by Tina Traster
A shock rips through my body.
Barbara is considering leaving the baby behind. How could she? How cruel that seems. What would I do if I felt that way? I’m glad I don’t. Those back-arching movements have scared me but not enough for me to reconsider my decision. Maybe Barbara’s unstable. I don’t know what to think.
We are ushered from the room and taken back to our apartment block. Barbara and Neal hurry up the steps and close their door.
“Wow, that’s got to be torture,” I say to Ricky.
“Yeah, she seems a bit kooky.”
“You know what I think?” I say, not waiting for him to answer. “I think that Barbara is very happy with her family of three, and somewhere along the way she convinced herself she needs a brother for her daughter, and here she is, ten thousand miles away from her daughter, and she’s miserable and wants to go home and has no interest in this child.”
“Could be,” Ricky says. “I just think she’s a bit wacky.”
A couple of hours later, Vladimir returns to take us into the business district for lunch and free time. Only Neal comes downstairs.
“Where’s Barbara?” I ask.
“She’s lying down,” he says. “She’s not feeling too well.” I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know what I can say that would be at all helpful.
Happily, he’s willing to talk. “She’s concerned about the baby,” he says. “She’s afraid he’s not going to be able to bond with her.”
“Can she really know that from meeting him just one time?” I ask.
“Well, with our daughter, she fell in love instantly,” he says. “She just felt like her mother immediately, but this time it feels different.”
“Maybe it’s because he’s a boy?” I say, thinking but not saying I have not fallen in love with Julia either as of yet. She is beautiful and I’m not having second thoughts about taking her home, but my heart has not given way to some convulsive feeling of passion.
“Maybe,” Neal says, pausing.
“Barbara’s done a lot of reading about Reactive Attachment Disorder,” he continues.
“What’s that?” Ricky says.
“It’s a syndrome that is not that uncommon among kids who’ve spent their early months or years institutionalized in orphanages. By the time they are adopted, they often have trouble bonding or attaching.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s the exception and not the rule,” I say. “It seems your first Russian adoption has been successful.”
“Yeah, Barbara bonded with our daughter Amelia right away.”
“I think everything will turn out fine with Brandon,” I say.
“Yes. I’m sure that most times things turn out fine. But there are many documented cases of Reactive Attachment Disorder, especially from Romanian orphanages, and from Russian ones, too. Sometimes it’s okay. But sometimes these kids are not all right. They can be very difficult to live with. They have a lot of emotional problems, and it can be really disruptive for the whole family.”
I look at Ricky. He is listening intently. I think back to the day in the bookstore when, perhaps, I should have picked up a book or two on foreign adoption.
Neal sees he’s unnerved me.
“Well, don’t worry. Your baby seems very animated. I’m sure it will all work out as it’s supposed to.” I accept his answer, believing Brandon and Julia are so fundamentally different that I don’t need to worry about the scary words he’s just uttered.
Six
We are dropped off at a cafeteria-style café. We line up and put our food on trays. We invite Neal to sit with us, and he does. He discusses his work. I chat about my writing career, telling him I worked at New Jersey newspapers for ten years. Barbara is a teacher, but she’s taken time off to raise their child. Ricky talks a little about the tea company.
During lunch, I notice a group of young women, maybe twenty-year-olds. They peel off heavy fur coats. Underneath they are wearing thin leggings with pencil skirts and baby-doll shirts. There are three of them, and they’re all tall and gorgeous with long, golden hair, exquisite paper-white complexions, and broad cheeks with slightly slanted eyes.
Is this Julia in twenty years? I can picture her dark, slightly slanted eyes and her alabaster skin.
Siberia is a crossroads of European and Asian cultures. Its very name conjures up images of prison camps and frozen death. Siberia equals banishment. It’s the place people never return from. Or go to, unless they are forced to.
