Moving Forward in Reverse (26 page)

Then there was the boy: frowning warily at the lens of the camera
in the foreground of the picture with only his face visible in the frame. His
thumb was wedged comfortingly in his mouth with the remaining four fingers of
his hand curved almost defensively into a pudgy fist. He had the same coloring
as the girl – the pale skin glowing in the flash of the camera’s light like the
surface of the moon; the same dark brown hair and even darker eyes – but where
her features manifested in a distinct femininity beneath the cushioning
softness of childhood, his were still disguised by blanketing baby fat. Hair
that was more fuzz than strands, cheeks like a chipmunk, a baby’s generic
button nose, and those plump little fingers: all so subtle and soft. It was
only Barb’s email, which had prepared me for a little girl and her baby
brother, that told me who this must be. And yet, there was something about his
expression – the distrustful warning in his dark eyes and the fledgling furrow
between his brows like a shadow of an expression that was yet to come; even the
way he happened to be in a position vaguely between his sister and the camera –
that seemed protective in nature.

Barb had written of her protective care over him, but in this
picture it seemed a mutual characteristic. They were a pair; two peas in a pod;
two players on a team; two orphaned siblings alone in the world except for each
other. And as surely as night turns to day, I knew that these were
my
kids.

A sound crept unwilled from my throat: a whimper, gasp, and gag
all rolled into one. I could hardly breathe, my eyes locked on this image
hovering on my screen. Something heavy was settling in my stomach, making me
long to double over, but I couldn’t bear to tear my eyes from these captivating
Romanian children.

Those are my kids,
I thought again, with such certainty all other truths faded in
comparison. In that moment, this was the only defining fact of my life, the
only thing that meant anything at all.
Those are my kids.

Still struggling for air, gasping with my eyes locked on the
screen, I fumbled blindly for the phone. When I heard it clatter against the
right myo I had to look away from the faces of the children –
my
children
–  to align the fingers with the handset. It took several tries, but on my
fourth attempt I finally managed to dial the number for Ellen’s line at the
clinic.

It rang and rang and rang, and I felt panic shivering through me.
Answer!
Come on, Ellen, answer the phone. Please!
I couldn’t leave a voicemail. Not
about this. She had to answer. She just had to!

‘Hello,’ a woman said into the line. My mind was so clouded by
panic and need and something entirely indefinable that I almost didn’t
recognize her voice as a sound discernibly separate from the peals of the
ringing line.

‘This is Colleen, Dr. Martin’s nurse. How may I help you?’

‘Colleen,’ I sputtered in a garbled rush, ‘this is Scott. Is Ellen
available?’

‘Oh, hi, Scott. I’m afraid she’s with a patient right now. Can I
take a message for you?’

With a patient,
my mind repeated in utter dejection and deflation. In that moment,
I resented no one more than the figment of that patient claiming my wife’s
attention. Jealousy followed bitterly on the heels of resentment and was
quickly replaced by a more rational abject disappointment.

‘Scott? Hello?’ Colleen asked and I realized I had to say
something or I’d lose even this distant connection to Ellen.

Like dragging myself up from the mat after a blow to the gut, I
managed to utter, ‘Yes, I’m here. Sorry. Can you tell her she needs to read her
email as soon as she’s finished with her patient? It’s urgent.’

‘Yes, of course. Is there anything else?’

‘No,’ I said glumly, adding in a kinder tone, ‘Thanks, Colleen.’

