Moving Forward in Reverse (25 page)

28

We stayed focused, hunched before the computer monitor like two
squirrels sniffing out a hiding place well into the night. Bit by bit, we
narrowed our options: Siblings – a brother and sister preferably – because most
parents preferred to adopt only one child. It would be best if they came from
Eastern Europe or Russia because Olympia was a very “white bread” area (no need
to make the adjustment harder than it had to be). Ideally, they’d be five years
of age or younger. True, there was a greater need for people willing to adopt
in the nine-years-and-up category, but on this point we were selfish. We were
willing to miss the diaper stage, but after that every moment was precious.

We sifted through various agencies specializing in foreign
adoptions, gauging their worth by what other potential and current adoptive
parents had to say. It was no secret that there were (and still are) plenty of
unscrupulous agencies that string prospective parents along with glittering,
unfulfilled promises while continually milking them for money. Eventually we
narrowed the field to three agencies that seemed to hold the most promise based
on online reviews and their focus on Eastern Europe.

It was nearly midnight, but still I wanted to pick up the phone
and dial the number for the first agency on our list, even if only to listen to
it ring and ring, eventually depositing me in an automated voicemail that
wouldn’t be checked until Monday. It would be a connection, at least; a first
step. But Ellen was between me and the phone, leaning over the keyboard as she
read and reread one of the About Us pages so I let the inclination fade.

Researching adoption was like falling into step on our first date
and deciding to get married: We just
knew
. In the years since, we have
never discussed it, never questioned why we began to research adoption. We were
simply compelled by the need to help. This was our path and we traversed it
with unwavering steps, never once looking back.

~~~

Three rings and a click followed by a woman’s voice like a
well-composed symphony: just the right amount of upbeat cheer with a deeper
undertone of cool competence and mellow self-assurance. The voice of someone
experienced and comfortable in her role.

‘Hell-o! This is Laura. How may I help you?’

‘Hi, Laura.’ I spoke slowly into the receiver and took a steadying
breath. Excitement was jittering up my leg and flittering across my chest, but
I had to stay objective.  
Just like making those recruiting calls to players
you’d scouted,
I reminded myself for the fifth time that morning.
Stay
open and stay objective.

‘We – er, my wife and I are, um-’ Damn, I was too anxious still;
my words stumbling over each other in a desperate rush to get the point across.
Cool it, man.

I took a breath and tried again. ‘My wife and I are considering
adoption – adopting siblings from one of the former Soviet Bloc countries…’

‘Oh, how wonderful!’ she chirped when I stumbled into uncertain
silence. ‘We actually have several excellent programs in Eastern Europe and
Russia. I can tell you about them, if you’d like.’

I exhaled, anxiety assuaged. ‘That would be great. Thank you.’

Laura went on to extol the agency’s operations in Eastern Europe
and Russia, lauding its numerous prior successes and the exceptional
step-by-step guidance they offered throughout the process of bringing ‘your son
or daughter’ home. I nodded along, punctuating her comments with positive
grunting noises at regular intervals. It may have felt like visiting an auto dealership,
but I had to give her credit for being good at her job. She was knowledgeable,
friendly, and knew how to make you comfortable. It felt like a conversation you
might have over drinks at a low-key bar with a bowl of over-salted nuts sitting
between you. I could almost picture her: young but not too young, like the cool
aunt you always wanted to baby-sit you as a kid; feminine with a hint of
tomboy, the type who could strike up a conversation with anyone, man or woman;
and always smiling so you began to wonder if you were missing out on some
private joke, until she would soothe your concerns with a well-timed pat or
scandalously private comment to let you know you were on the inside, too. In
short, the perfect salesperson.

Fitting to the modus operandi I’d labeled her with, when I asked
about the extent of her agency’s connections with the Russian political scene
as it related to adoption, Laura spoke openly about the Russian Parliament’s
efforts to restrict adoptions following reports of American parents abusing
their adopted Russian children. Even in the face of such a dour framework,
though, she painted a pretty picture, twisting a negative situation into a
positive opportunity to draw me in.

‘In all honesty, the adoption process in Russia is rather inane,’
she said with a quirk of quiet intimacy as if she were leaning forward in her
chair, imparting me with special knowledge and her confidence in divulging a
secret. Of course the ineptitude of the Russian adoption process was no secret.
Ellen and I had learned all about it the day before through a simple
exploration of the World Wide Web.

‘Regardless,’ she went on, her voice returning to its salesperson
volume, ‘we have been able to successfully match numerous parents with Russian
children. And I have no doubt that we’ll be able to find you and your wife your
new son or daughter. Of course, our Adoption Intake Coordinator, Barbara, would
be the person to speak to about this in greater depth. I’d be happy to pass
your information along to her so she can give you a call.’

‘Absolutely.’

As I lowered the handset back into the base a few closing remarks
later, a smile quirked my lips. Inside my head, an announcer’s voice chimed,
Folks,
I think we have a winner!

~~~

Over the course of the three months following Ellen and my signing
the agreement with the adoption agency, we learned the two P’s of adoption:
Patience and Paperwork. Time began to flow asymmetrically, with the weeks and
months seeming to drag on indefinitely and each day never lasting long enough
to accomplish all that had to be done. We needed more hours of daylight to get
through the inches of paperwork – the stack of documents to be completed made
mortgaging a home look like child’s play – and to track down each of the
requisite government officials whose signature we were required to have. But
every day that stretched between now and when we could finally meet our
children was one day too many.

