Beautiful Evil Winter Page 9

  Now, I’ll finally meet my baby. From this day forward, my life changes forever. Thank you for this moment, God.

  The enormity of the moment, the tangibility of success, and the long, difficult history to reach this moment send me tumbling over a cliff. Ethan holds me in his arms as my body trembles with the release of months of rigorously controlled emotions.

  Facing the doorway as Ethan holds me, I see a nurse carrying a small baby walking toward me. As she gently places him in my arms, my sense of happiness surges like a racehorse breaking from the starting gate, the speed and thrust of thundering hooves not more powerful. My heart is now heavy and full as never before. My eyes well with tears again as I softly kiss his little fuzzy, baldhead and his miniature hands. I rock him and kiss him as everything around us fades to a blur, nothing else matters. Dizzy with emotion, I’m awash in a tidal wave of feelings that I never experienced before in my life, giddiness, intoxication and enchantment. A nod from nature to fulfill a calling, a twist of Fate untwisted—to be a Mom, to be his Mom forever.

  After spending time-stopping moments caressing him, I sadly realize that he isn’t responding.

  Our son, clad in three or four layers of clothing, seems more like a rosy-cheeked baby doll. He’s not engaging with me. His chest struggles and rattles each time he uses his lungs!

  He’s sick! What’s wrong with him?

  I look up at the translator, my face flush with panic.

  “He’s sick. What’s wrong? Does he have medicine?”

  Viktoria rattles off my question and smiles knowingly. “He has a cold. They are treating him. He’ll be well soon.”

  I look at her blankly and him again, looking for signals of discomfort and love. My thoughts run wild.

  He’s not showing discomfort or irritation with the cold even though he sounds awful. What else can be going on? He’s not acting like he dislikes me. He’s not pulling away or leaning away. How would I feel if someone I knew put me into a stranger’s arms? The nurse didn’t let me him to choose to reach for me. She just placed him in my arms. I’ll bet he’s scared and sick. At times, I act frozen and withdrawn when extremely stressed.

  I kiss the top of his head again gently, but don’t pull him in for a hug.

  This may be the first time he’s been showered with unconditional love, warmth and adoration.

  You’ll get a daily dose of caresses, kisses and love from me, little one—that I promise you. You almost seem stunned by the attention and focus. Your little face looks confused.

  Above all, I promise you that you’ll know that I love you always and endlessly no matter how long that takes, what it takes. I make that vow here and now.

  After ten minutes, the manager signals that the meeting should end now. As the nurse leans toward us, he grasps one of my fingers, using his entire hand, and squeezes. The nurse hoists him up to her shoulder to leave. And as I watch him watch me, his fuzzy little head and beautiful green blue eyes peering over the nurse’s shoulder, my eyes mist and spill more tears.

  As we prepare to leave, having said our goodbyes, the manager grabs Viktoria’s arm and points at us. She speaks excitedly in Russian.

  Viktoria turns to us and smiles.

  “She invites you to return to the child house in two days for his first birthday celebration. She says you’re welcome to come regardless of the Judge’s decision about this adoption.”

  She likes me! What a warm and kind gesture! Wait! We have to appear in court and soon! I thought a child protective review panel would handle this situation. Regardless of the judge’s decision? What if he says no? What if Mikhail decides to interfere with the courtroom proceedings? I bet he knows the Judge. What if Mikhail influences the Judge?

  I inhale a deep breath and wipe my tears away with my sweater sleeve.

  19. TRAP SPRUNG

  A quick check of the room validates my suspicion—the $200 dollars is gone, the penny replaced by a bullet.

  “I think we should alter our appearance as much as possible,” I tell Ethan. “Mikhail could be at the courtroom waiting with his men. It’ll at least give us an opportunity to perhaps spot them before they see us.’’

  “The way I see it—it couldn’t hurt,” Ethan says thoughtfully. “But if they are there to disrupt, it’ll take place no matter how much we alter our appearance. Having said that, it’ll give us a chance to buy some time to escape.”

