Árdís - 01.01.1953, Side 59

Ársrit Bandalags lúterskra kvenna
57
This explained his intense interest, and sympathy with un-
fortunate children.
“The summer was one long pleasant dream,” Dr. Mike said.
“Then, one day, in the fall, I overheard a phone conversation, knew
I was to be called for.” His lips puckered into a smile. “When the
car came for me, I was hiding in the big spruce near the house, and
couldn’t be found. When the car was gone, the father called, telling
me it was safe to come down. They all laughed. They had known
where I was hiding.”
“Then, what happened?” Grace said with interest.
“Being the kind of people they are, Dorotea and Gudjon Mid-
fjord adopted me.” His smile was boyish. “I gained a home, parents,
grandparents, four brothers, and two sisters, in one sweep. You
can’t imagine what that did to me.”
“But you never felt like one of them?” Grace asked.
“I most certainly was one of them, and am. My grandparents
had migrated from Iceland, and they taught me to speak and read
their language, the same as the rest of the kids. They said I learned
faster.” He chuckled. “That was because I was so anxious to be
one of them.”
“And you really feel that you are?”
“Yes. I am as proud of their history, and culture as they are.
But they have that enviable background, and are confident in the
future. I have nothing.”
Grace understood how he felt, but it was all wrong.
“So what these kind people did for you is all lost,” she said.
He gave her a quick, searching glance.
“You mean to say that inheritance is stronger than environ-
ment?” She felt anger at his stupidity rise up in her. “You hand
over these Ugly Puglies, as you call them, to unsuspecting people,
knowing all the time that the children are handicapped. Or do you
not hand out for adoption children without know parentage, or
shady parentage?”
“Of course we do.” And now anger colored his voice. “I know
that good inheritance can be ruined by poor environment. And
good environment can overcome poor inheritance.”
“Then what is worrying you?” Grace heard Cecilia May rattling
her plastic duck against her chair. A protest against being left