Novosibirsk, with 1.5 million people, is Siberia’s largest city. It has its own narrative, according to the few bits of information I had been able to scrounge on the Internet before we left. The city was founded in 1893 at the future site of a Trans-Siberian Railway bridge crossing the great Siberian river Ob. Since 1925, it has been the center of heavy metallurgy and machine-tool manufacturing, of international trade conferences, and of mining and chemical manufacturing. The Ob River, one of the longest in the world, runs through the broad, wide city, flowing toward the Arctic. The river is so polluted with industrial waste and toxic oil it doesn’t entirely freeze in winter. There’s a world-class opera and ballet house here. In the 1950s, the Soviet government built Akademgorodok, a scientific research complex located on the city’s outskirts. Novosibirsk has fourteen research institutions and universities.
Neal says he’s going to walk around and get some fresh air. Ricky gets us each another cup of black tea, and we linger a bit longer. “Wow, I don’t envy him,” I say. “Barbara probably blames him for coming here alone and not seeing that the baby is a problem.”
“I don’t know,” he says, blowing on the steamy cup. “She seems a bit neurotic. I feel sorry for him.”
“What would you do if I suddenly had a change of mind?”
“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go see what we can find to like about Novosibirsk.”
It is cold, but the frigid air is rejuvenating. Our first stop is a store that sells maps. None of the maps are in English. We’ve been wanting desperately to have a map, because we constantly feel disoriented. We’re driven everywhere by Vladimir. We’re never allowed to take public transportation. Ricky says they drive us a different route from our housing digs to the orphanage every time just to keep us off our game.
We duck into an Internet café. It is up one level and filled with grungy twenty-somethings. They scowl when they see us. The computer is slow. Our friend Jay has been staying at our apartment with our cat. He’s our only lifeline. His e-mails are peppered with adorable things Floopy has done. He reports on the cat’s eating and bathroom habits. He mentions how tense things are as President George W. Bush prepares to start a war in Iraq.
I sign off with a heavy heart. What grief will a war in Iraq bring? Will New York be targeted again by terrorists? I have not been the same since 9/11. The horrific attack left me unable to feel unfettered and free in a city I’ve loved my whole life. I wasn’t at Ground Zero. I only knew people who knew people who died. But I was changed. I stopped riding the subway, I became claustrophobic in high-rises, and I didn’t like to be in places with crowds. I craved a little cabin in the woods we could escape to at the drop of a hat. As I reread Jay’s words about Bush waging war, I think maybe we should stay here in this frozen city at the end of the world.
“You OK?” Ricky asks.
“The neocons are marching to war,” I say.
“Yeah, I saw that too. Onward Christian soldiers.”
“What if we stayed here?” I say. “What if we stay in the lost corner of the world where presumably nothing awful ever happens? I bet the people here have never even heard about 9/11.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says. “We might be in a remote place but, look, you’re on the Internet. I don’t think these people are some aboriginal tribe cut off from the world.”
Of course he is right. It’s been about a decade since Novosibirsk has been opened to the West. There are glimmering signs of capitalism all around us. Still, this place feels like the end
of the world to me. A safe house, ironically.
The next day we go to court to finalize the adoption. I had brought a skirt to wear, thinking it’d be important to look nice, but I cannot bear to wear hose and expose my legs to this frost. On the ride to court, we are coached; we are told what will be asked and what we should say. This all seems ridiculous, like all the bureaucracy we’ve been exposed to before, but, like good monkeys, we respond on cue. Even though this is a formality—and we’re told the courts never deny an adoption—my stomach is filled with butterflies. “What if …” We’ve come this far. “Can you imagine?” I say to Ricky.
“It’ll be fine.”
I’ve learned there’s only one thing that rattles Ricky, and that’s a day on the slopes, skiing. When he was twelve he was skiing in the Catskills with his two older brothers. They abandoned him on an icy day, and he broke his leg. He was laid up in bed for months and needed to be home tutored for the rest of seventh grade. He never skied again. When we fell in love in 2000, he knew how much I loved to ski, and he dusted himself off and clipped on a set of skis. It’s only when we drive up to the mountains that he grows quiet and pensive. I guess he needs to be afraid of something. Today, he’s not worried. It’s not that his training as a lawyer makes this process more decipherable; he simply trusts things will turn out okay. He often says, “I know the sun will rise every morning.”
