Ana's Home

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Then came the azure flowers dotting the golden grass, springing up lushly around the brook of palest green. A few coral birds were added to wing gracefully over the meadow.

Ana rocked back on her heels to survey the scene. For a long moment she gazed with satisfaction, then nodded and reached again for the crayon box.

As with every night, her final touch was to color a black sun in the upper right corner, with thick radiating rays raining down through the purple clouds, over the birds, onto the grass and flowers and flowing chartreuse waters.

Ana lay her small hand on the black sun. Her lips began to move soundlessly.

“There you are!” Auntie Julia hustled into the art room of the Laredo Girls’ Home. She ducked her head to peer under the drawing table, where Ana knelt over her picture. “It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing in here, little one?”

Julia scooped Ana from under the table. Ana bent double over her arms, reaching for her paper. Julia retrieved the drawing and studied it by the dim light of the hallway filtering into the art room.

“What a colorful picture …” she began, her voice trailing off at the sight of that lightless, piercing sun. She looked curiously and with a touch of anxiety at Ana. “Do you want to tell me about your drawing?”

Ana silently clutched the paper to her chest and stared at Julia with her unsettling eyes, long-lashed and large in her petite face.

Julia sighed. “No, of course not,” she said, as much to herself as to Ana. She smoothed Ana’s brown hair. “I know you aren’t a talker. That’s okay, sweetheart. There’s a right time for everything. You’ll talk when it’s the right time, for you.”

She took Ana firmly by the hand that was not holding the paper. “And now, it’s the right time for little girls to be in bed. You must be so sleepy.”

Ana dutifully walked beside Auntie Julia back to the dormitory and allowed herself to be tucked into her bunk. But she did not close her eyes.

In the morning, Julia —the youngest and newest staff Auntie in the Girls’ Home, filling an opening by terrible necessity after the pandemic struck—reported the incident to the head caregiver. Marabella, or Mama Bella as the children called her, chuckled and shook her head.

“That’s our Ana. Your first turn with the overnight shift, right? You’ll see. Like clockwork, just before midnight, she slips out to draw.”

Julia’s brow furrowed. “Haven’t staff tried to stop her?”

“At first, yes. But she’s a determined one, that Ana. She hides paper and crayons in her bedding. If we keep her from the art room, she’ll draw in the bathroom, under the bed, or even under the covers. She always lays back in bed when she’s done. She’s so quiet, most of the time the night staff sleep right through it. I think it would be more distressing to her if we didn’t let her draw.”

Julia pondered. “She doesn’t talk. She draws at midnight. Anything else I should know?”

“She never smiles. Don’t take it personally.” Mama Bella lay her plump hand on Julia’s shoulder. “I’ve been working at the Home for over forty years. Every child comes with their own trauma, their own secrets. As long as she isn’t harming herself or others, let her do what she needs to do.”

The day bustled for Julia and the other staff caring for the thirteen girls in the Elementary wing, housing ages 5-11. Food was served, medications dispensed, messes cleaned, lessons taught, fights averted, tantrums calmed, fears appeased. Since the lockdown, the children’s anxieties—always close to the surface—had erupted with greater frequency and pyrotechnics. Through it all Julia tried to keep an extra eye on Ana.

Since it was summer break, with no option for trips to the park or the pool, the Aunties filled the schedule with arts and crafts. This was the only activity Ana joined in willingly. The rest of the time, Julia noted, Ana sat passively, watching. She was not oppositional, like some of the other children. She did the minimum that was required of her, never drawing attention or causing trouble. She just … faded into the background. Like an art print left in the sun too long.

After lunch, Auntie Esther and Auntie Julia led the girls in making tissue paper flowers outside in the shaded patio. Everyone dreaded the coming of the stifling heat that would keep them all trapped inside, but this was a pleasant day, not too hot for June. Mimi cried because her flower turned out lopsided. Dolores slowly ripped her tissue paper into small bits. Ana sorted through the stack to find the blue paper, but Sarina—ever the bully—grabbed it out of her hand.

“Aunties, Sarina stole Ana’s paper!” Marta—ever the tattler—called out.

Julia held her breath to see what Ana would do. She didn’t make a sound, or even change expression. She simply set her hands in her lap and stared at Sarina with those dark, uncanny eyes.

