Lesia, confused, looked up at Julia and reached for her. ‘Mama? Going?’
‘No,’ the word rode the crest of her sigh. ‘No, Lesia, you and Maksim are going with these nice people.’ She took her hand and gently guided it towards Sarah. Henry stood back and watched.
‘Yes, your mummy is right, little one.’ Sarah stood up and uttered every word as if it would break. ‘You and your brother are coming to stay here. It’ll be very fun, and you’ll meet so many other children. Is that okay?’
Gordon spoke next, hurrying it along. ‘Thanks Sarah, but it’s a bit tricky, with the whole--’ and he spoke this out of the side of his mouth ‘--English language thing,’ his palms made helpless shapes in the air. ‘You know, it’s a bit hard on all of them.’ Julia looked at him and he forced a smile as she scowled. She knew enough English to know when someone was being distasteful.
‘Ahh, yes, sure, this is all new to me.’ Sarah folded her arms, and then dropped them quickly. Apologetically.
Bennett came forward. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Rudnick, you’ve signed and dated the required forms here... the children will be brought to a temporary housing facility for children their age, where there will be a settling in period, and the official adoption will be more than likely two or so months in the future. At that time, we will also reissue you a new birth certificate to register Lesia and Maksim’s new birth names. Does that all sound acceptable to you?’
Julia and Henry both nodded in agreement, and then Julia sensed the end of the meeting looming, so she reached out to Sarah, despite every cell of herself not wanting to.
‘Miss—’ She touched her arm, and then gestured towards the twins behind her—’it’s okay, I will get them ready.’ She stepped back and crouched down, holding the twins on each side of her, wrapping both arms around their tiny waists, her head in between theirs as she smelled their sugary skin.
She looked at their faces and hungrily memorized them: the new freckles that had recently scattered on the bridge of Maksim’s nose, the dark blonde hairs that changed to white at Lesia’s temples. The long eyelashes that had shone through suspended tears in the moments where she’d needed her. Julia raised her hand and placed her son’s palm in hers, and it was a fraction of the size, so small and fat and unlined, like fresh dough.
Lesia’s arm snaked around Julia’s neck, and it felt so thin, like cold porcelain. In that moment, she saw them as they would be, without her: she saw them at 5, as their legs lengthened, and their cheeks hollowed slowly. And then at 10, as their hair thickened and lengthened, and they discovered newfound strength in their small limbs. At 15, when they would try and heal from broken hearts, and find joy in burgeoning love stories. And even at 20, when their bodies would find their grace and discover a world of their own.
She saw their entire, changing, vivid lives in that moment, and she indulged it and was broken by it, and it took every ounce of whatever strength she had left in the very bones of her not to collapse in absolute grief. She would do that later, alone. Grief was a thing that was always better when managed alone, her mother had told her.
‘Be kind’, she whispered, and then ‘I love you,’ as she backed away, but they both began to cry and fell into her arms. It was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life, letting go of them. She couldn’t imagine that it would be the last time she would see their faces or say the words that comforted them. The thought was incomprehensible to her.
Sarah appeared by her side, and a door then opened to a different room, one that was behind Bennett’s desk that she hadn’t noticed before, and as Gordon held it open, Sarah took both twins by the hands and led them away.
‘Mamaaa!’ Lesia let out a protracted cry as she turned and saw that her mother wasn’t walking with them.
‘Please don’t take my babies,’ she mouthed silently, her tears collecting on her lips as she spoke, her body shaking in anguish, rooted to the spot, Lesia’s eyes connecting to hers for the last time as the door closed.
Julia was unaware that she’d been standing there for five solid minutes, her face and neck slick with tears; she had sobbed silently, her hands in fists at her side, the sounds catching in her throat as her body tensed. She finally became aware that once Sarah and Gordon left, Henry had gone to the car, so the only person in the room with her was a young secretary tidying up files and gathering paperwork. Julia had seen when they’d first arrived.
