Beautiful Evil Winter Page 3

  A deafening silence lasts for several international minutes.

  “Why don’t you just have one?” he replies eventually.

  “Dad, I can’t. Remember the horseback riding accident?” My voice falters.

  “Oh! Yes, I remember… I’ll call you later, Sophia. Let me think about this. Good-bye.”

  One week later, we talk again for a long time.

  “Are you sure about this decision? What do you know about the subject?” he asks.

  I know this tone—he’s in attentive mode now. I can almost see his brow furrow as his mouth forms a hard line.

  “Yes, we’re sure we want to be parents, Dad. It seems like a natural direction for us. You’ve got strong ties to Russia. I’ve done some research, not a lot yet. I need to do more.”

  Finally, he says, “I’ll look into it, and we’ll talk again soon.”

  He’s not on board yet, but he’s considering it. He won’t help unless he thinks about it from every angle.

  While waiting for the next call, I begin doing research by collecting articles and information. I purchase a 20/20 video about Russian adoptions that is astonishing and scary. I watch children trapped in drab, stark environments with robotic care-givers, toddlers standing in their cribs, weaving back and forth, shifting weight from one foot to the other like a pendulum, a dance of emotional neglect which marks sensory deprivation moment by moment—no hugs, inadequate play, no friends and little toy time. Eventually, the youngest—the babies—lie still and quiet in their cribs, finally accepting the reality that their cries and need for comfort or love don’t matter. I see sub-foster care situations, just a step above a scientific research lab. The punch-card clock and the bony budget win daily—a big glass of salt for the children to choke down every day, coating and withering the heart and soul. Later in life, these kids must often deal with a lifetime of learning and emotional disabilities.

  “Have you considered surrogacy as an option?” my father asks in his-reserved-for business voice.

  “Yes. Surrogacy in the US would be… risky and complex. A surrogate Mom with a change of heart can torpedo the best-laid plans and leave us with an empty nursery and the financial wreckage of living expenses, hospital and legal bills.”

  Above all, how could I expect someone to do something I wouldn’t do myself?

  “How about a Russian surrogate?” he ventures.

  A surrogate 13 hours away by plane doesn’t seem reasonable, and a Russian surrogate living here could be tricky too.

  “No, Dad, “I say, “We don’t care about ginning our gene pools together.”

  “What about US adoption?” Dad suggests.

  “Absolutely not. Have you seen the news stories about the adoptions that become nightmares?”

  “I’ve seen news reports about babies torn from established loving homes at age six or ten because the birth father didn’t sign the paperwork or the birth Mom wants her child back. There’s no way am I signing up for that.”

  Dad doesn’t sound convinced, “Aren’t those the exception rather than the rule?”

  “Yes, Dad, but we don’t want to have that sword hanging over our heads. As a matter of fact, we have friends who adopted here. They spent $30,000 for the opportunity to adopt a baby through a private agency, and the birth parents want to see the baby on a regular basis.”

  “So?”

  “Just think about it,” I say, exasperated by the thought. “What if the birth parents don’t share our values and religious beliefs? What if other relatives want to be involved in raising the baby? What if they disagree on our values and religion? It seems very complex and difficult to me to manage that situation.”

  Dad sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Our friends also warned me that since I’m a divorced 36 year old, the agencies will frown on me as a candidate.”

  “Yes, I see your point. I know you must be doing a lot of research since we last talked. What do you now know about Russian adoptions?”

  “A Russian adoption seems less complicated,” I say relieved that Dad is finally coming around. “Especially in financially fragile Russia, few birth parents can actually bankroll a legal battle in the US; so, we could avoid a long, emotional tug-of-war even if they changed their mind and wanted to reverse their decision. Also, Russians worship cash—we have cash.”

  Dad says nothing for a few minutes.

  “One last thing, Dad—finding the best orphanage is critical. A lot of these kids develop serious long-lasting emotional problems related to that environment.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’ll talk to my Russian partners. And I’ll let you know” he promises.

