Never Ask Me

by Jeff Abbott

  Alone.

  Without ever telling Kyle or Danielle what I was offered to say no to Grant.

  And screw you, lady. His name is Grant. He’s mine. Ours.

  Feliks was not our driver this time. Pavel, however, was again our interpreter. His arm was still in a cast. I hugged him when I saw him at the hotel. Danielle hugged him, too. Our driver was an older man named Vladimir, balding and spare, with eyes that were always watching.

  And I watched for the warning woman. I never called her. I never responded to her.

  But she knew we were back. She knew our travel arrangements before; she knew our schedule.

  I sounded paranoid. I was paranoid. Russia has that effect on people.

  When we get on the plane to go back to America, Sasha will be in my arms and he’ll soon enough be Grant Alexander Pollitt. The Russian boy he was will start to fade and a bright American boy will stand in his place. And the warning woman would find a new hobby.

  I just hoped the phone she gave me wouldn’t ring.

  I steeled myself for the day ahead, in case she tried to disrupt our final steps.

  Danielle and Pavel guided us to many buildings in Saint Petersburg. There was so much paper: papers to sign and money to give. This was like everyone in Russia exacting a price for taking their beautiful boy away: money, money, and more money. Pavel told Kyle what we were signing and I half listened. I’d sign anything to get this baby. I started thinking of it as the Adoption Obstacle Course. My hand grew a little weary with the signatures. The Russians didn’t smile a lot, as if they knew they were selling away a part of their future. I wondered, seeing Kyle hand more bills to the third Russian we met with, why it was fine for me to pay a bribe but so repellent if I had taken the warning woman’s bribe.

  “Are you OK?” Kyle kept asking me. I nodded. I looked for the warning woman, for the black SUV that had caused us to wreck, but there were only the faceless crowds, the normal traffic as we went from building to building, collecting paperwork and leaving bribes—sorry, payments. We would be here for ten days. It felt like forever already.

  The paperwork was done. I forgot to say, earlier, we rode in a van this time, with lots of room, and at first I thought it was because I was nervous about being in a car again and the van was bigger. Like Danielle would worry about my feelings. But after our last signature and our last bribe-slash-gift, we went back to the hotel. It was the same one we stayed at before, which made me uneasy.

  “I thought we were going to see Grant.” I was done calling him Sasha.

  “We are. There’s another family riding with us. I hope that’s fine. They’re here for their first visit. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

  I did mind. I didn’t mind. Kyle said, “Of course.” Wonderful, I could ask them if an odd woman offered them a bribe not to adopt a child—it’s such a conversation opener.

  We went into the hotel; they were waiting for us in the lobby. Vince and Chele Robinette, from Philadelphia, a nice, friendly couple. They were adopting a little girl, also at Volkov, and like us that first trip, they were loaded with gift bags and hope. They also didn’t look like anyone had tried to frighten them out of this adoption.

  We all got in the van together and Vladimir wended his way through the Saint Petersburg traffic.

  “This place,” Chele asked me. “Is it wonderful? Or awful?”

  “Hasn’t Danielle told you?” I said, sounding harsher than I ever could have intended.

  “I was curious what you thought of it.” Chele was unperturbed by my rudeness. I liked her immediately; she was tough. You have to be to do this.

  “I hope our son won’t remember it,” I said. Pavel glanced back at me; maybe it was impolite to criticize the orphanage, but I didn’t care. A country run by billionaire friends of the president, they could make it nicer if they wanted. They didn’t care.

  “It’s not terrible,” Kyle, the diplomat, said. “Just depressing.”

  The Robinettes told us about themselves, and Kyle and Vince talked football, and I reassured Chele that the chicken pox has probably burned through the orphanage and her daughter wouldn’t be all spotty for her first pictures with them, but if she was it would be fine, and I thought about holding my boy in my arms.

