Biography:I was recently imported from the United States to Holland by my loving dutch partner.
When I'm not riding my bike or jogging on the canals, I'm likely reading English books on my new ipad, or slaying dragons with my stepsons.
Making Room
That familiar knot in my stomach begins to tighten. I resist the powerful urge to jump up from the dining table and run out the front door of this strange house. The two couples to my right ramble on in Dutch, laughing loudly, I can’t help but think thoughtlessly. The seat across from me sits empty. Why is Mark* taking so long getting back to the table? I stare past the vacant seat to the painting on the wall behind it, not understanding a word of what is going on around me. I too am an insignificant fixture in this room. I quickly scan the table, sure that by now they have noticed my visible discomfort.
Jake’s* big brown eyes blink quickly a few times back at mine. I’m certain he’s caught a glimpse of my desperation.
‘Erin, what do you think Howard (our dog) is doing right now?’ he says with a crooked smile. I sigh with relief, considering for a moment, as I have many times before, whether he is aware of the power of his kindness. He saved me. Instinctively he knew I needed help. I am sure of it.
My five-year-old stepson Jake has seen far too much tragedy in his short life. His little sister passed away only hours after she came into the world. His parents split up while his mom was still pregnant with his younger brother. He suddenly moved across continents, simultaneously unsheltered from his grandmother’s unsuccessful fight with cancer and his parents’ resentful divorce.
We met in early August, ten months after his Jake’s mother settled back in her homeland, the Netherlands. He hadn’t spoken a word of English in as much time. My nerves were palpable, as he and his father Mark climbed the steep stairs of our stark, virtually un-lived-in rental apartment in Eindhoven. He fluttered around the room, sneaking glances at me, trying to make as much sense of me as I was of him. Finally settling on Mark’s lap, he shyly nodded at my overly animated questions.
The impact of the situation weighed down on me so heavily, I could barely breathe. He was not ready for this. I was not ready for this. But it was too late. His father, not having agreed to the international move of his children, was still working in the United States. We agreed, that although timing and circumstances were far from ideal, it was time I accompany him on his monthly visit. How naively anxious we were to begin our new life together.
The three of us spent that first day peddling through the lush Holland countryside. Jake sat on the back of Mark’s bike, reaching out for my hand as I rode next to them. He pointed to trees, fields, windows, and the sky, patiently teaching me their Dutch names. Quick to encourage me with an enthusiastic
‘Goed zo!’
That evening Jake took my hand in his, pulling me down the stairs and into the bedroom.
‘Erin, would you like to sleep over at my house tonight? You can sleep there next to my daddy,’ he asked me in his sweet accented English, standing at the edge of the bed pointing at the empty space where I had slept the past three nights. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all I let myself think.
We made the trip five more times over the winter before settling permanently in Holland one rainy day in March. The visits were filled with apprehension and frustration. The three of us struggled to find our new roles with each other. Jake refused to speak English because I didn’t need to know what he was telling Daddy. I, confident and childfree, lectured his father on the importance of disciplining a child. One morning I woke to the voices of Jake and Mark in what I could only distinguish as a discussion about dinosaurs. I listened to the happy murmurs of father and son in the next room, as I lay there alone. Loneliness and regret ached in my bones. How would I ever wrap my brain around this new life as new girlfriend, stepmother, foreigner, and accused home-wrecker? How quickly my life had taken a sharp turn from the independent single woman I once was.
‘Mama says you’re the reason the family isn’t together anymore,’ he announced clearly one Sunday morning a month after our move. My heart sank to my feet. Without a trace of blame in his voice he continued. ‘She is mad and she says you are the reason Papa left us.” I felt sick with guilt but not because I knew it to be true. Their problems went deeper than the Pacific Ocean before I ever came into the picture. They separated before our new relationship began. I kept telling myself this, but the guilt wasn’t budging. What was I to say to him?
‘That must be very hard and confusing for you Jake,’ I began, trying to control the tremble in my voice. I heard myself trying to explain the reasons adults fight, the complications of a mother’s love for her children and a misunderstanding that I was somehow trying to take her place. I was sure I had said too much. ‘It’ll get better, she won’t always be this mad at me sweetie, I promise.’ He looked relieved, if only slightly. He came over to the table where I was sitting, climbed up on my lap and wrapped his arms tightly around my neck. His mother’s white blond hair brushed against my cheek.
‘I love you Ery Berry.’
I don’t deserve this, was all I could think.
It has officially been one year since Jake and I met. Each time he reaches for me for comfort when he’s hurt, or begs my presence at a school function, or tells me he loves me, the astonishment is fresh. The doubting voice in my head subsides long enough to ponder how this little boy found room in his heart for me. Maybe it’s because he sees how much his father loves me. Maybe it’s the unyielding enthusiasm with which I approach our arts and crafts projects. Or just maybe it’s because in his young innocence he chooses forgiveness and compassion over blame and indifference in this bewildering new life we face together.
*Names have been changed for privacy purposes.
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