As Ethan passes by a black man with dreadlocks cuddling his own baby, he pauses. The two men begin talking and Ethan motions me over. After visiting with us for a few minutes, he sings to Zack, calming him immediately. In a matter of minutes, Zack relaxes enough to sleep.
I hear applause around us as the other passengers respond, grateful for the fact some solitude may exist on this journey.
“You should take a bow! That was amazing! You sing so beautifully! Your voice is better than Benadryl. Thank you so very much!” I gush.
“Thanks. We’re lucky to be flying with you, a smart parent and a good singer. Do you sing professionally?” Ethan questions.
“Yes, I do in Russia. I’m popular as a singer and as the spouse of the US Ambassador to New Zealand, an unusual combination,” he answers with a broad smile, displaying his perfect dazzling teeth.
Several hours later, Zack awakens. I kiss his soft head and place him sideways in my lap. I kiss his tiny hands and uncurl his fingers, as fragile and soft as tendrils, and kiss each one just below the tiny slivers of fingernails. Grabbing my index finger, he squeezes and smiles. I reposition him, kissing his little hands away, and lay him against my shoulder for a big hug. He begins to cry and I offer him a bottle, which he quickly pushes away as the odor of a foul diaper fogs our space.
“Wow, what did you eat? Pureed liver and onions? Your dirty diaper could send people screaming for the exits with mouths covered,” Ethan jokes.
“Well, why don’t you change his diaper, funny guy?” I ask.
“Okay, no problem. I’ll teach you how to minimize the stench and the mess. See you in a few.”
Reaching over and scooping Zack into his arms, he walks to the bathroom.
That cramped airplane bathroom, the metal cylinder bathroom, with only enough room to turn around, flush and walk a measured step to the mirrored sink. It makes me feel like I stepped into a can of hairspray with metal walls and a metal toilet to relieve myself. If there was no cabin noise, it could be too revealing…
I stare out the window of the plane, thinking about our next stop and the day ahead of us. A loud scream of horror reverberates throughout the plane. Jerking up from my chair as if pulled by a puppeteer, I bolt down the aisle as the tormented shrieking continues.
What’s going on? That’s Zack’s scream coming from the bathroom!
Just a few steps more…Ethan opens the door, looking surprised to see me.
“That was terrible! Why is he screaming?”
“He’s never cries like that. Something went horribly wrong in there.”
“What happened?” I question, my teeth grind ready to shred.
Ethan looks hurt that I would say that. I know he’s careful with our baby, but Zack cried as if he was being slapped.
Red-faced Ethan refuses to meet my eyes, instead choosing to look straight ahead.
“I laid him on the metal counter to change his diaper. It frightened him and the small metal space amplified his crying,” he answers in a whispery tone.
Zack nuzzles into Ethan’s shoulder as he walks indignantly toward our seats. Following a few steps behind, I become suddenly aware of the spectacle we created in the cabin filled with onlookers.
A 30ish dishwater blonde mom and her teenage daughter whisper back and forth, covering their mouths as if discussing a secret code. The 50ish red head with a sheaf of paperwork in her hand glares at us with white-hot intensity, a twisted rope smile pasted on her lips. The silver-haired grandmother—who had just smiled at us with admiration when we boarded the plane—sits now with western novel interrupted resting on her chest, gritting her teeth and focusing an accusatory brow at us. The weary executive stares at us, a mix of worry and disappointment contorting his face, nodding his head back and forth in reproach.
I’ve seen enough. I’m not meeting anyone’s gaze. I’ll just look straight ahead.
With all of the adoption horror stories in the international press lately… People notice. This is the Russian adoption route.
Embarrassed Ethan finally returns to his seat with Zack. The shrill silence fills the space between us until I lean into his shoulder. Zack sleeps contentedly on his other shoulder, the sun illuminating his angelic face.
The flight attendant appears almost instantly, waving a white paper napkin like a surrender flag.
Bad news or good news?
“Any drink requests from this group?”
I would drink liquor from a 100-gallon livestock tank now.
“Vodka and cranberry juice for both of us,” Ethan requests, a sigh of relief punctuating his order.
Since Zack began to walk in the apartment, he bawls, upset about his loss of liberty. Toys and walking jaunts, back and forth along the aisles, and the bottles don’t appease him. And unfortunately, the Singer said his goodbyes at the last stop.
Again and again, the sympathetic flight attendant approaches us with mixed drinks which we uncharacteristically guzzle like glasses of water. Finally, after enduring another ear-piercing episode, the attendant decides to serve us again immediately.
This time, he adds, “I think you really need these”.
44. SUITCASE SURPRISE
The flight from London to the US passes—pleasantly, uneventfully. Zack rarely cries and spends his waking hours testing the destructibility of his toys. Ethan and I marvel at his play like two devoted sports fans ogling at a play-off game.
