Johannes

He is not their child, not biologically; he has nobody’s bright golden hair, and nobody’s shining blue eyes, but they make him a beautiful, angelic child. He is only two months old when they adopt him. He has chubby elbows and full of gurgling smiles. With food rubbed all over his face, he is the sun; he is their sun. He has ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes, and with every smile and squawk, he makes their hearts bloom and burn.

They ride on the lapels of parenthood by instinct; they wake at three A.M., feed him with bottles and the boy, the little boy with his wet eyes and white toes, he brings the sun with him; pulls it into their dark life. They sing songs to him that they make up on the verge of sleep, and he blows bubbles, and pulls their hair. He is clothed for the day by Laura, who only stands for Baby GAP, and fed by William, who never minds the countless stains on his shirt.

They name him Johannes.

Johannes is one, and he begins to walk with teetering, nervous steps.  He mutters useless, meaningless words, and it is safe for Laura and William to tell him about their lives, about their terrible, terrible days, because Johannes does not understand; he only listens with a foot in his mouth and his fists beating at a plate of peas. Sometimes, after Laura has accidentally lost the life of a patient, she goes to Johannes; holds him against her chest and wonders at the baby’s pulse, and she thinks alive alive alive.

William walks with a smile on his face. He swims in a world of baby strollers and milk bottles, furthermore he never drinks. He and Laura - they have begun to make love again, and they are happy. They study Johannes together. They wait until he cries or until he laughs in the milky manner of one waiting to be called home.

Johannes does not cry at night. He simply whines softly; a keening, soft weeping that makes William sit up at night feeling cold because this sort of strained sobbing – it seems grievous; too old. And so they bring the child into their bedroom, where he sucks his toes happily. He was a happy child, see. It was only when he cried.

Johannes is six, and there is always light where he is - a strange, wonderful light, seeping under doors like a flood and dancing around the boy. He is always smiling, he loves to sing, and he is like a sun. Laura holds the light of Johannes close and it burns her, bright and tart, like citrus. She hears Johannes singing when he is playing, wild and light, and she knows the boy has a wonderfully bright future.  Their son is almost an angel, with fevered stars for eyes and a twinkling cloud of golden hair. Almost an angel.

The three of them fit together with clicks and hums, and they are so, so happy when they speak of things they do not care of, and things they do care of.  Laura and William speak to Johannes of everything, but they never mention how his coming saved their lives, and their love.

When Laura wakes, she is in a cell, and the bed under her is cold, and the room is windy and whistling. She is in a cell, a cell that has glass in front of it, and she rises, pressing her hands against it.

Why am I here? She thinks. Where is William? Where is Johannes?

“Johannes?” Her voice is strained, and her hair is grey, almost white. “Johannes?”

“Stop.” An orderly nurse strides up, large and dark, in the uniform of a state hospital. “Please, Laura Clement. You do this every morning. There is nobody called Johannes.”

“Where is my son?” Laura frowns.

“There is nobody called Johannes, Ms. Clement. Please, please go back to sleep.”

She does.

Johannes is seven, and she is happy ------

Written by Neha Shaji
Cambridge A-Levels Program,
Editorial Board Writing Department.