by RJ Scott
The car that awaited us was a sturdy gray sedan. Nondescript in every way, and in truth, I had a moment of worry when I crawled into the backseat. If they were going to hold me, it would be now, with a long drive to a detention center that I would never be released from. Thankfully, that did not happen. Agent Mikhailov drove me to Leskovo in complete silence, but I did notice the car behind us, with the same agents I’d seen at the airport. I knew they would be armed. I was aware things could go badly, but I had to stay focused. The night hugged the countryside, and in a way, I was sad not to see the land where I had grown up.
The small village was dark when we crawled through the center of town. The roads were ugly, filled with big holes that made Agent Mikhailov curse violently. There was no PennDOT to call to report the potholes, to set out two dozen cones and for ten men to stand around and look at said holes. No one cared about this tiny village or how it was one wheezing breath away from death. We passed the small house Mama had lived in, the place where she had raised Galina and me. I stared at the little shack as we passed it, sadness filling my heart. Onward we went, to my uncle Maxim’s farm. It was old and run down.
“Stanislav!” The shout rang out when I was pulled into the small two-bedroom house. Maxim hugged me and clapped my back, his mouth going steadily, explaining over again how sad he was that he couldn’t take Anatoli’s two, but he had six of his own and a sickly wife.
“They will be better in America,” Maxim whispered, his gaze flicking from me to the imposing government official lingering by the rusty wood stove. “Mari and I tell them that at least five times a day. We’ve told them that they’ll live in a mansion and be rich. That America is the land of dreams for immigrants.”
“Yes, it is that,” I concurred while Maxim steered me to the small bedroom his six children slept in. I ducked to enter, and eight terrified sets of eyes landed on me. Two children stood in the corner, ratty bags in hands, gray eyes wide with horror. Maxim’s young were in beds, three to a bed, peeking at us from under the edge of their quilts.
“This is Eva and Pavel.” Maxim waved a work-roughened hand at the two orphans huddled by the frosty window. “Children, this is Stan. Your new pappa.”
I dropped down to one knee in front of them, knowing that my height could be imposing. The girl, Eva, was twelve, and she reminded me of Galina at that age. Long, dark brown hair and the stormy gray eyes many Lyamin have. She was lean, as was Pavel, but many poor children were thin. I smiled at the girl’s defensive posture, hugging her brother to her side to protect him. Pavel was six, with short, wild dark hair and gray eyes that held a touch of mischief mixed with apprehension.
“Hello. We are most happy to be making for America,” Eva said in nice English. “Pavel does not make good English. I learn from YouTube.”
“You have learned much good,” I told the young girl, wishing I could scoop them into my arms and hug them, but they were too wary for such displays yet. “We will all learn super good English together, even Pavel.”
The boy grinned.
“It is time to go back to the airport. Your flight is leaving in under an hour,” Agent Mikhailov said from the doorway. Pavel hid his face in the pleats of his sister’s dress.
“Come, children, come. Get your coats on! Do not make the good man wait,” Maxim said, hurrying the two children into thin coats, then pushing them, and me, out into the cold.
I turned to Maxim and handed him some money. American money, but he could exchange it. “For the food and upkeep of them until I could arrive,” I said as I pushed the ten one-hundred-dollar bills into his calloused hand. “Thank you for keeping them safe.”
“Give them a good life, Stanislav,” Maxim said, kissed my cheeks, and then shut the door in my face. I sighed, turned, and then led the children back to the car, bypassing the men in suits who hovered even here. The children rode in the back with me, one on each side. Pavel fidgeted with the latches on his bag, an old leather thing. Eva stared into the dark, her eyes growing wide when we pulled into the airport and were escorted to our flight. For a moment I thought Agent Mikhailov would board with us, but he did not.
“Thank you for everything,” I told the dour man in the old suit. I reached into my coat pocket and extracted a slim envelope that held a check for sixty-thousand dollars. The cost to adopt a Russian child had been twenty-thousand, but we had been told it would be thirty-thousand per child. He took the envelope, nodded, and then motioned for me to get on the plane. Visas and passports out, I hustled the terrified children to the boarding gate. Pavel was sniffling in fear, obviously never having flown before. Eva cooed to him in Russian, holding his hand in hers.