Julia had been deconstructed in her shame, and left to gather herself, alone. She picked up her handbag absentmindedly and tried to find her coat, realized that she hadn’t taken one, and so she stood, not understanding what to do with herself, or where to go. And then the only words she could muster were the ones that meant she might preserve some hope. She spoke, her voice fragile. ‘Hello, miss?’
The girl turned, not a hair out of place, her glasses perched on her nose.
‘I... I am the...’ Julia stammered, not sure how to begin.
‘I know who you are, I logged the appointment,’ she replied, her eyes quizzical. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Can I write to them?’
‘To whom?’
‘My children.’
‘I’m not sure that’s not allowed, because firstly, they don’t have a permanent home yet, and won’t for a while, and secondly, the adoption is closed, and only after a certain age would they be allowed to look for you, and even then, only if their adoptive parents would allow it.’ It was a list of hurdles that she presented, and Julia hung her head.
‘Ah. Okay,’ she shuddered as she caught her breath and the tears gathered in her eyes again. And then, the woman approached, and Julia saw she was young, probably no more than 21, and her eyes were kind, and her hair was more careless seen up close, wild wisps of it touching her thin neck and delicate shoulders. She reminded Julia of her sister.
‘Listen, give it some time.’ She then paused, looked past Julia through the doorway, and then back at her. ‘Wait a moment.’ And she walked over to Bennett’s desk, opening a drawer and taking out a pen and paper and scrawling down letters and numbers. ‘I’m probably not supposed to do this, but here.’ She pressed a bit of paper into Julia’s hand and looked intently at her. ‘This is the address of where they’ll be going, as there is an older couple that has been waiting for two children for over a year now. You could write, but I would wait for a while. And maybe one day…’ the woman shrugged delicately, letting the small hope linger.
Without looking down, Julia placed it in her handbag and closed it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured. ‘So sorry…my babies…’
‘—no, I understand,’ the woman interrupted, and paused as if to say something else; as if she too had had a broken heart that had been left to heal somehow. And then she changed, her face stiffening as she walked back out of the office, her stride with a purpose, holding the files that proved to anyone who’d possibly seen her, that she’d been so busy with her work that she spent a little while longer making sure it was all done properly.
Julia nodded, and turned on her heels and slowly walked towards the door, and she noticed that her handbag had nail marks pressed into the worn cream leather. And in that handbag, she remembered that she’d brought the twins’ original birth certificates with her, not knowing whether Bennett needed it or not, but he hadn’t because he had requested copies from the hospital, so they were still there, folded into two small squares, next to an address, invisible to everyone but her.
22
Melbourne
The radio in the kitchen crackled briefly with a weather bulletin, something about Cairns and flood warning as Irene turned the knob and found a station with classical music, before feeding the lamb roast in the oven and heading upstairs to the bathroom.
She washed her hands, wiping them on a towel that was folded neatly in the corner of the bathroom, and one by one, took down her hair from its nested bun, watching as it unfolded and dropped past her shoulders. She put each pin carefully in a glass box, and ran her fingers from temple
to nape, her scalp aching from the past few days’ happenings. She looked at her face—her eyes were tired, but the black of her lashes and the powder on her cheeks were all still in place; there had been no tears. She wondered if there would be, one day, but for now, all she felt was grateful.
She undid the clasp on her watch and set it down, walking down the hallway, and saw Bill standing in the doorway of the small bedroom opposite their own.
‘Hey.’ She joined him and folded her arms across her chest. She watched, contentedly, as the two children in front of them explored their space, fat arms out, eyes wide, toddling unsteadily as they reached for things they had never seen before: the unfamiliar beds, the soft, cool, pillows, squealing at the beautifully painted toys’ they touched these new objects to see how they lived in this world, and what their place was.
Their beds were separate, both solid wood frames, the sheets and pillows decorated in whites and pale yellows, embroidered with ducklings. There was a noble wooden rocking horse in the corner, positioned as if it had waited its whole life to be ridden. There was a small wardrobe up against the wall full of lovely clothes, and books laid out on the dresser that sat underneath the window, with two stuffed rabbits on either side of the pile.
