Priceless Gift

“Honey, it’s not the end of the world,” the lady says to me, ushering me into the brick building that was to be my new residence for the next who-knows-how-many years. Of course it wasn’t the end. To her, at least. She wasn’t the one alone, without a job, with no real home to call her own. To her, I’m just one of a hundred. A thousand. In fact, her eyes were already shifting past me, toward the next miserable child in line waiting to enter the orphanage.

Another lady inside the building takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Mine is half-frozen from the bitter wintry frost. She leads me up the stairs while clucking in disapproval at my ragged shirt and torn, dusty khakis. “Third floor, second door to the right.” I slowly shuffle up, grabbing a copy of the daily newspaper from the rickety newsstand on my way.

It was actually last week’s newspaper. December 17, 1931. It contained the news I was already familiar with- thousands of poverty-stricken children wandering the streets in search of jobs, food, anything.

I knew, because I am one of them.

About a week ago, seeking the surge of adrenaline that comes with running away from my old life, I packed my few belongings and headed away from home, toward the train station. There was nothing, and yet everything, to say goodbye to.

As a child, I had never known the benefits of caring parents. Addicted to marijuana to escape the reality of living in a slum, they had always neglected my well-being, as much as they tried not to.

When the bills came with only a dollar in their pockets, I knew my penurious family could no longer support me. The beckoning hand of freedom finally convinced me to leave without hesitation, promising myself a life where I would be the driver.

I had originally planned to jump on board a passing freight train north to get a job in a factory. Maybe if I could earn enough to sustain myself, I could send some money back to my parents. I knew the chances were low, but at least I now had a purpose.

Stumbling over the cobblestones around the block, I eyed the streets lined with people, men, women, and children alike, huddling along the sidewalk in clothes just as tattered as mine. The temperature was below freezing. Legs numb with cold, I tripped over a crack and fell, skinning my knees like a baby. Also like a baby, I wanted to lie there and cry until someone picked me up, hugged me in their arms and told me everything was going to be all right.

To my astonishment, someone did help me up. I looked up into the eyes of a middle-aged man, eyes with the kind of crinkles around them suggestive of past laughter, but set in a face full of the weariness of someone who has no doubt fallen on hard times.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Ellie,” I whispered.

“And your age?”

“Twelve.”

He nodded, handed me a small slice of bread, and patted me on the shoulder. “You have to be strong. See that brick building over there? It’s St. Mary’s Orphan Home, for kids just like you. In this condition, it’s safest to go there.”

As if he knew my whole story. For some odd reason, I trusted him. I turned and ran.

And ended up here.

The memory of the man with the bread still fresh in my mind, I rounded the last bend on the staircase. My footsteps echoed loudly, as if mocking my despondence.

By the time I reached the correct room, my vision started blurring and a pounding headache split through me. I collapsed near a wall in exhaustion, and through my haze I could make out the dejected expression of every other child present.

Only then did I notice the chills that rocked my body. Through my feverish state, I noticed someone – I couldn’t tell who – pick me up and put me into a cot. From a subdued conversation between two adults, I could make out the words “cold” and “pneumonia.”

Pneumonia? So now I was on my own, a runaway, starving, and on top of that, ill. I began to question the trust I had for that man whom I didn’t even know. Why did I come here? To what avail would staying here give me? Right then I could remember with stinging acuity my whole dark childhood; I never had the money to buy a piece of cake from the bakery, nor did I ever wear any brand-new clothes, nor did I even have a book to pass the time. Who was I to believe that my life would change for the better at an orphanage?

Then I sank into unconsciousness.

***

When I woke up, the light looked different. Instead of the dull gray that cloaked the atmosphere before, the room was tinged yellow. Was the sun shining?

I wanted to lift my head and assess my surroundings, but a cold draft of air shook my body with shivers and warned against it. I heard a rustle to my left, though, and hoarsely called out a greeting.

“Hi,” a girl answered back. “I’m Marilyn. I haven’t had company in a long time. Are you sick too?”

“Yes, I think I have pneumonia. My whole body aches. I’m Ellie.”

“That’s never fun,” she soothed.

“Hey, you sit next to the window, right? I’m probably going to be cooped up here for at least a week. Would you mind telling me what’s outside?”

I could sense her hesitation, however. “Uh, well you see…” she sputtered.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” I backtracked. “I just wanted some entertainment, that’s all.”

“Well I would love to, but….” Marilyn seemed to change her mind then, for she quickly agreed, “Of course I’ll tell you what’s happening outside!”

So for the next seven days Marilyn described to me in detail everything she could see outside her window. She said a church was across the street, and on Sunday the wealthier ladies wore lovely pink coats over their dresses. They left footprints in the snow with their brown boots.

She witnessed a young man helping an elderly neighbor across the street, taking care not to slip on the icy road.

There was a vendor set up right outside selling fresh, hot chowder. The server even gave several children a free bowl each. Marilyn described their screams of delight.

She recounted two siblings training their dog to perform circus tricks to earn money. The dog attempted to catch snowballs, and comically ended up bumping into a horse-drawn carriage, which was making its rounds around the city.

She vividly illustrated the perfect, intricate design of a snowflake that had floated onto the windowsill.

An old couple sitting in front of a fireplace inside their home.

The newspaper boy on his bicycle.

Birds building a nest in a nearby oak tree.

From Marilyn’s vivid descriptions alone, one could never have known it was during the middle of a depression. Her stories brought me a kind of joy that I had never experienced before in my life.

However, a week passed, and one of the orphanage leaders came in to notify us that Marilyn would be transferring to another orphanage, one that would better suit her needs. Puzzled, I didn’t understand what that meant at the time.

Soon after, I recovered from pneumonia, and the first thing I did upon getting out of bed was to look outside the window of which I had heard so many amazing stories.

Only to see that there was absolutely nothing outside: no churches, no fireplaces, and no dogs. I could only see the gray wall of the building next door. It couldn’t even be considered a window.

I shook my head, thinking I must be hallucinating. When it appeared clear, however, that I could see perfectly normally, my reaction turned into one of fury. Unexpected tears welled up in my eyes as I recalled the very scenes that had made me laugh just a few days earlier. I should have known it wasn’t real. Marilyn had lied to me, and I had allowed myself to indulge in something too good to be true.

A nurse walked by with my tray of porridge.

“Where’s Marilyn?” I asked.

“Marilyn? She transferred to another place. It’s better for her there.”

I narrowed my eyes, wondering why they kept saying that. “But why?”

“You were with her this past week. Didn’t you know? She’s blind.” The nurse left my tray on the table and left the room, leaving me alone to ponder.

If she’s blind, why would she deliberately claim she saw all those heartwarming scenes outside the window?

It hit me like a thunderstorm. Perhaps she had wanted to give me hope.

Hope. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be positive. All the puzzle pieces finally made sense: my uncanny trust in the man with the bread and Marilyn’s hesitation when I asked her to look outside the window for me…. In the depths of a depression, Marilyn had given me the greatest gift of all. In that moment of retrospect, I had finally found my light within the darkness I had grown so accustomed to my whole life.

Tomorrow would be New Year’s Day. A magical introduction to a new beginning.