  “All I need is some scissors so you can cut my hair. Will you look in the maid’s closet outside the room?” I ask as I begin to strip off my make-up and apply dark black pencil under my bottom lashes, smearing it under my eyes to make bags.

  After a few minutes, I hear fast feet outside our door, and Ethan returns breathless.

  “Nothing in the maid’s closet, but I saw a maid with scissors hanging on her cart. With a sweet pleading pagalista look, she let me have them,” he says with a grin.

  “Okay, start cutting—straight across the back. Make it shoulder length. Then, I’ll cut your hair. You’ll need to shave off your mustache too.”

  “I think we need to find our darkest simplest looking clothes to lock-in the humble appearance we’re aiming for.”

  After the scissors stop clicking and the hangers stop rattling, we look at ourselves in the mirror and see the Ellis Island immigrant version of ourselves, clad in dark simple clothing with a too-travelled look etched on our faces.

  Gray skies and polar cold set the stage on our important court date.

  Snowflakes pour from the sky like graffiti at a hero’s homecoming. Only a few days after our arrival in Siberia, we’ll be in court! Our enthusiasm ping pongs back and forth as we count the minutes until Natasha’s arrival.

  We share a cab with Viktoria and Natasha to the courthouse. As we open the door, Natasha’s jaw drops.

  “What did you do? You look not pretty! Your hair! It bad! And clothes! Do you lack good clothes?” She pivots in her seat to look back at us, grimacing at the sight.

  “We needed a change to mark this special occasion. And we couldn’t sleep last night; so, we’re tired. We have good clothes. We merely want to look very serious today,” Ethan explains smoothly.

  “If I know you want hair cut and lack good clothes, I organize it, of course,” she stews.

  “We can do better than that!” she jeers, turning away brusquely. Ethan looks out the window to hide his growing smile while I look at the floor to hide my smirk. Natasha says little else, focusing straight ahead, her face twisted in disgust.

  Ethan and I sit closer to one another and hold hands while ogling the scenery. Every so often, he squeezes my hand and we smile at one another, moony-eyed like newlyweds in the back of a limo leaving the church.

  “Oh, I need to tell you something before we go into courtroom. I forget the American name that you choose for your son; so I select another name which will appear on all legal documents. The first name I remember—Zachary. I forget middle name.”

  “You what! Well, what is his name, Natasha?” I hiss.

  I could just toss you from the cab, courtroom hearing or not.

  Ethan squeezes my hand and smiles weakly, nodding his head in disbelief.

  His expression says control yourself. We still need her. Yes, we do damn it! I never thought this adoption would also be a lesson in controlling fury.

  “If you not like it, you can legally change it in the U.S,” she says cavalierly, with a roll of her eyes.

  I’d like to toss her out of the cab and run her over. Yea, Natasha, that’s exactly what we want to do after dealing with a bureaucratic minefield to get here, go back home and change a name. Why didn’t you just call to ask us the name?

  The cab stops, and I look around to see a typical downtown setting for a mid-sized older city like Buffalo. People scramble multi-directionally like ants on an anthill. Aging one story and three story buildings dot the landscape. Parallel-parked cars line the streets. As we exit the car and cross the icy streets and sidewalks, I see a busy Baskin and Rob
bins ice cream shop. People scurry out with their ice cream cones back into the Antarctic climate.

  I’d like to have a steamy hot chocolate from a warm, sweet-smelling Starbucks coffee shop. Speaking of chocolate, I’d like to take an ice cream cone and smash it into Natasha’s face while she lay unconscious in the street. Then I’d pour my hot chocolate on her finery.

  I smile; then, chuckle at the evil picture.

  Natasha looks at me in frightened surprise.

  She thinks she has me figured out. I shouldn’t laugh now according to her calculations. I should probably laugh more often at her fuck-ups. It’d rob her of some of her gotcha power.