  I hadn’t thought this through. I didn’t remember there was one “greeting” room of mirrors where families spent time with their future children and so we and the Robinettes couldn’t use it at the same time. It would have been inconceivable to ask them to wait a couple of hours to meet their daughter for the first time. So we gave them the room, and Chele gave me this giant hug that nearly made me cry. I felt so on edge, and I couldn’t let anyone see. They went in, and Maria, not being their caseworker, gave me and Kyle a short tour. The door to Grant’s ward was closed; we’d see him later, but now I knew where his crib was. Older children we saw looked at us with empty eyes, and I realized again how narrow Grant’s world was—had he ever been off this property since he was brought here? Had he known a true moment of comfort? We gave the extra gifts I’d brought this time, including more basic supplies, all of which was accepted with a murmured thanks.

  Kyle wanted to be sure everything was fine with the paperwork. Maria agreed. She and Danielle and Kyle went to go check all the necessary and tiresome details again, as the judge we had been assigned was extremely nitpicky about these matters and had a reputation of being difficult. It was why we had given ourselves ten days here (well, one of the reasons).

  I couldn’t bear to look at more paperwork. I’d handled it all in the US and Kyle had handled it all here (because you could see that the Russians expected the man to take the lead in all this; apparently I was here just to look maternal and hold the baby—and refuse quarter-million-dollar bribes).

  “May I go for a walk outside?” I asked Maria, and she nodded and said something in Russian. Pavel was with the Robinettes, and Danielle said, “Yes. Just watch where you go”—like I was a child, but I nodded and left.

  I kept wondering if I should tell Danielle about the warning woman’s approach. The offer of money. But if I did, what would Danielle do? Report it to the Russian authorities? They might derail the adoption for their own reasons, deem it too dangerous. I couldn’t risk it. I would not risk my child’s future out of fear. I would not let him be left here. So—I stayed silent.

  Outside, the air felt bracing. No sign of the warning woman or the bad guys in the SUV. Our driver sat in the van, drinking from a thermos, reading a thick novel. I ignored him.

  The snow had drifted against the buildings. It fell steadily—it had not been snowing on our way in—and the flakes danced. I pulled my knit cap low and breathed in the cold air. I started walking through the snow. I had half an idea that perhaps, at a window, I’d see Grant staring down at me, waiting for his new mom and dad. Of course not. He was ten months old. But the chicken pox had passed, and I was going to get to see him healthy now, and I couldn’t wait…

  I walked past the main building, toward two smaller buildings—I’m not sure what they were used for—and I saw her. In the shadows. She stepped forward, a figure in a heavy coat. I froze for a moment. Then she gestured to me, and there was something urgent in her wave. My nerves were on edge… There was no one out here but us, and I couldn’t ignore her. I walked toward her.

  I knew who this might be: the warning woman.

  The day was already cloudy, the sky spitting snow. She didn’t meet me halfway along the snow-covered path but stayed close to the building.

  When I got closer to her, I saw half her face covered by a thick scarf. But I also saw it was not the warning woman. She was younger. Her coat was high-end, expensive. Her hat was fur, like you might expect a Russian princess to wear.

  “You are American?” she asked. Her accent was heavy.

  “Yes.”

  “An adopting mother here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need help. Please. To get inside.” She pointed toward the main building.

&
nbsp; “There’s an entrance at the front,” I said.

  “I know, but I cannot go in alone.” She pulled the scarf down, and I saw a shadow of a fading bruise along her delicate jawline. “You could say I was your translator.”

  “Why do you need to go in?”

  Several seconds passed. “My child was taken from me. And brought here.”

  “Taken against your will?”

  She blinked at these words, and I tried again: “Did you give up your baby? It’s all right. I understand.”

  “I changed my mind. I want my baby back.”

  Surely they’d just give it back to her. Surely. I couldn’t imagine that they wouldn’t.

  “We can go see the woman in charge,” I told her, and she shook her head.

  “No. No. They won’t give him back.”