‘Mama?’ Said the girl as she stood by the rocking horse, her fingers entwined in its yarn mane. Her eyes were searching Irene’s-- she wasn’t calling for her but another. ‘Mama.’
‘Yes, Roslyn? What do you need, sweetheart?’
Confused at the name, the girl wandered over to her brother who was standing unsteadily at the window, pointing. She grabbed his body to steady herself and then placed a little hand on the window, the fields beyond her winking in the sunlight.
‘Mama, mama’ she murmured softly, eyes searching.
Irene turned to Bill and saw water in his eyes, soft regret etched in his face.
She smiled and grabbed his forearm, squeezing it gently. ‘Bill. Listen. We’ll be alright, sweetheart. They’ll understand that their life started when we found them, and that’s all they’ll ever have to know.’
‘I realize that, honey. But God, what a crazy thing, this.’ He ran a hand through his hair and looked over at Irene. ‘We have kids now. A boy and a girl. They were someone’s and now they’re ours.’ He looked over at her. ‘Will they be alright?’
Irene smiled stiffly; a deep breath lodged in her chest. ‘Why wouldn’t they be?’
‘Well, there’s a mother out there. We don’t know her story. Will we? Will they, ever?’ He nodded to the twins, sat on the floor, playing with a few wooden blocks. ‘I mean, am I right to even bring it up?’
‘Why do they need to know her story?’
Ed shrugged. ‘Because they might want to know where they came from, one day.’
Irene frowned. ‘Are you regretting this?’
‘No, of course not, honey. We’re so lucky. I’m just thinking out loud, is all.’
Irene patted him on the back and linked her arm through his. ‘I know. I guess we’ll have to play it by ear, really. They didn’t come from the best of backgrounds, really.’
‘How do you know?’
‘An immigrant family— sugarcane farmers. Not exactly the most stable environment.’
‘Sure, I guess.’ Ed smiled as Roslyn looked up at him, showing him a book that she’d found. ‘Do you think they were happy?’
‘I don’t know. I assume so. But we could drive ourselves crazy second guessing this. The most important thing is that we can love them, and take care of them, and tell them that we wanted them so much, that God granted our wish.’
Ed leaned his head towards Irene and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’re right. They’ll be happy.’
She looked up at him, her eyes resolute. ‘Of course, they will be, we’ll always make sure of it. There won’t be a reason to look back. Only forward.’ She smoothed her hair, and a thin gold bracelet gleamed on her wrist.
‘One idea, though.’
‘Yes?’
‘We should leave something for them. After we’re gone.’
Irene frowned. ‘Maybe. We have a long time before we need to discuss that.’
Bill nodded. He felt it was the right thing to do, and he knew Irene would soften over time.
‘Right. Let’s get the table set for dinner, yes?’
And before he could respond, she walked away, the hallway echoing with her footsteps, the children’s laughter behind her.
23
Stratford , May 1953
The storm warnings had come over the radio for the last week, but in their kitchen, Slava was bursting with excitement, her hands expressive and flying, just like Julia’s used to, when she was little. She didn’t know, and didn’t care, what a ‘cyclone’ was.
‘Mama, at school today I read out loud to the class from my book. And the teacher clapped at how well I eee-nun--see-ayted!’ Slava took her tie off and partially unzipped her wool pinafore, her short bob bouncing along with her energetic fidgeting. ‘Ach, these uniforms are so itchy!’ She proceeded to fully unzip the pinafore and throw it to the side, along with her tie. The January day had been warm, and yet the school required it, and it unnerved her no end. ‘There!’ She stood triumphantly in her underwear and a white short sleeve shirt, her fists aloft. ‘Much better!’
‘Go and play outside, there’s no reason for you to be in the house.’ Her voice was tired, and her wrists ached as she rolled dough, and prepared the carrots for dinner later. Her morning was spent doing accounts at a small bank in Stratford, a part time job that she’d started once Slava started school full time. It had been a pleasant distraction and the last several years passed her by quietly, though she felt more tired than she ever had.