I replaced the phone on the receiver and turned back to the
photograph.
My kids.
I clicked to the email from Barb.
Nadia and
Marius
.
They’re names are Nadia and Marius,
I told myself and
returned to the faces in the picture, now tying them to the names they were
given.
Delicate and loving Nadia and wary and devoted Marius.

~~~

Ten minutes after I called Ellen’s office, the phone rang. I
hadn’t moved from my seat in the loft-office; hadn’t closed the picture of
Nadia and Marius.

‘Hello?’ I asked, thinking it could only be one person – it had to
be her. ‘Ellen?’

‘Call Barb. We’re heading to Romania.’

29

‘Okay. I have both our tickets and my passport. Do you have
yours?’ I asked, zipping the smallest pocket of my single carry-on-sized bag
around the items I’d just listed. It was the fourth time I’d zipped and
unzipped that pocket in the past twenty-four hours.

‘Yes, yes,’ Ellen said accommodatingly. We both may have been
travel veterans, but somehow over the course of our marriage I had assumed the
role of the paranoid planner. I was the Ticket Master, Passport Keeper, and
Itinerary Custodian.

‘Good. And the shuttle should be here in –’ I glanced at the red
numerals of the alarm clock on Ellen’s side of the bed: 7:30 a.m. ‘- fifteen
minutes. Perfect. Are you almost finished packing?’
I’m not nagging
, I
told myself.
Just supervising.

‘Yes,’ Ellen said again, no indication in her tone that I was a
nuisance to her. Today was too momentous for petty emotions and annoyances.

A fluttering stabbing in my chest and a light clenching across my
ribcage traveled upwards and forced a fatuous smile to splay across my face. We
were going to meet our Romanian children. It was really happening. I was
blinded with excitement at the thought of it; the image of their faces was all
I could see. By this time next year we would be the enraptured parents of two
adopted children.

Even though I knew we wouldn’t be able to bring Nadia and Marius
home on this trip, I couldn’t help but fantasize about how our first
introduction would go. Happy images of Nadia staring up at us with ingenuous
brown eyes, wanting to trust us to love her, but uncertain because the only
home she knew was the orphanage. And Marius: plump little Danny, as we’d
decided to call him after his more Americanized middle name of Daniel, sucking
feverishly on his thumb as he tried not to cower behind his sister, his
eyebrows pinched in a distrustful frown as he eyed these two strangers who knew
his name. Had they come to take him away? Or, worse, were they here for his
sister?

But we’d quickly allay all of their concerns. They would never be
separated again, we’d promise. And they’d never need to feel alone. We were
there to love them and give them the devoted family they deserved. And one day
we were going to take them home, if that was all right with them.

Maybe we could take them out for a meal,
I mused, imagining the four
of us nestled in a corner booth, the kind with one curved bench so we could all
sit beside each other, the kids between Ellen and me. Of course, our Romanian
liaison would have to be there, but still. It would be our first outing, our
first meal as a family.

I wonder what sort of things they like to eat. And what things they
dislike.
We
had so much to learn about each other, Nadia, Danny, Ellen, and I.

When the doorbell rang announcing the shuttle had arrived, I
flinched as if someone had just leapt out of the woodwork and yelled
Surprise!
My eyes gazed unblinkingly at Ellen, struggling to reorient themselves in the
present; my mouth hung neglectfully open, thoughts and words momentarily
forgotten. It took three breaths before understanding could bring awareness and
function back to my limbs and by then Ellen had zipped her bag and was waiting
for me to make my usual declaration that it was time to go.

‘Okay,’ I said around a deep breath, trying to calm my frazzled,
slaphappy nerves with a reassuring tone. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

~~~

Rested and recouped two days after our arrival, we met our
Romanian liaison in the lobby of our hotel in Bucharest at 10 a.m. He was an
affable fellow who I gauged to be in his late twenties with thick brown hair
cut close to his head and long, dark eyebrows that hovered over kind coffee-colored
eyes like trim over windows. A tentative smile drew curved lines across his
cheeks, creating thin, bowed indents from the sides of his nose to the corners
of his lips.

‘Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Martin,’ he said when he had reached the nook
in the expansive lobby where we were reclining on a beige-and red-striped sofa.
His Romanian accent caused his vowels to become short and clipped, making his
words sound abrupt, as if we were listening to a tape which kept skipping. ‘My
name ees Igor.’

‘Please,’ I said in return, standing with Ellen to shake hands
with Igor, ‘it’s Scott and Ellen.’