  ***

  A squeeze of my hand and I’m upright, feeling startled until I see Ethan’s face.

  Where am I?

  My eyes dart around to all the now familiar faces—the nose-picking girl scribbling in her coloring book, a baby sleeping in his mother’s arms, and a balding executive reading a newspaper.

  Rubbing my eyes, I look at Ethan.

  “Are we almost there?”

  4. LONDON CUSTOMS

  From Dallas to London, the first leg of our trip is uneventful. Next step, the London customs check. This should be a breeze.

  Still sore and cramped from the flight, Ethan and I find ourselves with the other American travelers in a perfect square of a room, stark white from tile to walls to ceiling. The floor shows the only signs of heavy traffic, it needs to be swept. Several long fluorescent lights peer down at the passengers, and a couple of black metal frame chairs sit in a far corner, chairs designed for sitting briefly. The message is clear: get in and out before the metal starts beating your butt and your back.

  Two guards stand like exclamation points at the center of the room beside a table long enough to harvest vital organs from living donors. They study everyone from shoes to ponytail. And then, they study them again from crown to shoes. Finally, they stare at your eyes and face like miners boring into a mountainside, searching for golden nuggets of guilt.

  Ethan walks and stands front and center, like a proud soldier awaiting an assignment.

  The guard grabs his carry-on, searching for “treasure”.

  The other guard stands about two feet away, head cocked and arms folded across his chest. He’s a tall man with black greasy hair, long sideburns and a caterpillar of a moustache. He watches every twitch and every blink as if he would be tested on it later.

  “Well, the bag is okay. What do you think?”

  The guard motions him ahead.

  I step-up next, pushing a stroller with a diaper bag in it. My stomach lurches as I realize that I look a little suspicious with an empty stroller. An uneasiness washes over me, like bungee jumping off a bridge for the first time. I feel my legs quiver.

  Please no more delays in this journey. I can’t be detained—not now.

  “So, you’re going to Russia,” one guard murmurs as he circles around me, smiling.

  “Where’s the baby? In the suitcase?” He looks over his shoulder to wink at the other guard.

  “We’re going to Russia to adopt a baby,” I explain. “I’ve got to be equipped for the trip home to the US.” I stand tall, shoulders back and chest out, speaking with absolute confidence, a voice rooted in truth and indignation. My eyes lock on his and do not waiver.

  “You know this is a well-travelled route for Russian adoptions.”

  I turn and glare at the other guard.

  I have nothing to hide.

  “Call Leslie so she can frisk her and give her carry-ons a once and twice-over,” he says with a smirk as he turns away.

  The guard in the corner stares, poised like a cougar ready for a meal.

  After the London customs agents certify me as a clean bugger, I move out of the white room of inspection and interrogation. It’s time to decompress after the customs “fun”.

  We begin to pass the next several layover hours in the cold terminal resting in black, rigid,
hard plastic chairs. The chairs that some people nap or sleep on are as comfortable as a splinter in the thumb. Since we are too weary and too apprehensive to sleep, we sporadically pace and sit. Quickly, the polish of the American-based travelers begins to fade. Hunger pains, red eyes, wrinkled clothes and the disoriented mindset of international travelers replace it. Hour by hour, our carefully crafted appearance disintegrates as our situation strips us of our former identities in order to begin new our lives.

  As the shine wears off the red ripe apple, the unseen rot of skepticism threatens to spoil our joy.

  5. THE EPIPHANY

  From London to Moscow, the trip is easy and calm, restful like sitting on the front porch swing admiring the wildflowers. As we stroll through the Moscow airport hand-in-hand, we notice what isn’t there. There are no t-shirt shops, no color, no bright or natural lighting and no inviting bars or restaurants. No enticing smells, just the smell of mildew and stagnant air. As we walk the dark, long, forgettable tunnel to customs, it seems as if we crossed a generational time line, not just an international one. This airport appears to be vintage World War II era, it packs all of the charisma and charm of a war bunker. Long lines leading to the customs agents add to our anxiety level.

