Never Ask Me

by Jeff Abbott

  But they don’t say “We found your child.” They say “We have sent you a referral.” This is what I know about you:

  You are a boy, Alexander Borisovich Stepurin. Danielle had warned us to not specifically ask for a certain gender, and we truly didn’t care, but I am secretly a little pleased. I always wanted a girl AND a boy, but I never said it aloud. This is a good omen.

  You are nine months old.

  You live at the Volkov Infants Home near Saint Petersburg.

  The Russians have sent us a medical record of you. (Danielle has already told us this might not be legit. Sometimes they haven’t disclosed to prospective parents long-standing medical issues, or illness, or surgeries you may have had, yet of course everything we send them has to be both perfect and verifiable—don’t get me started.) We have your Apgar score, your measurements at birth, your test results for HIV, hepatitis B and C, syphilis—all negative. According to Russian medical specialists, you have “no pathology” with your eyes, your ears, nose, or throat. You have had your vaccines. The ultrasound of your brain is normal. But there are a whole range of specialists who have never examined you: cardiologist, for example. Or oncologist. I think of Julia and her neuroblastoma, and that to go through that again would be so hard. The section marked “relationship with other children” is blank, and I panic for a moment, until I think it’s because of your age, not for a worrying reason that you can’t get along with others.

  And a video of you on DVD. We don’t get to keep this. It has to be returned. That bugs me—is this a test of our trustworthiness? Would the Russians know if this video was copied to a computer? I think about it, but I don’t want to risk it.

  And a photograph.

  And on the back of the photograph is written, in carefully block-printed English: ALEXANDER BUT WE CALL HIM SASHA.

  The clock is ticking.

  We have seventy-two hours to say we want you, Sasha.

  I studied the photograph of you as Danielle drove us to the children’s hospital in Austin. A doctor she knows will review the video of you to try to identify any concerns or problems or issues that could affect our decision.

  Danielle said to me: “Normally, the doctor would review it without you there, but Dr. Gupta said he could look at it with you and Kyle since you might have questions. As a favor.”

  I stared at your picture. You were not a fat baby, but that might not be unusual in a Saint Petersburg orphanage. Your eyes were open wide, and you seemed vaguely startled by the camera. I hoped the flash didn’t make you cry. Wispy blond hair crowned your head. You looked good. A little serious. I wished you were smiling in the picture… You think they would have sent me one with you smiling. You looked handsome.

  You looked like you should be my child. And Kyle’s.

  Danielle asked, as she drove, “Iris? Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I think he’s the one.”

  “Iris, deep breath. You’ll want to watch his video and see what Dr. Gupta says. If there are signs of problems, we want to know now. Don’t be swept away by emotion.”

  “It shouldn’t matter. He doesn’t have to be perfect.”

  “I know. It doesn’t matter, as long as you know what you’re signing up for. Do you hear me?” Danielle wasn’t being my friend right now. She was being the adoption consultant whom we pay to be blunt and direct and to leash in our emotions so this process/ordeal goes like clockwork.

  “All right,” I said. “It’s just a picture. I wish he were smiling.”

  “These babies don’t always have a lot to smile about,” she told me, and her words were like a curtain falling.

  I didn’t want to think about whether anyone at the orphanage has ever cradled you when you were sick or comforted you when you were sad. I knew they must; don’t they? But you are one of dozens of infants under their care. Maybe hundreds. The thought crushed me. You needed someone to love you. You needed me. And I knew Danielle was right, but for a moment I just wanted her to shut her logic-spewing mouth. Keep her true words to herself. Just let me wish you will be mine. Sasha. Alexander was a fine and noble name, but I had a name picked out for you, one I haven’t stuck on you yet. One I dared not say aloud, so I didn’t break the spell.

  (Do you see how nuts your mom was? One minute I was a process-oriented paperwork machine, and the next minute I was riding unicorns and thinking if I say the name I want to give you aloud, it would work some kind of magic.)

