Wish You Happy Forever Read Free

began to heal. Dead worms appeared in the diapers (that is a good thing!). Weight was gained. But even as we dutifully stashed Flagyl in ice cream and force-fed our little darling the foul-tasting stuff, we quietly worried.
    We celebrated the first steps, the first faint smiles, the first gluttonous pumpkin-suited Halloween—all milestones were accompanied by food—but Maya never seemed truly present. Even as she began to let me hold her and occasionally (briefly) rested easy in my arms, it was like she didn’t get that cuddling was a worthwhile activity. The only sign that something was going on in that lovely little head was the furrowed brow that had appeared the moment we met her and refused to fade. In fact, the worry lines seemed to deepen when I held her. We had snatched her away from her everything. All was lost.
    It seemed like our baby had never known love. She didn’t know what to do with it. But could she be taught? Could she learn what should come naturally? Could these strange new people teach her to experience and accept love?
    â€œGive it time,” I whispered to her. “We’ll find our way together.”
    I dearly hoped that was true. Was I mother enough to bring this hurt little being out of her shell?
    I hadn’t been exactly nurtured as a child. I came late in the post–Depression era marriage of two hard-working first-generation Americans who were entirely focused on making ends meet and saving for the rainy day that would likely come at any moment. My two sisters were born several years before me. I was not planned, and although it wasn’t said (well, only once in anger), I never felt particularly loved or even wanted. Of course, decent families would never think of abandoning their unwanted babies in the 1950s in California, USA. Certainly not. But I don’t remember being held or played with or talked to much. I wasn’t unhappy. It was just the way it was.
    When she wasn’t off at work, my mother was tired and impatient and, it seemed to me, impossible to please. She never spared the rod. My father came home from work and lost himself in sports scores and bowling and his weekly pinochle game with the boys. We never talked.
    When I looked at Maya . . . the utter aloneness of her . . . maybe I saw something of myself.
    TO KEEP MAYA with me every waking moment, I decided to edit my movie at home. A film editor and assistant, trim bins, and editing equipment soon consumed our living room and all other available space in the house. I plopped Maya on my lap and did my best to make up for all the cuddles and kisses she’d missed out on, while we reviewed shots over and over, assembled and reassembled scenes.
    Throughout that first winter, I tried to focus on both my babies—Maya and the movie. It was the best I could manage under the circumstances. Maya won hands down. While the editor cut, I sang silly songs and show tunes and lullabies and rocked and blew bubbles and fell in love. It probably wasn’t an ideal introduction to family life, but at least our little girl knew somebody was paying attention.
    Sometime around our first rough cut, as we replayed the opening courtroom scene for the thousandth time, Maya began to softly babble.
    â€œWhat’s she saying?” asked the editor.
    I leaned down.
    â€œ Tewwa twoo . . . omigosh, she’s talking! Tewwa twoo . . . Tell the truth! She said, ‘Tell the truth’!”
    Okay, so it was dialogue from the movie, but my little girl was talking! I covered her little babbly face with kisses.
    July 1998
    Whenever we can, we like to do something special on the Fourth of July to celebrate Dick’s birthday (which falls on the fifth) without making too big a deal about it. Dick’s the kind of guy who slips out the back door if you offer him a singing-waiter birthday cake in public. But a year earlier on the fourth we’d flown to China to adopt Maya, so his