the time came, Anna left the hospital as if a weight had been lifted, care-free and unburdened, while her son stayed behind, knowing nothing of the betrayal by his own mother.
At the childrens home, the staff called him little Billy. Yes, Billy, and nothing else. The carers dressed him in oversized shirts so that his deformity wouldnt be quite so obvious to others.
But even if his body had been perfect, he still would have stood apart from the othersthose squabbling, crying, ever-competing children. There was a curious seriousness in his blue eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, that spoke of something far beyond his years.
He often stood by a window, listening intently to something within himself, straining painfully to catch and understand something he couldnt yet quite hear or explain.
One day, as a row of two-year-olds in the homes care tripped and tumbled along the corridor en route to some activity, Billy heard it. From behind a cracked-open office door, music drifted out. It wasnt the familiar childrens songs they marched to in nursery class, swinging thin little arms and struggling to lift unsteady feet. No, it was like windwarm, gentle wind that could lift you up and carry you, rocking and comforting.
There were no words in the music, but there was something alive in ita soul, which wrapped around Billy and seemed to tell him secrets meant for no one but him.
He stopped in the middle of the corridor, causing a minor commotion in the carefully arranged line, and began to sway along to the music, oblivious to the other children colliding into him and the puzzled efforts of the carers to move him along.
In that moment, everything in his small head snapped into place. The sounds hed always strained to catch above the chaos, the wind outside, the humming pipes in the washroomthis was it. His Music.
Miles and Emma had visited childrens homes all over the county. Emmas congenital condition meant she couldnt have children, and so theyd decided to adopt. Theyd completed parenting courses, assembled the paperwork, but now they faced that impossible decision: how do you choose your child? With birth you dont choose, you simply love, but now… among so many children starved of affection, they had yet to find their own.
Hand in hand, they stood at the fence of the home. Children played in the sandpit, little girls pushed dolls in prams, the playground alive with laughter and shouting. Only one boy stood quietly, swamped in a jumper far too big for him, listening intently to the warble of a sparrow perched on a branch. Just then, Emmas phone rangMozart. She loved classical music. The boy visibly started, his eyes lighting up like spotlights as he began to sway gently, perfectly keeping time with the music. Emma and Miles stood still, oblivious to the ringing phone, watching the transformation take place.
They had seen THEIR son. The soul that shone clearly in his eyes.
Yes, I know hes ill, disabled… Emma patiently answered the managers repeated suggestions to choose another, healthy child. But you dont pick children. You just love them. And I will take him. No matter what it takes.
Mum? Billy asked one day, as he stepped away from the piano and put his head in Emmas lap. Why am I like this? Why am I different?
Emma stroked his twisted back tenderly. You see, darling, were all different, inside and outme, you, Dad… As for your back, remember what I told you? Its where your wings are. Like an angel, your wings just havent opened yetbut they will, they will, I promise…
She hugged him close and kissed his warm hair, then sat beside him at the piano. Together they played, Billys hands flying over the keys in a way even grown, serious musicians sometimes struggle to match.
And, its true, his wings did unfurl behind himbut only Mum, Dad, and Billys guardian angel, smiling quietly behind him, were able to see them. And all the while, music flowed and flowed, carrying happy little Billy on its waves.