  Is this an old facility? Is this standard? A few neon signs and mouth-watering smells would be a plus.

  The answers to my questions gradually become clear. Luckily, the agent waives us ahead after reviewing our passports.

  Soon afterwards, Ethan recognizes our greeting party—Ivan, the driver, Viktoria, the translator and Natasha, the attorney. Natasha, a tall, plain-looking woman in her mid 30s greets me for the first time. Her short black hair and intense marble eyes compliment her full-length mink coat, matching mink hat and black leather boots.

  The infamous Natasha—who told us multiple times she’d call us with updates and didn’t, who told us to be ready to leave then told us to cancel our flight, who angrily asked for docs on a Monday and harassed us on Tuesday because she didn’t have them yesterday.

  ***

  How can we ever forget that agony?

  “I call you next month because I think we ready then,” Natasha declares.

  Every night, we continue to sleep with the phone cradled between us, awaiting that life- changing call. Without a doubt, he already lives in our home. His toys appear everywhere, his phantom presence dominating our every thought and action. In every room, we spot reminders of our him—a crib with brightly colored sheets, a dresser filled with tiny clothes, Scooby Doo cups in the kitchen cabinets, rubber ducks in the bathroom, stuffed musical bears, trucks and Dr. Seuss books in the living room—all waiting for his curious little hands. To any visitor, our home appears to be a loving tribute to an invisible child.

  I tear the calendar page and toss it in the trash; I carefully count every day and line through it.

  Why didn’t she call? I wonder.

  Although we received distinct instructions in this bureaucratic battle-“Don’t call me, I call you,” I call Natasha anyway one day.

  “We’ve bought our tickets for Russia,” I tell her. “We leave in one week. We’ve been counting the days since our last conversation!” My giddiness bubbles over like foam on a too full glass of cola. Smiling from ear-to-ear, I stare at one very large packed suitcase standing beside the front door.

  “Cancel plans not ready for you yet. I call you later,” she replies sharply and hangs up. The sour taste of disappointment sits in my mouth like lumpy curdled milk for the rest of the night. Clinging to hope, I re-schedule our reservations for two weeks later and again called to confirm.

  “Cancel! I call you in two weeks,” she barks.

  “Why aren’t they ready? What could be taking so long? Did something go horribly wrong?” I ask.

  The same questions at every turn in stereophonic sound.

  It’s Friday night about 8:00, and we just finished dinner. Ethan walks to the bar, an antique armoire conversion, within full view of the dining room.

  “How about a vodka Collins?” He says as he mixes his drink. It becomes a ritual for us, as predictable as the sunset. Since we fulfilled all requirements nationally and internationally, we pour over the rules and regulations in an effort to determine a source of delay. Weekend evenings spent at a long rectangular dining room table covered in a white tablecloth of information and regulations, a heart-stopping heavy silence wedged between us. A raging waterfall of worry drenching us as the hours passed in quiet non-discovery. Sitting across the table from one another, our dull tired eyes meet. Holding hands briefly, we smile lamely at each other in encouragement. A stress headache starts to gnaw at my forehead. I put the papers down and rub my temples to buy some time as Ethan pushes away from the table, rubs his eyes, moving to stand behind me to massage my tight shoulders.

  “Remember each day that passes puts us one day closer,” he consoles insincerely.

  “What’s missing? What’s the missing link?” I look over the files of documents and information late one night after Ethan falls asleep. While sitting in a white wingback chair with a cup of hot tea perched on an end table, I pull a lamp closer to my teacup and tilt the shade toward me like a spotlight. One file after another is carefully stacked on the floor beside the chair. Each requirement checked twice, once previously in blue ink and once for that night in red. An empty teacup and a yawn mark the end of the first pass. I lean back in the chair, rub my eyes and stretch my arms out to my sides. The last folder on the floor is the first folder that I put together. It’s titled “General Information”.