“Come now, little ones, time to go home,” I whispered after we’d been cleared to move along by a nice lady in a blue vest. They balked a bit, both glancing over their shoulders. “No, do not look back. America is the forward looking now. You will be so much happy, you will see. Come, let me take your hands.” I offered them my hands. Eva nibbled on her lower lip. Pavel hid behind his big sister.
“Will we find Big Macs on the plane?” Eva asked. That made me chuckle.
“Not on the plane, but as soon as we are in Harrisburg, Erik and I will take you for Big Macs and Happy Toy Meals.”
People pushed by us. The lady at the desk was saying our flight was now boarding, and I was making deals with children.
“Good for us enough,” Eva replied and slid her hand into mine. Pavel, well, he needed a full moment and a good explanation of Happy Toy Meals in Russian before he would let me take his tiny hand. Once on the plane, we were shown to first class—I supposed that big check to whoever it was in the Russian government who handled adoption fees had covered first-class seats—and settled in. Both children were seated side by side in the middle row. I had the window on the left. Eva was poking at the buttons on Pavel’s small movie screen. I sat back, took a quick picture of our new family members, and sent a fast email to Erik, making sure to attach the image.
Our new son and daughter. I love them much already. Big things happen, all good but many scary minutes will tell you all. Love you so much too, and Noah. Kiss Mama. Tell her I am safe and to be brushing up on her grandma kisses. She has new cheeks to smooch. Love you soon big times – S.
Erik
I reread the text for what must have been the hundredth time. I hadn’t even shared it with anyone else, selfishly wanting the moment to myself. The children in the picture didn’t look how I was expecting them to. Hell, I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but listening to some of Stan’s stories about the poverty in his town, I guess I thought the children would be…
Disheveled? Exhausted? Belligerent?
I scrubbed at my face. I was the very worst kind of person to be judging anyone, particularly kids who had just lost their guardian and had already lost their parents before they’d even really gotten to know them. I checked the photo again, and I saw Eva and Pavel sitting next to Stan. They both had dark hair, and Eva was showing Pavel how to use the video screen in the back of the seat in front of him. They seemed small in the photo, but they were sitting next to Stan, and anyone next to him would appear small. I zoomed in on Eva’s hand. It was so tiny, so fine-boned. Thin.
I wished I could see their eyes. Then I would know that we would be okay, that we were doing the right thing, and that they wanted to come here.
There was a knock on my door, “Someone here for you,” Galina announced, and I opened the door to see Noah in her arms, playing with her long, dark hair. “From the Railers, I think.”
I assumed it was Connor, who knew everything we were going through, and had been doing his captainly best to keep an eye on us. Or maybe it was Jared, who’d been passing messages from Ten, about how he couldn’t wait to be an uncle again. I didn’t think it would be Layton Foxx at my door, either. Although he’d been in the loop with all of this. We’d had a final meeting last night, steps to be taken, legal, moral, introducing the idea of us bringing two children from Russia to
the US. From day one, he had told us that relations between our two countries were hard.
Layton didn’t have to say a thing. I knew it was going to be rough, but Stan and I were determined. I took Noah from Galina when he asked, and he curled his little arms around my neck, smacking a sticky kiss on my cheek. I missed his curls. After the shaver incident, we had to take him on his first trip to the barbershop, to even out the mess he’d made. Bless him. He’d cried at the barber’s. I’d cried when we’d gotten home.
I’m a mess right now, and I’m not embarrassed to admit it.
I went to the hall, and standing just inside, was a man I’d never met before or even seen before, certainly not anywhere at the arena. Yet Galina had let this stranger into our house?
“Erik Gunnarsson?” he said and extended his hand. I shook it, but I didn’t like the way he stared at me. It was as if he had something to say, and he looked hard and focused. He wore a suit, smart, sharp Brooks Brothers, his shoes shiny, his dark red hair cut short and tidy.
“Can I help you?”
He held up Railers’ ID. “Sacha Ivanov, Layton Foxx sent me,” he said. “Can we talk?”
Stan’s mama chose that moment to stand next to me, her arms crossed over her chest, a mutinous expression on her face.
“Ivanov?” she began, then let out a torrent of Russian, and from the tone, it sounded threatening, although I did pick up a few American words in there that led me to believe she was merely furious with Galina at letting a stranger in the house, more than angry at this Sacha guy.