The court session is quick and painless. We are asked a couple of questions by a panel of administrators. Olga translates. “Congratulations,” she says when we leave the tiny courtroom. The next stop is the ticketing office to buy airline tickets from Siberia back to Moscow. Olga had explained we couldn’t do this in advance because there was uncertainty as to how many days we would have to spend in Novosibirsk.
On our last day in the city, we are free until 9:00 PM, when we will be taken to the orphanage to collect Julia. Vladimir drives us to a local crafts market, which is a warren of art and collectibles. I buy some old maps of Novosibirsk.
“One day I’ll want to write about this godforsaken place,” I tell Ricky. “It will be good to have a map.”
“Hopefully by then you’ll have mastered Russian,” he says.
I thumb through the artwork. The place is dank and musty, but I come across a few pieces I like. We buy a six-by-six-inch framed enamel of a mélange of Russian-style buildings overlapping each other. “Novosibirsk” is written on the painting in English. It is signed by “Shylaga.”
“Very good artist. Local artist,” says the purveyor, a bulky man with a thick black mustache.
Ricky leans in and says, “They’re probably made in a factory in China.”
Perhaps, but we like it.
Then I notice a pair of whimsical painted kittens with oversized eyes and curious expressions. “These really are sweet. I am going to buy these and hang them in Julia’s room.”
On the way to the orphanage that night, we are told to be very fast. Julia will be handed to us naked. “Don’t talk to anyone. Dress her quickly. Be very quiet.”
“How noir,” I say to Ricky.
“Shh,” he says. “We have our instructions.”
Olga tiptoes up the steps. We follow her lead. Everything is done with Japanese-knife-tossing speed. Ricky pulls on a diaper, then a one-sie, and then the yellow snowsuit, but there’s no time to admire it. After she is dressed, Ricky sweeps her into his arms. There is a pacifier in her mouth. It has a plastic yellow and white daisy around it. I’m handed a tiny little cardboard box. I take a moment to lift the lid. Inside is a little gold baptismal cross. I fight back tears as I think of Julia’s young birth mother, who will never again see her child.
Driving to the airport, I notice Julia is fascinated with the moonlight, just as she was with sunlight. What a phenomenon—a world outside the thick walls where she has lived her whole tiny life.
It is starting to snow. Again, we will be flying through a storm.
“How many times can we defeat death?” I say to Ricky.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll be back at the Moscow Marriott before you know it.”
I hook my mind on the marble lobby and the Marriott’s serene swimming pool in an attempt to calm down. Olga leads us to the airport lounge, where we sit with Barbara, Neal, and Brandon, and Jo and her child.
Olga is speaking in a hushed voice to the agent at the desk. Then she turns and says, “The flight is going to be delayed due to the storm.”
“What?” I say. “We’ve flown through worse than this. I don’t understand.”
By now Olga has become accustomed to my neurosis, but she is done with us. We have our baby. She says good-bye hastily and wishes us good luck.
I look at Barbara, who is holding Brandon on her lap. She must have gone through hell to get to this point of acceptance. She actually seems rather peaceful. She’s probably counting down the hours until she can get back to New Jersey and her daughter. Jo doles out Cheerios to her little girl, who has thin black hair and a rash all over her face. I think to myself how brave Jo must be, a single mother, bringing home a child who looks like she’s never had a day of decent care. But Jo is chipper and upbeat.
Ricky checks in with the desk about departure times, but he’s not getting much information. He chats with a German businessman who is in Siberia to sell machine tools. His English is perfect. Julia sits on my lap. I feed her formula from a bottle. She seems to like it. Briefly, I feel like a mother. Then, a loud pop, followed by a putrid stench.
“Oh, my God!” I scream, feeling the hot ooze of diarrhea cover my lap.