This brush-off of formality seemed to please him and his smile
grew several degrees warmer as he nodded in either affirmation or gratitude, I
couldn’t be sure which. He grasped the right myoelectric hand without pause.

‘I am here to take you to see cheeldrin een orrphanage,’ he said,
the Romanian lacing his words like a strong drink. ‘I have car, eef you come.
Okay?’

The smile that split my lips like a peapod at this long-awaited
invitation was bursting with pent-up jubilation. We were finally going to meet
our kids! Something seized inside my chest at the thought of it, a sensation
that was equal parts giddy exuberance and pained desperation. It had been only
a month since I opened
the
email, laying eyes on the poignant, young
faces of my children for the first time. Since that day I had felt consumed by
desperation because according to Romanian law, the adoption process wouldn’t
even begin to work its way through the court system until we had met Nadia and
Danny in person. Before that first step, the only thing tying them to us was a
“hold” Barb had placed on them. I needed more assurance than that. I knew those
were
our
kids, but I needed everyone else to know it, too.

We followed Igor out to the circle of parked cars in the circular
driveway of the hotel. Igor indicated for us to climb into the back of a
mid-70s model Mercedes in a shade of green somewhere between olive and Army.
Lucky for us, Mercedes made a great diesel so Igor’s unattractive
twenty-five-year-old car may have been rusty, but at least it was trustworthy.

I slid onto the stained beige velour beside Ellen, not caring how
many other butts had sat on these very seats so long as the four wheels and
engine they were attached to could get us to Giurgiu and the orphanage. Igor
clambered into the driver’s seat and twisted around to peer at us.

‘All ready?’ he asked with a kindly smile.

‘We’re set,’ Ellen told him as I clicked my seatbelt into the
buckle.

‘Okay, okay,’ he sputtered, the k’s striking sharp, resonant notes
in rapid succession. ‘Den we go.’

And go we did, merging effortlessly into the synchronized traffic
of a round-about before spooling off in our own direction. Elvis’ lilting voice
sang to us through the car speakers as we went:

Pardon
meee, if I’m sentimentaall

When
we say goodbye

Don’t
be angry with me should I cryyy…

‘So,’ Igor said suddenly, barking the syllable like a sergeant at
the head of a brigade; very effectively yanking my focus back to him. ‘Dey tell
you what to happen?’ he asked, peeking at us from the rearview mirror, his eyes
pinched with concern.

‘What will happen?’ I repeated when Ellen and I exchanged equally
confused looks.

‘Yees. At orphanage. How visit works.’

‘Ooohh,’ I sighed, elongating the vowels a bit more than
necessary; over compensating, perhaps. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Okay. So, we arrive and you meet keeds. You stay at orphanage for
forty-five minute, okay? With keeds.’

I frowned at Ellen who looked at me with confused alarm, her
eyebrows drawn together and eyes showing the early signs of panic.
So she
heard what I heard,
I thought and turned to the rearview mirror where the
side of Igor’s face was visible in slight distortion.

‘We only get forty-five minutes with the kids?’ I asked, trying
not to bring to mind the nearly full day of travel it had taken to get here,
not to mention the unending days that made up the four long weeks waiting for
our travel visas. All of that for forty-five minutes with our children?

At the pitying glance in the mirror Igor shot my way, I tried to
quell the anger simmering inside of me, growing gradually hungrier for a victim
to blame.

‘Yees. I sorry, but Romania government not allow for more.’

I felt Ellen’s hand find its way to the flesh of my left bicep and
sighed as she gave it a squeeze.
So
we would only get forty-five
minutes. It’s better than nothing,
I less-than-successfully consoled
myself.
Besides, the main purpose of this trip is to get the ball rolling
legally.

Ha!
I snorted to myself before the prior thought could settle.
Now
that was a load of crap if I ever heard it.

There was no point in denying the fact that I was bitterly
disappointed, and by the way she had turned her face carefully towards the
window, her grip locked on my arm, Ellen was feeling the same way. But our
hands were tied. As Igor had said, ‘Romania government not allow for more.’