After disembarking, our first stop is customs. The colorful clean airport terminal winks at us as if gold dusts our surroundings. Overjoyed to touch rich US soil, we actually enjoy our interaction with customs agents. The drug dog sniffs our luggage, making an extra pass by the gift bag. Passing through our second checkpoint, we walk with baby and luggage through a roped area to an awaiting metal door. With a quick, easy push, the door opens to a group of bedazzled family and friends.
Zack seems dazed as my father pulls him close for a hug. He reluctantly accepts the affection engulfing him, but quickly expresses interest in returning to my arms to assess the situation. Locking his legs around my upper body, he signals that we should happily proceed as one body, mine carrying his. The weight of the moment weakens my knees and sends tingles up my spine. My heart beats wildly as the reality sets in. The emotional and financial marathon that led us through 12 time zones ends now. The finality of the moment quashes my composure, and tears of relief and exhilaration flood my face.
We finally crossed the finish line! I could kiss the terminal floor! This is one of the most euphoric moments of my life!
***
Zack sits in a car seat, its firm hug completely infuriating him. He cries relentlessly, the sense of confinement and confusion at not being held is too much. A half hour into our trip, Zack sleeps comfortably in his car seat, the ensuing quiet allowing us to reflect upon and embrace this extraordinary event. And I can’t help but think.
After this trip, nothing can rattle us!
As the sun showers the day with sunlight for the last time, we begin unpacking our suitcases. Zack sleeps his mouth agape, a string of drool attaching him to his pillow.
We scurry from one room to the next, putting clothes in the hamper, shoes in the closet and documents in the study.
I rub my hands like a greedy miser as I prepare to open the “gift” suitcase, untouched since we left the apartment.
Mmmmmm…Russian chocolate and honey…..I can taste them now.
A quick zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzip…and a sweet smile shifts sour.
“What the hell!” I howl.
“Ethan, will you look at this!”
I rub my eyes and peer into the suitcase again.
The vodka bottles are broken—soaking everything within reach, the jars of honey smashed—shellacking splinters of glass like butterflies in a frame. And my bullion bars of chocolate are unwrapped.
“What the fuck!” I screech.
As I pick up a precious bar with pincer-like fingers, I see that someone has bitten into it. All of them
unwrapped, all contaminated by a single bite.
If this person just wanted to destroy my chocolate, they could just let the splintered glass and vodka do the dirty work, but I bet they bit the chocolate first then smashed the rest.
“WHY WOULD SOMEONE WANT TO DO THIS?” I roar.
Ethan rushes to my side, his slack-jawed look speaking for him.
Carefully, we pick through the gooey drippy chocolate.
“I packed gift books in there and extra powdered formula for Zack,” I assess as my hands search the messy mass of destroyed gifts. Picking up one children’s book of nursery rhymes pickled in vodka, I shake it, reluctantly opening it to check the pages.
Ethan stands statue-still, his “hard” eyes heating up with hate.
“THEY’RE ALL RUINED! Zack’s new Russian storybooks bleed ink, vodka and honey. Why?” I mutter, confused.
While my mind cycles into analytical aerials of what ifs, my hands, hands that look like mine but don’t feel connected to my body, methodically keep searching for … the powdered formula.
And there it is… in its airtight container, the lip of the lid curled up on one side.
I’m sure it’s contaminated. I’ll just toss it.
As my hand clutches it, the honey-coated container clings to my hand.
Looking at the side of the transparent container, I notice a too dark substance. A mixture of white powder formula, honey and vodka shouldn’t be dark.
It looks green—dark green! And it smells pungent powerful and herbal.
As I pop the lid, I see a bag of leafy greens and a few rolled cigarettes.
“It’s Pot! Someone put pot in our bag and…” My non-finger fingers keep sifting through the contents in the container.
“And mini bags of white crystal powder. I… bet that’s cocaine!”
“Someone tried to bust us, not use us as “Mules” as if that were any better. The quantity of drugs is so small,” Ethan observes as he strokes his chin.
“How did our suitcase manage to slip through?” I wonder aloud.
“Well, the contents of most suitcases aren’t soaked in vodka. Maybe that camouflaged the scent of the drugs to the dogs. Or… it could be a miss,” he says as he massages his forehead with his fingers.
“It happens more often than you’d think. I read a story a while back about drug K-9s. Only one out of ten K-9 teams are efficient enough to detect contraband due to improper training.”
“Lucky? We were … lucky, and got the B team? Lady Luck stands in our corner now. What a relief, but I think the stash was a parting shot from the Mafia. In fact, I…”
Sitting on the bed now, holding the container, I take a moment to scratch my forehead.
“I think they sabotaged the van with sugar as payback for Ponytail. And I think they have “connections/eyes” at the airport. Obviously, they’ve been watching us.”
“I a..gree,” Ethan stammers, his face showing horror.
“Don’t say it!” He blurts out.
“Do you realize the stash could’ve put us in prison and Zack…?”