  Finally! Something to consider! The American and Russian requests are a non issue now. Everything was submitted. What could the Russians be doing or not doing? What does Russian law require? I need to do something different—look at this differently.

  Line by line, I re-read this folder as a native Russian hoping to adopt instead of assuming the American role. The answer appears in a paragraph—the child must be registered on the Russian adoption rolls for a mandatory six months prior to adoption. When a family becomes interested in an adoptable baby, the agency must automatically place the baby’s name on the Russian adoption rolls in order to allow relatives or other interested Russians an opportunity to adopt him. Russian law gives relatives and citizens preferential status during this period.

  Suddenly, it clicks. There’s no agency representing us. The child house does not have to put him on the rolls; so, they didn’t. This has to be the reason! And Natasha never put him on the rolls! She doesn’t know what she’s doing! She’s fumbling her way through the process, and not telling us about any of it.

  Two more weeks creep by. Natasha doesn’t call. One more day comes and goes. No call. “Too bad if she gets angry! We deserve to know something!” I say scornfully. I can feel the electric rage power on. My eyes narrow, fury pools in my chest. My muscles harden like rocks, ready to pummel something to dust.

  Ethan’s face tightens with fright while I grab the phone and begin dialing.

  I’d like to rip your head off, Natasha! A lie by omission is still a lie! But I know I must get through this conversation without tearing her to pieces.

  “Natasha, we haven’t heard from you. Will we be waiting for 6 months for an adoption roll response?” I ask in an icy cold voice.

  “No worry. He completely undesirable to anyone else. His medical records show many many problems, severe medical problems,” she answers quickly, tonelessly.

  “What do you mean? What medical problems?” I ask, terrified of her next words.

  “He is healthy baby boy. On documents only, he show many severe medical problems so no one want him.”

  “What a relief! He’s not afflicted with a long list of life-altering problems,” I re-confirm. Looking across the room at Ethan, I see him smile warmly, basking in the glow of the day- brightening revelation. An irrepressible smile threatens to destroy my demeanor.

  Okay, so, she basically admits to the mistake because she didn’t dispute it at all. W
e’re right. And yes, she knows that Russian disdain for physical imperfection would anchor our position on the list of prospective candidates. She plays that card just right.

  “I call you in two weeks,” she says to end the conversation.

  Within the next two-week time frame, Ethan and I realize that Natasha lied to us in order to gain time, to avoid accepting responsibility and to cover bungled efforts. And of course, she doesn’t call.

  ***

  “Welcome to Russia. I hope this is the only trip you have to make,” she says indifferently.

  Terrific! I think. We are talking multiple trips now to make this happen, a long process and huge travel expense to go back and forth. We needed family help to cover these plane tickets. No mention of the legislative sword hanging over our heads. Is this about inexperience or ineptitude? Surely, she knows about the “closing adoption door”.

  I look at Ethan. His watery eyes mirror mine. I swallow with difficulty wanting to gag instead.

  Returning home without our son. Dealing with another heart-wrenching waiting period. More false alarms and last minute cancellations. Nausea and intense anger well up in my throat like vomit trying to escape. I want to spit it at her.

  As if to disrupt the loud silence, Viktoria, a fair-skinned, attractive woman in her late 20s introduces herself in perfectly British-accented, textbook English. As she flashes her best smile and extends a wool glove to greet me, I notice her simple, green wool coat, black boots and green wool hat. For some reason, she makes me feel more comfortable than Natasha. Her blonde hair and sparking green eyes remind me of a childhood friend.

  Ivan grabs our luggage, and all of us converge on the waiting taxis. The 26 degree below zero temperature assaults me producing waves of shivers. I bet I couldn’t be colder if I stepped dripping wet out of the shower into a walk-in freezer. I clutch my coat as I would a bath towel. I’m wearing 4 layers including silk long johns.