  A slide and near fall re-directs my attention to the seriousness of the day. Hurriedly, we move into a plain, unofficial-looking building. After climbing a dimly lit flight of stairs, we huddle outside a closed door. Memories of work-related visits to U.S. courthouses race across my mind, “the beauty of bureaucracy” is apparently international. I scan the area for groups of machine gun toting men or police.

  Good—no ponytails, no tattooed faces, no need for alarm yet. I need to find out how solid we are going into this courtroom. Maybe, I’ll just chit chat with Natasha, the witch, to gauge her confidence level.

  Once again, Natasha’s wide eyes and rapid-fire diction tell the story. She acted this way the morning she arrived unannounced at the hotel room with those two women.

  Nervously she glances around the room as if she’s awaiting an attack. I remove my coat and the sweater under the coat and jokingly place the rolled sweater under my shirt to cover my B-cups.

  “Would these breasts improve our chances of success?” I smirk.

  Initially, Natasha stares at me blankly; then, a smile flashes across her face, and she roars with laughter. Grabbing an overcoat, she rolls it up and places it under her shirt and over her belly.

  “No, I think that this, being pregnant, is most good for the courtroom,” she cackles.

  Our chorus of laughter fills the hallway, and for a brief moment, I feel normal—almost even in a good mood. Then, a door cracks open, and a clerk steps out, his face serious and drawn. As he asks us to enter the courtroom, our laughter suddenly stops and levity vanishes.

  For better or for worse, it’s time to prevail or not.

  20. RUSSIAN COURT

  At this time, our group consists of five people—Viktoria, Natasha, Ethan and I and our court representative, Svetlana. As we walk the slowest of walks through the massive double doors, I review our last minute instructions:

  1) Present the gifts to the judge and prosecuting attorney before the proceedings begin.

  2) Remember only the translator may sit with you after court begins.

  With sweaty hands, we present the expensive gifts, Dior perfume and Dior bath products, to all court officials. In the States, these gifts would be considered bribery.

  With a nudge, Viktoria guides us to our seats in a narrow oblong room. By sitting three across so that Viktoria sits between us, we directly face the judge positioned on the short wall. We’re sitting closer than I ever imagined we would be, sitting at the long wooden table in the uncomfortable wooden chairs. On the opposing longer wall of the room, the remaining members of our group face the prosecuting attorney. Of course, the prosecuting attorney, representing Dmitry, watches and waits in a position half the distance from our chairs to the judge.

  We rise and state our names and ages to the judge. Viktoria then instructs us to sit as the judge reads the child’s file aloud while she handles the translation, as usual.

  “This baby is the result of a coupling between a student nurse and a doctor/instructor. The “father” refused to acknowledge the child citing “religious reasons”. He attempted to persuade the mother to terminate the pregnancy. She refused. Angered by her refusal, he worked to have her dismissed from nursing school. With no means of support for the child, she had to place him in the child house.”

  What a brave Mom to stand up under that kind of pressure and do the right thing.

  What religion would advocate turning your back on your child?

  “‘How close do you live to your families?’” The Judge begins.

  “We live 30 miles away from both families,” Ethan answers.

  Leaning back in her chair, the Judge continues. “‘How many people are in your family, Mrs. Evans? And yours Mr. Evans?’”

  “There are three family members on Sophia’s side that live nearby and three on my side,” Ethan replies.

  Leaning forward, the Judge addresses Viktoria rather than us.

  “‘How will you support the family, Mr. Evans?’”

  “I work as salesman in the medical field. I sell medical equipment to doctors.”

  “‘I see by your file that you’ve worked in this field for five years with success. That is good,’” the Judge observes.

  Turning, she looks directly at me.

  “‘Will you leave your part-time job, Mrs. Evans?’”

  Shit! I didn’t know we’d be answering any questions.

  “Yes, yes, of course, I will,” I answer emphatically.

  I want to compensate for his better than average, yet still unfortunate first year of life.

  “‘Why do you want a child?’” the judge asks.