Ricky leaps from his seat and grabs her. He knows what to do. He peels off the yellow jumpsuit. Barbara and Jo jump in to help, handing Ricky baby wipes and plastic bags to dispose of the soiled diaper. Barbara digs in her bag for a clean diaper. There is a veritable factory of baby care, but I am frozen solid. I can’t change a diaper. How can I be this child’s mother? Barbara’s looking at me—probably thinking, Now who’s the crazy one?
“Don’t worry,” Barbara says wryly. “Motherhood is a learning process.”
Throughout the diaper explosion episode, Julia never cries. Come to think of it, I have yet to see her cry. Don’t all babies cry?
Two hours later, we are called to board. I’m glad to have Novosibirsk behind me.
The staff at the Moscow Marriott is accustomed to adoptive parents from the United States. They have made a makeshift crib out of a laundry basket for Julia. Julia sleeps through the first night. We wake on February 14, Valentine’s Day. When Ricky and I started dating two and a half years ago, he told me he hated Valentine’s Day because of his ex-wife. This woman, whom Ricky and I never mention by name, brought him to his knees financially. She spent the money he made as a criminal defense attorney faster than he could make it. On Valentine’s Day she expected to be showered with flowers and jewelry. Ricky maintained the charade long after he’d realized he had married a gold digger. We treat Valentine’s Day casually, writing love poems and staying home and cooking dinner. Here we are in Moscow, with our new baby, experiencing the living poetry of becoming parents. Ricky is wearing Julia in a sling. When I try her on, so to speak, I am shocked at how heavy she is around my neck. I can’t support her because I have a weak back. At fifteen pounds, Julia feels like a solid sack of potatoes or a small bag of cement.
That morning, I run out to the drugstore for formula. It takes an hour to make myself understood, but the clerk is patient. In between a day of bureaucratic stops to fill out papers, we take Julia with us to lunch. Every time Ricky or I give her formula, I suck in my breath and wait for our modern-day Pompeii to rip. The last stop is another government compound where Julia is checked by a doctor. There are so many questions I’d like to ask. I try to explain the back-arching, but I know the doctor doesn’t understand me or won’t let on that he does. He examines her in five minutes, as though she were a piece of meat being inspected by a USDA official. Would these doctors ever reveal there was a problem if they had fou
nd one this far along in the process? I doubt it.
The next morning we have the lavish buffet breakfast the Marriott serves.
“Hey guys, how’s it going?”
We haven’t seen Robert and Laura since that first night in Moscow, but his melodic voice is familiar even before I see him. He is carrying Noa, who has a full head of silk-black hair and a caramel complexion. She looks like a tiny gypsy. Robert tells us she’s eleven months old, but she looks at least a year older than Julia, who is completely bald.
“Where’s Laura?” I ask.
“She’s upstairs on the phone to her mother,” he snorts. “She’s emotionally overcome by this whole thing. She’s a little upset because we were planning on adopting two babies, but it didn’t work out.”
“We’ll …,” he continued, hoping to keep talking. “We’ll see you guys later at the American Embassy.”
“I guess this really is a tough thing for a lot of women,” I say to Ricky.
He tells me he’s going to the buffet to refill his plate.
There are about fifty couples at the American Embassy, the next to last step in the adoption. They are sitting in rows of chairs with their newly adopted babies. I scan the room, across one row of chairs, then the next, and the next. Uncannily, it looks like the babies have been matched to the parents, like a scarf to a suit.
“How do they do that?” I say, in complete bewilderment.
I look at Julia.
No one would say she resembles me or Ricky, but she does have a small, scoop nose like mine and large, broad cheekbones like Ricky’s.
“That’s incredible,” I continue. “Look at the parents and the babies and tell me what you see.”
Ricky scans the rows.
“Wow, they look like the parents!” he says.
I’m not crazy.
“I guess that’s why they ask for pictures of us when we fill out the dossier,” he says.
“This is like a science fiction movie.”