The possibilities of what could have been storm through my mind.
***
The established neighborhood is country quiet in direct juxtaposition to its location, a busy important sector of the city bordering a medical center. It surprises me to have peace and quiet so close to the heart of the city. Two story New Orleans style homes, built 80 years ago, line the streets on both sides. A large oak graces every front yard, creating a shaded arbor of kissing trees over the street. At the end of the street, cars whizz by on Mopac Expressway-a major artery in the city. Mimi’s house now our house, just the way she wanted it. Mimi’s wish to meet her grandchild met, a few days before she died
***
Today, we’re going to a different part of the city—to the stables. The emerald green pastures visible from the freeway. A stretch of white 4-plank fence bookends the mile long entry road on either side. As I turn on to the road, I slow the car to a crawl and lower the windows. Hundred-year old oaks rustle in the breeze like several southern belles sashaying in bulbous, rainbow-colored taffeta skirts. Lounging areas dot the landscape like sitting areas surrounding a grand checkered ballroom floor. Tradition, as absolute as the thirteen colonies, and affluence dance a time-tested waltz all the while winking with impunity at the impossible-to-fault aesthetics. The clean air, the freshly mowed green grass and the smell of pine beckon us into the all white barn, not a barn but a balm for anything that hurts. Zack hangs over my shoulder—his eyes glazed with wonder as we walk to my horse’s stall.
My bay mare, Isabella, pokes her head out of the stall window to greet us. I caress her nose softly with my hand while cooing her name. Nickering back at me, she watches with eyes half-closed as I take Zack’s little hand, covering it with mine, to touch her nose. Stretching my fingers and then cupping them tightly, I stroke her head gently. And she lowers her head respectfully.
Zack giggles as he touches her velvety muzzle, his face glowing with warmth.
“Yeah, baby, that’s what she does for me too.”
***
Isabella completes the hunter course with effortless fluidity—a Mallard landing on a lake not as artful. She joyfully jumps over each obstacle as if it holds more promise of pleasure than green grass. As we walk around the arena to cool off, I think gratefully about second chances, second challenges and second victories. I realize that my life isn’t bound in a burlap bag of fear and what ifs; instead, it’s swathed in an evening gown of silky comfort and glittery triumph.
Life without Zack would be second-rate, a life thinly lived instead of a life richly chosen and abundantly experienced. And I would endure the adoption freefall all over again to be Zack’s Mom.
Author Interview Questions
Have you traveled to Russia?
Yes, I have.
What did you most enjoy about writing this novel?
Spotlighting the strength of the human spirit, showing that there’s a way to thwart danger, while locked in an apartment, without the luxury of a cell phone, home phone or gun.
What did you least like about writing this book?
I hated to write the bar scene because it had to be dark, violent and gritty.
Do you want to add any other comments about the bar scene?
I based the violence on true stories, not some dark twisted corner of my mind, which makes the scene more terrifying. I spent hours in front of a computer to do research for this book.
With so many books on the market, why should readers buy Beautiful Evil Winter?
Read Beautiful Evil Winter because it offers the opportunity to travel to one of the most dangerous countries in the world, to live the frightening experience of being unwittingly caught in the crosshairs of the Mafia, to add Suspense, a dash of Thriller and Romance Sizzle to a day and finally, to enjoy a Multi-Award-Winning novel.
Why did you decide to write this book?
The idea resonated with me over and over again. Not only did it top my bucket list, but it nagged me daily. I kept a diary after returning from Russia with our adopted son. Since I thought the experience would make a great story, I wrote a memoir. When I learned that, unless an author can claim celebrity status, a memoir has little if no chance of being well read, I changed my outlook on my mostly yawner of a story and molded it as an Action Thriller.
I believe writing a book that suits the author’s tastes helps pave the road to success. Commitment to the writing craft, commitment to the marketing, commitment to telling a standout story become easier when the author feels that the story must be told. I believe an undying passion for the story tethers the author to strive for a standard of excellence. And as Toni Morrison said, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”
What takeaway message does this book offer?
When someone can speak of tragedy, in some way, as a triumph of the human spirit, a sense of empowerment flour
ishes fortifies and life’s trajectory forever changes.
What is important for aspiring authors to know as they begin their journey?
Be prepared for a marathon not a sprint if you want to be an established author. Read books about writing, like Stephen King’s On Writing, enroll in a quality on-line class, I recommend UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. Respect the craft by studying it, as if mandated, to have the tools to tell a story in the most optimal way. As Stephen King said, “If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”
Have you completed your second novel?
Yes, I expect it to be available in January of 2015. My second novel is another Action Thriller hybrid; however, it will be based in the US.
What do you enjoy doing in your spare time?
Read, ride my horse and take my Pyrenees, a Therapet dog-in-training, to class.
Visit www.kellyklavenderauthor.com for more information about Kelly’s novels.
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