Sarina seemed to take no notice at first, exulting in her stolen blue treasure. But she kept glancing in Ana’s direction. Ana kept staring.

The bigger girl began fidgeting uncomfortably. Finally, she wadded up the blue sheet and threw it at Ana. “Here, take it back, you dummy!”

Ana made no move to collect the wad after it bounced off her chest. She just kept staring. Now all the girls were watching.

Sarina again tried unsuccessfully to ignore her. Finally she slammed her hand down in exasperated defeat. She picked up another sheet of blue tissue and gingerly set it before Ana, who remained motionless.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Sarina offered with as much meekness as she could muster.

Ana, satisfied, released Sarina from her gaze. She picked up the blue sheet and began methodically folding it into a flower.

“What are you staring at, estúpido?” Sarina snarled at Mimi, snatching her lopsided pink flower and tearing it in half.

Mimi howled. Auntie Esther escorted Sarina from the patio while Auntie Julia helped Mimi make a new, more symmetrical flower. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Ana, calmly starting on her second blue paper blossom, self-contained in her own world.

After the children settled into their afternoon rest period, Julia stepped into the office and pulled Ana’s file. She had been at the Girls' Home since December. She had simply been found on the doorstep one morning, with no note and no belongings. Julia shook her head. What heartless person would abandon their child a few days before Christmas? The Home was a designated Safe Haven for relinquished children, but she knew this generally applied to infants, not seven year olds.

Julia scanned Ana’s intake form. Nonverbal. Able to comprehend speech, read, and write, but does not voluntarily communicate. Avoids social interaction.

Then something else in the notes caught Julia’s attention. No fingerprints.

Before she had time to digest this, the sound of a thump followed by a wail told her that rest period was over. She hurried back to the dormitory.

That night, after tucking all the girls into bed, Julia set her own alarm for 11:45pm. She listened for the soft pad of feet down the hallway. She crept out of the staff bedroom and peered around the art room door that Ana had left ajar.

Ana sat motionless on the floor in her star-print pajamas, with a blank sheet of paper and crayon box before her. The numbers on Julia’s watch clicked to 12:00.

At that moment—how Ana knew, Julia couldn’t guess, since there was no clock in the art room—Ana reached for the pink crayon. With broad sweeps she began covering the top half of the paper. She exchanged the pink for purple. In gauzy puffs Ana’s clouds swirled across the sky. Next she pulled out the blue crayon and drew a field of flowers, delicate as tissue paper.

Ana was filling in the foreground with short strokes of golden grass when Julia stole into the room and knelt down beside Ana. She said nothing, and Ana did not glance up from her creation. Julia watched as pale green lines waved through the middle of the paper and spilled into the horizon. Ana selected light shades of orange and red for the birds that joined the clouds in their gliding dance.

Then, as she did every night, she sat back and gazed at the picture.

“I like your world,” Julia whispered. She didn’t know why she was whispering, but it seemed right. Ana turned her dark eyes on Julia, and did something Julia least expected. She smiled.

They sat together, looking at the picture. Julia couldn’t decide if it compelled her interest because of, or despite, its different-ness. It was clearly a child’s drawing, yet there was something about it … something real.

At last Ana gave a nod, and picked up the black crayon.

She ground the crayon in a circular motion, as if trying to bore through the paper. When the sun was finished she drew the penetrating rays in quick, fierce strokes.

Julia’s heartbeat quickened, but she did not interfere. She saw Ana stretch out her hand and rest it on the black orb. Her lips began to move but Julia could not make out what words she was mouthing. Another language, perhaps? Or just jibberish?

Finally, Ana sank down, her head drooping onto the paper. She let out a single, gasping sob. Julia’s hand stretched out to comfort her, but she stopped herself before resting it on Ana’s back. Something told her not to disturb the child, not yet.

After a moment, Ana pulled herself up. Her face had returned to its expressionless composure. She put the crayons away, then folded up the paper into a tiny square. And she put it in her mouth, and swallowed.

That was when Julia stretched out her arms. She pulled Ana onto her lap and gently rocked her. Ana sat stiffly but did not resist.