  Danielle was quiet the rest of the drive.

  Kyle was already at the children’s hospital when we arrived, pacing in the lobby like a nervous father awaiting delivery. We didn’t bring Julia with us—she was too young and she was with Kyle’s mom, Margaret, your nana. We embraced, and I showed him the photo. We studied it together, each holding a side of it, while Danielle summoned the elevator.

  “Oh,” Kyle said. “He’s a handsome boy.” His hand squeezed on mine.

  Dr. Gupta was around our age, a college friend of Danielle’s whom Global Adoption Consultants had a contract with to evaluate these infant videos. He smiled, was pleasant but not too friendly. Even a bit cool. And I realized why: he may have to tell us there’s something wrong with this baby we want.

  Danielle, in case we were entirely mentally scrambled, reminded us how this would work. Dr. Gupta and we would watch the video together. Then he’d watch it alone. If he saw a problem where he wanted another doctor to consult, he’d call the doctor or set up a time for the other physician to watch the video.

  We sat and watched the video on his computer screen.

  It started with Sasha—I don’t know what else to call you; how can I give you a different name when I don’t know if you will be ours?—in his crib. On his back. He was skinny. He was not marked or bruised. Adult hands reached toward him, gently extended his arms, his legs. A finger tickled his ribs, and he gurgled then—a smile, finally. I felt the bolt through my heart.

  Now he was lying on a blanket on the floor of another room. Sasha turned over onto his stomach. Held up his head. I glanced at Dr. Gupta, silently studying. No sign of emotion. Not taking notes.

  Fingers snapped near ears; Sasha turned. A light was gently shined into his eyes; Sasha blinked.

  Now Sasha sat up. He crawled toward some toys, but a bit uncertain. I got the feeling he’d never been in this room before, never seen these toys. Did he know he was performing? Auditioning for a new life with a loving family on the other side of the planet? Put on a stage by someone who didn’t want him for someone who did, who could feel the ache of wanting him in her arms? He crawled. He stood unassisted. He looked up with lovely blue eyes at whoever filmed him, and I pretended he was looking at me and Kyle.

  And then the video was over. I hoped it would be much longer. Hours of Sasha, and sequels. But no. Danielle had warned me it would be brief.

  “This is like shopping,” I said, very quietly, and I felt a tug of shame.

  “No,” Kyle said. “No, honey, it’s not. We’re not looking at two, or five, or ten babies. We’re just looking at HIM. Doctor?”

  “I don’t see any developmental or physical issues, based on the film,” Dr. Gupta said. He probably says “based on the film” after every sentence. “I’d like to watch it again.”

  All these qualifiers felt wrenching. I wished Julia were here. She has been a little ambivalent about a baby coming to live with us; I’m not sure she understands. I’ll show her the picture and the video later, but how will I explain if we don’t get you? “Sorry, your little brother was canceled. We’re hoping for a second try.”

  We went and got a coffee while Dr. Gupta reviewed the video again and read through the medical file. He joined us in the cafeteria and gave me back the DVD. He showed us the report from the Russians.

  “So much depends on the language they use, the nuance, if they’re trying to hide or mask a condition,” he said. “But he looks like he is hitting his milestones for development at his age. His gross and fine motor skills, his ey
e contact, all are good.”

  I read through the medical report as well. No serious illnesses, no disability diagnosed. Doesn’t mean it’s not there, just not diagnosed. But doesn’t he look fine? And act fine?

  Dr. Gupta told us he would write the medical report that afternoon, and he thought this was a healthy child (hurray). Despite his reassurances, I felt my anxiety rise.

  “You’re a songwriter, yes?” he asked me as he stood. “‘Shaking Up My Soul’ and ‘Sudden’ were two of yours?”

  I saw Danielle blush slightly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Ah. My daughter is interested in songwriting. She’s in a band. They’ve gotten a few gigs around town.”

  I nodded. Austin: where everyone is in a band or knows someone in a band. A favor, for a favor. “Well, I’d be happy to talk to her.”

