By Name

“Are you there, God? Can you be there? It’s me, God, it’s me--”

Clara wakes in a sweat. She pulls herself out of bed and stumbles to look out the window into the darkness. It is the girl. Dark-haired and pale, she crouches in the grass, body wracked with grief. Clara gazes into the night. The dark figure straightens and looks up into the stars. She does not cry out anymore, but her sobs shake her whole frame.

Shivers cover Clara’s body, and her heart fills with pain. She hesitates. Then she exits the room and creeps down the stairs and into the yard outside. Wordlessly, she sits in the wet grass next to the child. The child does not look at her.

They sit in silence for a long time. The light of the moon washes over them, and the distant sounds of an owl accompany their thoughts. They wait, silently, all night, until the sun begins to peek over the horizon. Birdsong breaks into the silence, drawing the two girls away from their memories. Clara breathes deeply and looks at the child. The child looks at the sunrise. They do not speak.

*****

“I’m at a loss. The child won’t eat, she doesn’t speak, she makes no eye contact. She’s just a corpse, sitting in the library day after day.”

Stephenie Warner sighs and leans back in her chair. “Has anyone spoken to the doctor?”

The young woman nods emphatically. “Many times. He says there’s nothing wrong with her.”

Mrs. Warner rolls her eyes incredulously. “Well, obviously something is wrong with her, Angelica. She hasn’t spoken since we found her.”

The second woman sets her coffee cup forcefully on the table. “Stephenie, she won’t eat or sleep. She doesn’t follow directions, she won’t interact with the other children.” She pulls herself up into a dignified position. “We have certain rules that must be obeyed, and the girl is incompliant. This is a children’s home-”

“Yes, Helen,” Stephenie interrupts angrily. “This is a children’s home. Not a military school.” She passes a hand wearily over her forehead. “Would you be compliant, Helen? If you were abandoned on the doorstep of a fire station, heavily bruised and barely alive?” She gives the other woman an angry stare. “Would compliance be the first thing on your mind?”

A momentary pause. Then Angelica’s voice, gently. “Stephenie, she won’t even tell us her name.”

***

For four nights, Clara and the child keep their vigil in the yard, waiting for the sunrise. They do not speak. Tonight, Clara brings food. She sets it on the grass. An hour passes. The girl reaches tentatively for the bread and eats. Clara watches, then softly whispers, “They want to know your name.”

It is the first time she has spoken to the girl, who gives no sign that she has heard, but continues to eat in silence. Clara watches. She opens her mouth to speak, but something- an angel perhaps- stops her. Instead, she begins to sing.

***

“Please eat, honey.”

She turns her face away and does not reply. After a moment, she listens as the woman stands, walks to the door, and leaves.

The library calms her. She feels safe among all these books that cannot hurt her. She longs to touch one, but only looks. She does not want to hurt the books.

***

Clara finishes her song. The child has devoured the soup she has brought. Clara looks up into the night sky. “My name is Clara.”

The girl does not move. Clara presses on.

“My mom was named Clara, too. She was very beautiful. She had hair just like yours, but her eyes were bright blue.”

No reply.

Clara inhales deeply. “My mother didn’t like me very much.”

The child twitches suddenly, so slightly that Clara almost misses it. Somehow, she can tell that she has the girl’s attention. She continues. “It wasn’t really her fault- she just never wanted me. She used to hurt me sometimes.” Clara runs her hands over the scars on her legs. She still does not look at the child. “What was your mother like?”

The child is perfectly still, but in the moonlight, her face glistens with silent tears.

***

They come and go, the doctors, teachers, housekeepers. All speak to her, but she does not answer. She has nothing to say. She sits and breathes the smell of the books. Twice, her hand reaches out to touch one, but she pulls it away. She must not harm it. She must stop harming everything.

Footsteps are followed by a soft thud on the table. She looks. It is a book, with a worn, plain cover. Not a pretty one, like some that she has seen in the library. She wants so badly to hold it. But she must not. She looks behind her at the man who has entered. He nods at her encouragingly and leaves.

Slowly, she reaches toward the cover. She runs her shaking fingers over the rough surface. They stop on the glossy letters that read Bible.

***

They braid grass now, sitting in the night. Clara demonstrates. The child, never meeting her eyes, watches Clara’s hands intently. After three nights, the girl has finished a beautiful grass crown, full of wildflowers. She holds it uncertainly in her hands. Gently, Clara takes it from her and places it on her head. “You look like a princess,” she whispers. The girl studies the ground. She slowly reaches up to her head and pulls the crown off. She hands it back to Clara. For some reason, Clara feels the urge to cry. Fighting back her emotion, she moves so that she is facing the girl. “Do you know that you are a princess?”

Nothing. Clara keeps on. “You are a princess because there is a King who says you are. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He is not like our moms.”

For the first time, the girl looks straight into Clara’s eyes. Clara’s heart races. She fights to keep her voice steady. “Can I tell you about this King?”

***

Days pass. She does not leave the library. When she finishes the book, she sits silently for a long time, thinking. She can hear the voices drifting through the wall.

“Is she mute?”

“Perhaps she doesn’t speak English.”

“It would help if we knew what to call her.”

After two more days in the library, she across the table. She opens the book and searches. She finds it. Thus says the Lord, he who created you. Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.

Again and again she reads it. Several hours pass. Now, she stands and walks to the window. She looks out at the tiny chapel across the road. Then she turns and walks towards the door and out of the library.

Thus says the Lord.

She goes down the steps of the children’s home and towards the chapel. She feels the wind on her face.

He who created you.

She reaches for the brass handle of the heavy chapel door. She hesitates, her small hand gripping the cold metal.

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you.

She enters. The man is sitting in the back pew. She approaches him. He stands. For a moment, she cannot speak.

I have called you by name.

“Clara,” her voice echoes in the empty chapel. She looks the minister in the eyes. “My name is Clara.”

You are mine.

***

Clara places the worn book in the child’s hand. It is bookmarked to the right page. She cups the child’s chin and forces her to look into her eyes. “A princess,” she says forcefully. She leaves.

That night, she lays in bed, listening. Sobs again, just like the first night. She goes to the window. The child weeps in the moonlight. “Are you there, God?” she chokes softly. “It’s me… Josie.”