Julia heard a wooden toy clatter to the floor in Slava’s room, and she spoke before she could stop herself. ‘Maks— ‘. She caught her breath as she felt a stinging in the center of her stomach. Still, even now, their names came to her so easily. She couldn’t help but hear remnants of their voices in the house, echoes of their footsteps down the stairs, blades of grass scattered on the floor from their daily adventures. They would be forgetting now: forgetting how to curl their tongue to utter the language that they had been brought up to speak, forgetting Julia’s songs and the rhythm of her voice as they fell asleep. And though she tried her hardest to remember, her memories of them were slowly fading, and their voices would echo uncomfortably in her ear, like a stranger’s.
‘Ah, and again they say the same thing,’ Julia sighed, and turned the radio down, a carrot rolling away from her grip. It had been reporting for days about the storm and she’d heard enough. The first one was bad enough: four years ago, before the twins (she often used their births as a kind of marker in her life) and shortly after they had had settled into their house, the winds arrived, howling and lopping the tops off the trees, rains piercing the earth like nails. She had never experienced destruction to this degree (oh, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the storm a few years back, they’d tell here later on, as if to make her feel even remotely better). She felt confused and insecure, watching it all unfold as little Slava clung to her skirts and called out for her too many times for a reassurance that she didn’t have. It was one of the very first times that she’d questioned the purpose of their life together; she had seen a life that was foreign to her, a language that wasn’t explained and a world that she had no rulebooks for, and she was meant to proceed, unaided. That was the first seed of resentment planted, and it had flourished intensely.
‘Hey, Hank, would’ya help us out with these here boards?’
The steel clang of the bells erupted in the distance, and it didn’t announce a celebration, for no one was at the church for joy, or for mourning. It was empty, and the echo was to warn of the weather to arrive. Everyone that was able, had left their houses that afternoon to prepare, to shield and secure from winds and rain, and to encourage that this was nothing unheard of. Henry was in town that morning and the warning bells had pealed just as
he was approached by the butcher.
‘Yeah, sure Al.’ Henry cringed. ‘Give me a minute.’ No amount of reminding people would help, not even after four years of living in Stratford: the iteration of his given name had taken many forms, and so it was a useless cause: no one ever bothered to learn to say his name correctly. There was always a ‘do you have a shorter name, buddy’ thrown around since their arrival those many years ago. Almost immediately, he’d been christened with a new, easier, name, which would help him fit with the group of laborers in the cane fields. He considered them all a boring, provincial collection of busybodies, but he reluctantly accepted it, for this was a lesson in humility, though the gossip would travel that it quite curious that a loving mother would punish her child with a name as ridiculous as ‘Hironimus’, and ‘Henry’ was ever so formal, so ‘Hank’ it was.
He raised a few thin planks of wood upright, a hammer and nails jangling in the leather pouch that hung over his cotton trousers. It was almost useless, this preparation, because the farmhouses were sparse in
material to begin with: thin pieces of driftwood reinforcing door frames, thick tape across windows, and moving crockery and furniture to recessed corners of their farm. It was all they could do, really, and pray that the destruction would be minimal. The last years had seen Henry successfully earning enough money to buy more land around their house, and they’d developed it into a bigger farm, and it reminded them of home. A few more cows, goats, and feral cats that lingered and languished on the porch. The expanse of it all connected Henry and Julia with a thin thread, but it was enough, and now they’d met enough people that they would have the help if they needed it, and a bit of the burden was lifted. They’d arrived here so naive and hopeful, off a steamship from war, like artifacts from a building that was destroyed, and now, it was a life that made sense to them finally, despite the pain at the edges. Earlier, he had looked back and saw Julia holding Slava’s hand and carrying a basket with her other one, Slava filling it with eggs that she had collected, and his heart felt a little less of the anguish that he had privately endured.
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