  “Oh, that would be great. I can get your email address from Danielle.”

  I just nodded, and Dr. Gupta walked off.

  “Sorry,” Danielle said. “I thought you wouldn’t mind, and that way he let us watch the video with him. You won’t have a sleepless night wondering what his opinion will be.”

  I glanced back at the Russian report. Under a section for known history before being at the orphanage, it reads: mother admitted to hospital, gave birth, left him at hospital; mother was young and healthy, this was her second pregnancy, and she had given birth once before.

  Sasha would have a blood sibling. I wonder, Why give Sasha up? Did she give up her first baby, too? Where was the father? Was he involved in the decision, or did she make this wrenching choice all alone? Did this father care? Or was he entirely out of the picture? Did they love each other? Did it matter? No, it didn’t.

  Never ask me. That applied to this young woman, too. She’d made her choice.

  “If we accept Sasha,” Kyle said quietly, “we just send an email, right?”

  “And a signed form. A scanned version and then the paper version. I’ll handle that,” Danielle said.

  “And then we go to Russia to see him?” I asked.

  “The government has to accept your acceptance,” Danielle said, and I didn’t have to look at Kyle to see his eye roll as we continued down the endless path of paperwork. “Then they will send us an invitation date to go to Russia and meet Sasha.”

  Kyle took my hand. I gripped it like we were drowning. “Kyle?”

  “We have seventy-two hours,” he said. “Let’s use them.”

  “What if they don’t get the email in time?” I said, thinking of every possibility that can go wrong. Like an email could take seventy-two hours.

  “Iris, it will be fine,” Danielle said. “Go home. Think about it. If Sasha isn’t a match for you, that’s OK. Wait and make the right decision.”

  That night, Kyle and I were in bed. Julia had fussed and cried all afternoon and she wore me out. This moment would change our lives. We knew it. We would always remember it.

  “I’m going to say something, and don’t be mad,” Kyle said.

  Why does he ensure I’ll be mad by saying that? But I do what’s expected and say, “All right.”

  “We might pass on him.”

  “Why?” The word burst out of me.

  Kyle paused. “He doesn’t have much energy. Compared to an American child.”

  “Well…” I didn’t know what to say to this. This criticism is so Kyle, who is in constant motion. We’ve been on the same team since we decided to adopt, and now that the moment of decision is here, he’s backing out? I want to punch him.

  “What the hell do you mean, energy? That can-do American spirit? That rugged individualism? He’s nine months old!”

  “I’m just saying he’s not going to be like Julia. She’s had every advantage. Food, love, attention…This boy has not had that foundation.”

  “Uh, yes, we know,” I want to say. We knew this going in. But now he’s seen a child that could become ours. Now he’s scared.

  “She also had cancer,” I said. “And we got her through that. We can do this for him. We give Sasha a foundation. We love him and take care of him and we do our best and that’s all we can do for any baby, born here or not.”

  Kyle was silent. Thinking.

  I pressed ahead: “What, so we shouldn’t adopt him? Thousands of kids get adopted from overseas and don’t have the same head start American kids have.” I hated this conversation. In that moment, I hated Kyle. Why was he doing this? Was he just humoring me through the hours of paperwork and fretting?

  “That’s true,” he said in his totally reasonable voice. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate, babe. So we make an informed decision.”

  Which to him meant logic and to me meant looking at that video and seeing a child who could be mine. “Kyle, if you don’t want to do this, the time for that was weeks ago. Months. Before I got invested. Maybe you can turn your emotions off like a light switch, but I cannot.”

  He looked stunned. “Babe, that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “What if Sasha is perfect? And we say no? We reject this boy, why would they even consider us for another one?” I could hear my voice rising and I forced myself toward quiet, so I wouldn’t wake up Julia.