  Him. Something colder than the wind began to creep along my flesh. “Why won’t they give the baby back to you?” I asked calmly, thinking she could be a crazy woman who just wants a baby. I was not going to help her kidnap some kid. There had to be a reason, if her story was true, that they have not just given her back her child. She was an addict or unstable or dangerous or… An addict wouldn’t have a nice coat like that, and her eyes were clear. But there were plenty of well-dressed mental cases in the world.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Anya.”

  “Anya, I want to help you, but I can’t. If I break a rule, they won’t give me my child.”

  “Please. Please. You are an American with money. They will listen to you.”

  I felt sick. I felt torn. As a mother, I couldn’t NOT help her. As a mother, I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t risk the adoption for this. Maybe I could find out, though, where her child was, where he was in the adoption pipeline.

  “What is your baby’s name?”

  I saw her struggle to trust me. She decided.

  “Alexander Borisovich Stepurin,” she said, very quietly.

  Sasha. Grant. My son.

  I repeated the name to her, slowly, like I’d not heard it before. She nodded. She pressed a piece of paper into my hand, with a phone number on it. I closed my hand around it.

  “I can ask about him,” I managed to say.

  “You must not tell them you talked to me. You could say that you are interested in a second child. Adopting two. Ask for a boy. He’s nine months old.”

  “Why didn’t you ask for him back before?”

  “I couldn’t,” she said, without explanation. Shame flickered in her eyes.

  I thought: If I help her, what will they think of me? If I don’t help her, what will I think of me?

  “You could go inside. Take him to a window. Let me see him. I have not seen him since he was born.”

  My courage started to desert me. It felt like God was saying I couldn’t have this child. “Why have they not given him back to you? Are you ill? Are you an addict? I know nothing about you and you ask me to take this risk.” I can’t even remember everything that I asked her then.

  “There are people…who don’t want me to have him,” she said.

  “Who? Who?” How did the warning woman fit into this?

  “To explain would put you in danger,” she said. “I cannot. I have tried to get help from inside, from the workers, and no one will help me. I’m up against too much. The money they make.”

  “He might be better off with a new family. Have you thought of that? The families that come here are so nice. They’ll give him the world.”

  She stared at me. “What baby are you adopting?”

  What will she do to me if she realizes I’m going to be her child’s mother? So I lied to this beautiful, lost soul. “A girl. Her name is Natasha. She’s eight months old.” This was the child the Robinettes were adopting, I just borrowed the name.

  My lie mollified her. “Will you help me?”

  I should say no. But I need to know…what does this have to do with my child? Who might come after him if we take him? I can’t ask for another child now. Clearly, clearly something is wrong—being warned off him, being followed, the crash, the bribe, his mother lurking in the snow—and I need to know the whole, sprawling truth. She won’t just tell me; I can see that. I have to earn it. I have to deceive her a little.

  “Let me go inside and see if I can find him,” I told her. “Go to the back window.” I pointed to one of the windows, and she nodded. “I’ll bribe a nurse to show me your Alexander,” I said. She nodded again.

  I trudged through the heavy snow. I put my emotions in check. I went inside. The receptionist, Svetlana, who very much liked the chocolates I had given her, told me Kyle and Maria were still checking the mountain of paperwork.

  “Could I go see Sasha? Just for a moment?” I asked in my best mommy tone. “I know where his ward is.”

  She’d seen all the supplies and toys I brought the last trip, and she spoke a bit more English than most of the staff, since she had to deal more with adoptive parents arriving. She nodded and gave me a sticker pass to put on my coat.

  I went up two flights of stairs; two staffers glanced at me, but they saw my pass and only nodded. I smiled back.

  My heart shuddered in my chest.

  I opened the door to his ward and found a room lined with cribs. No wonder the chicken pox tore through here like wildfire. There were ten cribs in this room, all occupied. There was no attendant in here at the moment.

  I saw Sasha—I mean Grant—in his crib. The pox was gone. My heart pounded, danced, twirled. He was such a handsome boy.