“I think,” Julia said after a time, “you have lost something really important to you, and you can’t let out how you feel about it.” She paused, giving her words room to breathe. “I think you want to remember what it’s like to really belong. I think you want to be somewhere that feels like home.” They sat silently for a while, rocking, as Ana looked blankly out into the shadowy room.

“Believe it or not, I know what that’s like.” Julia’s voice was soft, reflective. “My parents brought me here when I was about your age, but I ended up having to live with strangers. And I moved a lot. I never had a place that felt mine, not really. And that’s why, after I grew up, I wanted to work here.” She sighed, stroked Ana’s hair. “So I could help make a home for other girls. Like you.”

Ana tilted slightly so that her head rested on Julia’s shoulder. Julia hardly breathed, not wanting anything to disturb the magic of this moment.

But eventually her back cramped and her foot began to fall asleep, and she simply had to get up off the floor. She lifted Ana into her arms, a wisp of a child, and carried her back to her bed.

The next morning, Julia smiled brightly at Ana at the breakfast table. But Ana simply returned her usual passive stare. If she remembered or had even shared the connection Julia had felt the previous night, she gave no sign.

Julia again followed Ana to the art room the next night, and the next, and the next. Julia sat beside Ana as she drew, hoping she would smile again, but she never did. Afterward, sometimes they sat rocking, Julia speaking reassuring words or singing softly. Sometimes Ana brushed past Julia’s outstretched arms and plodded limply back to her bed. And every morning, she floated into her day like a creature in a dream.

One evening, Mama Bella came to join the Aunties in their usual pajama circle time with the girls. “Tomorrow, dear girls, is a special day. An extra special day. Anyone want to guess what makes it so special?”

Since it was not Christmas, and no one’s birthday, and no celebrities were coming to visit, the group ran out of guesses.

“You’ve probably noticed the days getting longer. It’s not dark when you go to bed now, and the sun is shining before you wake up. Well, tomorrow is the longest day of the year. It’s called the summer solstice. That’s pretty special, don’t you think?” The girls were conspicuously unenthused.

Mama Bella chuckled. “If that isn’t enough, how about this: Tomorrow there will be a solar eclipse. And if it’s not too cloudy, we will get to see it! Does anyone know what that is?”

Julia noted that Ana, who had been sitting listlessly at the fringe of the group, suddenly picked up her head. She looked on attentively as Mama Bella led the girls in a demonstration of an eclipse using a soccer ball, a tennis ball and a lamp.

Mama Bella then put on a pair of white cardboard sunglasses with shimmery lenses, evoking giggles from the girls. “All right, laugh now, but tomorrow you get to look just as silly as me!” She took off the glasses and gave the circle of girls a serious look. “These glasses will protect your eyes. Even when the sun looks dark, it can still blind you. That’s why you must never …” She broke off in surprise.

Ana had risen and walked up to the lamp. Oblivious to everything else, and before any of the staff could stop her, she reached out a hand and set it directly on the bulb.

Auntie Esther grabbed her hand away. “Are you all right? Did you burn yourself?” She looked at Ana’s hand, expecting a red mark, but there was none. Her hand was not even warm. Ana wore an expression of serene expectation—as if tomorrow really were Christmas.

There was a yelp. Dolores was cradling her palm and hopping in pain. Marta piped up, “Sarina dared her to put her hand on the bulb, like Ana.” Julia guided Dolores away to tend to her hand, and in the general hubbub before bedtime didn’t get a chance to give Ana her attention.

Later that night Julia followed Ana to the art room, as usual. The usual scene greeted her there—Ana cross-legged on the floor, paper and crayons laid out before her. Midnight arrived, and Julia gasped.

Instead of the pink, Ana had picked up the black crayon. On the blank paper she outlined a large circle. With bold circular motions she filled it in, the whorls giving the black disc the illusion of depth. Julia blinked. She found herself getting dizzy.

Then Ana pulled out the cardboard sunglasses, tucked into the band of her pajama bottoms. She held them out to Julia, who took them uncertainly.

Ana started to stretch her hand over the picture, then paused to turn to Julia. There was something in her eyes, a spark, that Julia had never seen before.

“Are you coming?” Ana asked.

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Note: As if 2020 needed more exceptionalism, there really was a solar eclipse on the summer solstice that year--a phenomenon that will occur only four times in this century. I used poetic license to move the visibility of that event from Africa and Asia to the Americas.