  “Honey…”

  I got up, got my lyrics notebook, and stomped out to the den. Kyle knew better than to follow me right then. I needed to be alone. I uncapped the black Flair pen and stared at the blank page. I had not opened my lyrics notebook in months. MONTHS.

  I wrote:

  Sasha

  The first time I saw you, you were a million miles away

  I heard the vaguest beat in the back of my head, a melody trying to come free. I wanted every word to be a punch.

  A child I’ve never held but a child I already love

  I scratched out that line. I was breaking one of my songwriting rules, in that I never scratched out lyrics while drafting. You could still use or reinvent an awkward line.

  So why did I scratch out an admission of love?

  Do I love this boy, or do I just want to win the process?

  It sounded like a question a Russian would ask me in an adoption hearing. Never ask me, I told Danielle, how much I would love this baby.

  I cried. I hate crying. I looked a mess. No one was here to see me. I watched his far-too-short video again. And again. And again.

  I fell asleep. At some lost point in the long night, I felt strong arms lift me and carry me back to the cool of the bedsheets. I rolled into Kyle’s chest, and my arm went around him. I felt his kiss on my forehead. I didn’t want to talk to him, and I fell back asleep.

  The next morning I overslept. I heard my quitter husband in the kitchen; I glanced at the clock, thought: he’s going to be late for work. I stumbled to the breakfast nook, intent on silence and coffee, and there, on my place mat, was the acceptance form, with Kyle’s signature.

  He looked at me, full of apology and hope, and I cried again. I embraced him. I made sure I wasn’t dripping tears or snot when I picked up the pen to sign, and he called Danielle to tell her.

  “What do you think of naming him Grant?” I asked. “If we get him.” I’m afraid to jinx it by assuming all will go well. Grant was my maiden name. I didn’t have a lot of family names to draw on. My father walked away when I was young, and it was just me and my mom. As a lyricist, I didn’t necessarily love that both Grant and Pollitt end with a t sound, but it is what it is, and I thought: a family name matters for this child. We named Julia for Kyle’s much-loved grandmother. It would be a first step to knit him into our family.

  Kyle smiled and nodded. “That’s a great idea, babe. Grant. What about a middle name?”

  “You pick,” I said, not really meaning it, believing that he’d pass and defer to me.

  Kyle gave me his thinking frown. “You might not like this. But we could keep his Russian name as a middle name. Alexander. One syllable, four syllables, two syllables.” That was all for my benefit, as a songwriter who chooses words for variety and length. �
��Grant Alexander Pollitt.”

  He said it grandly.

  A rush of joy passed through me. I thought it a very fine name, and I cried again like the mess I was, and then I dried my tears, because now that we’ve named you, nothing, neither hell nor high water, was going to keep you from me.

  14

  Julia

  Julia slips out the back door, closes it silently. She stops on the back step, takes a deep breath, listens for the sound of a parent’s chasing-her-down footsteps. Silence. Grant’s room is directly above and she glances up at the window; a light is on. She knows Grant is probably in bed, headphones on, watching Critterscape videos on YouTube or bingeing a TV show on his tablet. But she doesn’t move, because if one of them finds her, she wants to say she just is getting fresh air.

  The silence stretches out, and she hurries across the yard. She stares into the darkness of the greenbelt, the thick growth of the oaks and mesquites and…then she feels the weight of a stare.

  Someone watching her.

  You’re imagining it, she tells herself, but the feeling persists like a rising fever. She shoves the fear away. It’s just the horror of the day, creeping around her mind and her vision and jangling her nerves. She activates the flashlight on her phone and steps into the greenbelt. Stops. Listens.

  Maybe Danielle was walking in the greenbelt. Maybe. And someone out there took her.

  She shines the light forward, and there are only branches and trunks and the well-traveled path, worn by her neighbors and their dogs and kids’ bicycles over the past twenty years, and she walks down it.

  She sees the man then. She nearly screams. He’s tall, wiry, early forties, dark hair with a touch of gray. Nice clothes, expensive jacket. He switches on a flashlight.