  She can’t have him. I won’t let her have him. She can’t give him what we can. She made her choice. She’s not stable. She’s not reliable. She doesn’t want what’s best for him. I…

  I took a giant breath and broke into sudden tears.

  I cannot take him away from his own mother. I cannot. I’m so many things, but I am not that person. I’ll take him and give him to her. I can’t live with myself if I don’t. Kyle will understand. The money we’ve spent—I’ll write some more songs. I’ll make it back. How can I look this sweet boy in the face every day if I don’t do the right thing?

  And a little voice in my head said: Why is giving him back to this woman you know nothing about the right thing? What if she’s mentally ill?

  Grant wriggled in his crib, eyes open, bored, but the stuffed dinosaur we brought him was tucked in the crib’s corner with him. I picked it up and nuzzled his nose with the toy. He watched me. No smile, no gurgle of recognition.

  “Hello, sweet boy,” I said to him. “Hello, my boy.”

  My boy. He won’t be my boy. I’m so sorry. I would have loved you so…

  “Will you come to me?” I asked, and then I picked him up because he was not going to give an answer. He liked being held, I thought, but he didn’t cuddle up to me; he didn’t seek that comfort of contact. Because he didn’t know I would die for him. Mostly he just looked around.

  I took the deepest breath of my life and walked him to the window.

  She was out there, twenty feet away and below us two stories, looking up as though she were seeing the sun for the first time in forever. I could see the bright smile come across her face. She raised a hand toward him.

  I lifted up her son’s—our son’s—hand toward her and waved back, very slightly.

  I saw Anya was crying. Trying to smile.

  I waved his hand again. Sasha…Grant…looked out the window like he’d never seen the view before. The snow. The clouds, from two stories up.

  The woman.

  The dog.

  I saw it loping toward her, a big one, a breed—I don’t know breeds, but it was big and sleek, like a police dog, and I was powerless, but I gestured toward her. She just waved harder, and now I cried out in shock as the dog leapt upward.

  Did she not hear it? Was she so laser-focused on her child, on seeing him for the first time in nine months, that she didn’t hear?

  The dog caught her heavily coated arm and knocked her into the sno
w. I saw two men, I didn’t know if they were guards or what, hurrying toward her through the drifts. She was screaming—I saw the bright O of her mouth—and the dog wasn’t releasing her arm. He pulled her across the pure white canvas. I could not, would not let Grant see this. I put him back in the crib, and now, happy to have been held, he fussed for me. He wanted me to hold him, for the first time, and my heart tore in two. I rushed back to the window, fearful.

  She stood now, thankfully, but wobbly, one of the men having pulled the dog off, the other one having helped her to her feet. The sleeve of her coat was in shreds and I saw blood drops dotting the snow.

  The dog was under control though, not attacking her, and a shudder of relief went through me. I watched as they led her not to the main building but…to the road that cuts through the orphanage’s compound. They were not even taking her to the infirmary. Or the nurse.

  They were just removing her.

  I ran from Grant’s room, I hurried down the steps. I found a side door and burst out of it. I ran toward the trio in the snow. The dog looked at me and growled.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled at the guards, or staffers, or whatever they are. “She needs medical attention.”

  Anya stared at me, wildness in her eyes. And gratitude. I had showed her Sasha.

  One of the guards talked to me in shattered English. “She is problem lady,” he said. “Many problem. Not to be here.”

  “Help me, help me,” Anya yelled.

  “Stop!” I made them stop and looked at her arm. The heavy fabric of the coat and her sweater protected her, but the arm was badly bruised and there were two narrow marks, oozing blood.

  “Doctor,” I said. “She needs a doctor!”

  “Choice,” the guard said. “If doctor come here, police come, too, arrest. If she go to doctor in town, no call police. Her choice.”

  “Her baby,” I said, pointing to the building.

  “Not her baby,” the guard said. He wiggled a finger near the brain. Anya looked down at the snow.

  “Please don’t do this,” I said. “Think of what your mother would say. Your own mother.”