We spoke constantly with our agency advisor, Barbara,
communicating primarily through email with the occasional phone call thrown in
when necessary. She helped guide us through the government maze in the U.S.
while contacting the government agencies in Russia on our behalf to help secure
our travel arrangements on their end.

We would be heading across the Atlantic twice during the adoption
process. The first trip was to last seven days and would involve two parts.
First, we would be touring various Russian orphanages where we were expected to
select children like choosing produce.

‘In Russia, your evaluation is timed,’ Barb had told us. ‘You get
a set amount of time per orphanage during which children are pretty much
paraded in front of you. It’s not ideal, I know, but it’s the way the system
works over there.’

Ellen and I exchanged winces at the thought of it. We envisioned
the selection process to be like visiting an animal rescue, picking children
like choosing a puppy from a litter. How were we ever going to decide?

The second part of the first trip to Russia would be spent in and
out of court, signing documents in front of a notary. Forms which stated that
we were aware of our children’s medical conditions and that we accepted them as
they were, and agreements that we would register our adopted children with the
Ministry of Foreign Affairs and provide post-placement reports of the
children’s welfare to the Russian government (another post-abuse-claims
institution) would need to be signed and filed into the proper hands.

Once all that was finalized, usually four to six weeks after the
initial visit, we would wait another indeterminate period before heading back
to Russia again. This time the stay would last fourteen days. It would involve
finalizing the adoption process and bringing our children home.

It was the alluring scintillation of this day, glowing like the
bulb of a lighthouse at the edge of all the darkness, which guided us through.
With our sights on the moment we could welcome our new children home, we waded
through the drudgery and frustration with single-minded determination, comforting
each other with the knowledge that we were still on schedule to bring our
children home in the nine- to twelve-month time period originally promised.

~~~

This has to be it,
I thought as my trackball mouse hovered over the only unread
message in my inbox that was worth any attention. A message from Barb. The
forest of domestic paperwork had been completed and now all we were waiting for
was the agency to clear us to buy our tickets and head to Russia.

We’re going to Russia!
A dapper little voice cheered inside my head. We were finally
going to Russia!

I first went to Russia in 1987, back when it was still the Soviet
Union. I had fond memories of a proud people with a strong work ethic who, in
my opinion, just needed a break. Though the Moscow stadium we played in was
beautiful – a giant dome with a row of ivory pillars encompassing it like the
rods of a gilded cage and a roof of skylights just big enough to protect fans
from the weather but with a doughnut-hole opening to expose the field to all of
nature’s glory – the conditions outside the one-hundred-and-sixty hectare
Luzhniki sports complex were terrible.

Frozen in my memory was the image of an elderly woman draped in a
shawl that hung on her like clothes on a drying rack as she stood atop a
covered bus stop. She was sweeping the roof with an old broom made of straw so
the communist government could declare a near-zero unemployment rate. Her face,
like that of most Soviets, was expressionless; eyes, a nose, and a mouth which
could have been carved in stone. They were a people far-removed from happiness,
but who drew my affections nonetheless.

I visited Russia again in 1992, this time as a high school social
studies teacher with a group of my students from West Bend. Knowing the extent
of the living conditions of most Russian children at the time, I had brought a
box of Cry Baby sour bubble gum rolls with me. When we filed off of our ‘modern
motor coach’ (a slightly dilapidated, unmarked Greyhound bus which was still
far better travel conditions than the average citizen ever experienced) outside
the Kremlin, mobs of tiny, grasping hands clambered about our legs and waists.
While other tourists were doing their best to kindly remove themselves from the
begging children, my students and I began distributing the neon green and
yellow packs of gumballs, watching the round faces of the Gypsy youngsters
pucker, puffy cheeks deflating and eyes bugging wide as they bit into this
novelty item. They knew the English word “more”.

I think that was when I fell in love with Russian children.

~~~

I had to read the email again; its content was so far from what I
had expected.

Dear Scott and Ellen,

I realize that you have put in a great deal of work preparing for
your trip to Russia, but I just received the attached photos of a little girl
(2-1/2) and boy (1-1/2) from Romania and thought of you. They are siblings who
were the fourth and fifth children of a couple who cannot care for the children
due to their economic situation. The girl was placed six days after birth and
the boy just five. We have been told that, though the boy arrived at the
orphanage a year after the girl, she cares for and protects him as though they
were born not into an orphanage. Their names are Nadia and Marius. They are
gorgeous! Please get back to me soon with your interest. I have placed a hold
on them until I hear back from you.

All my best!

Barb

I clicked on the attachment and watched the face of a little girl
take shape on my screen. Hair, burnt-sienna brown and fine like a gossamer
veil, clung to the curves of her forehead and cheeks like a swimmer’s cap. It
fell no more than an inch in length diagonally across the right side of her
face like the carefully designed beginnings of bangs. Her eyes were so dark in
the photo it was impossible to distinguish pupil from iris, but the warm glow
of a tender smile lurking within their depths was indistinguishable. The way
her lower eyelids curved upwards, hugging each eye and creating little, creamy
puffs of flesh beneath them, was nothing short of enamoring. She was looking at
someone or something off camera, and whoever they were or whatever it was had
provoked a burgeoning grin: Dainty, incipient teeth peeked out from between
rosy lips like seashells almost buried in sand and round, pudgy cheeks curved protectively
around the edges of her smile like hands cupping a bantam chick. There was
something already familiar about that smile and gazing upon it roused within me
a sense of déjà vu, like returning to a place you’d almost forgotten. The
longer my eyes rested on her, the stronger the sense of remembrance became.