  Viktoria looks at me to answer first. My mind scrambles for a diplomatic response. We want to provide an extraordinary life for a child whose future seems crippled by a third world country which “parented” him—not diplomatic enough when spoken by the American. Given the career choices for a graduate of the broken adoption system, we want to positively change his life path with love and opportunity—not diplomatic enough either. Nervously, I look at the Judge and the clock above her head as time seems to stand still for me.

  I’ll use peripheral concepts—a love of children, a neighborhood teeming with kids and an ability to provide generously for him. We want to be parents and give him something the system can’t promise—a loving nurturing home with a forever family.

  As I begin to speak, my word and thoughts disappear. I can’t condense all my thoughts and emotions into a single sentence.

  “I…” A sob escapes my clenched mouth, my thoughts and words vanish, ground to ash. What the hell is wrong with me! I’m crying the big waterfall cry. I need to talk and be articulate now. I’ve never done this before. I need to re-gain my composure. I’m so embarrassed.

  Who is this person?

  ***

  I try desperately to compose myself, but I can’t locate my “off button”. The Judge says nothing. The room is quiet as everyone witnesses my meltdown.

  Ethan looks at me in a soft, startled way. His puzzled look conveys more insight to the judge than any answer that I would provide. While I continue to cry, the translator turns to Ethan for a response.

  Clearing his throat, he says, “We have a lot to offer a child. If we do become parents, it’ll be the happiest day of our lives,” he replies with complete sincerity.

  Choking on my sobs again, I cough uncontrollably.

  “‘Hmm…’” The judge continues.

  “‘The next order of business is the waiver of the mandatory two week waiting period, should the adoption be approved.’” Viktoria translates.

  “‘I understand the baby needs surgery as soon as possible in the US.’”

  Please don’t make me affirm that statement. Circumcision is the planned surgery, not really a “need”. Svetlana told us that wanting to expedite our trip home is not enough to warrant a waiver.

  Stone-faced, I look at the Judge. Ethan grabs my hand as we await the next round of questions.

  Viktoria turns to us, clasping her hand together. A never-seen-before smile plays on her lips.

  “‘The judge says that your adoption is approved, and you have permission to leave immediately with your son named Zackary,’” she announces as her eyes fill with tears.

  “We did it! Zack is officially part of our family!” I announce as I fly into Ethan’s a
rms.

  Ethan and I hug each other with wild exuberance—a feeling only once shared before when we walked down the aisle on our wedding day.

  As I look at Ethan, I see he’s smiling while blinking back tears.

  Natasha and Viktoria rush toward us for congratulatory hugs. Svetlana, who Natasha dubbed “the shark” after their private breakthrough meeting, coldly observes the scene.

  I take a moment for a panoramic view of the room—looking for Ponytail or one of his team.

  No Mafioso, no glint of guns in sight. Safe-for now.

  Seeing an opportunity, Svetlana moves to my side. Roughly grabbing my arm, she whispers, “I never help you again if you go outside the system. You listen me. You never do this again. This make me worry of my life, my family. You work with Mikhail in this area next time. He police chief and has much power here.”

  I cringe at the thought of Mikhail and his thugs dealing with children, with Zack.

  The scales of justice suddenly tilt heavily against us.

  21. THE DINNER

  Back at the hotel room, bittersweet success hangs in the air. Zack is our son now, but the threat of retribution dangles over our heads like a sword. Mikhail has a reason to join forces with Ponytail.

  “What’s our strategy now?” I mutter settling down onto the couch. “With Mikhail running the adoption business, we have two Mafioso who want to kill us.”

  “And a baby to protect,” adds Ethan, raking a hand through his hair.

  “Honestly, since Ponytail has support from Mikhail, we only have one option, the same option as before—keep our eyes open and stay alive until we reach US soil.” Hours tick by as Ethan paces the room, periodically pulling the curtain aside to look out the window.

  I’m staring at the page of a book, but my mind is elsewhere. When suddenly the phone rings, I jump up, toppling my book.

  “Dad, I’m so glad you called! The Judge approved the adoption and the early departure! We’re exhausted, but so enormously happy.”