Then the man, tall, broad, and with dark eyes, launched into just as much Russian back at us, and Stan’s mama lost all her bluster.
They said something else, the language too quick, the vowels too growly. I stepped back and away a little.
“The Railers organization has explained the situation to date and hired my services,” Sacha began. “I know you’re meeting your partner at the airport. I suggest you call and verify me with the team, and then we need to talk.”
I fished my cell out of my pocket, connecting one handed to Layton Foxx who assured me that yes, Sacha was a liaison there to help us, so I ushered him in our house and shut the door.
“Noah.” Galina was there, taking Noah from me, and she and Stan’s mama left, and then it was just me and the tall man who could speak fluent Russian. I remembered my manners, offered coffee, but he declined, and it appeared he just wanted to get down to business. I took him into our office, the one with the display cabinet full of game pucks, signed sticks crossed on the wall, shelves full of Stan’s books, written in Russian. I gestured for him to sit on the small sofa, then pulled the desk chair out and sat opposite him.
“I don’t have long,” I began. I was leaving the house in an hour to get to the airport. I wanted to be there long before the flight landed so I could get my head around what I was going to do and say when Stan, Eva, and Pavel landed.
“I know. That is why I have turned up unannounced right now. Layton has hired me to be your liaison today and for as long as you need me, and he wanted to explain it all, but we don’t really have time.”
“Liaison?”
Sacha handed over a glossy card, the kind of thing people just didn’t seem to carry anymore. The company name was SI, but other than that and Sacha’s name, it didn’t help much.
“This situation is not new,” he began. “Russian children coming to the US to join family, but it is fraught with issues, not least of which is the moment the plane touches US soil. There will be immigration to pass through, TSA issues, passport issues maybe, paperwork, everything is official and needs to be handled the right way. So far, and God knows how he’s done it, your partner has passed over years of red tape to get Eva and Pavel onto the plane.”
“He knows people,” I said weakly. That was a joke now—that my big bad Russian lover was in possession of friends who could help in the weirdest situations. But it seemed as though this was no joke. How did I even think it would be easy?
“He certainly does,” Sacha said and leaned forward in his chair. “But this is what we need to do now…”
The airport lounge for the Aeroflot flight was quieter than I’d expected. The plane was due in ten minutes, and I was mesmerized watching the arrivals screen, desperately needing to see Stan and the children. I knew that both Galina and her mom had wanted to be there, but Sacha had said that the welcome party should just be me. And him, of course. Somehow he’d won them over, and they’d agreed to stay at home for Noah’s sake.
He’d also found a room for us, a private space for us to meet, away from cameras, from any person who might’ve recognized me or Stan. He’d thought of everything and had had several heated conversations with an immigration officer and at least two TSA representatives. I don’t know what he was doing or saying, but somehow he’d smoothed things, signed papers, had me sign papers, and finally when the plane landed, Stan and the children were to be ushered privately and separately through a VIP access.
Not that this would be make the process they had to undergo any easier, but they would at least arrive away from the public gaze.
Who cares what two hockey players do with their lives?
“Plenty of people,” Sacha replied, and I realized I must have said that out loud. “Tensions are high.”
He didn’t have to say anything else, and then he left me in the room and said he’d be back, and that I was to wait.
So I waited, and it was exactly forty-two minutes from him leaving until the second door in the room opened, and I scrambled to stand, my gaze heading right for Stan, who was as serious and focused as Sacha had been.
“Stan,” I murmured, and I could see some of the tension slip from his shoulders at the simple mention of his name. I wanted to hug him, kiss him, hold him there, and never, ever let him go back to Russia or even out of the damn state. Sacha ushered everyone in and shut the door.
I crouched in front of the children and held out a hand. “I’m Erik,” I said, keeping it simple. Pavel was having none of it. He hid behind his sister. She kept a protective hand on his shoulder. At least she was looking at me, and I smiled.
“Hello Erik,” she said and held out a hand. I could see her trembling, see the fear in her beautiful gray eyes, and I took the offered hand gently. “My name is Eva,” she added, and I squeezed her hand and let it drop. That might have been the extent of her English. Who knew?
“Dobro pozhalovat' v Ameriku,” I said, just as I had practiced with Stan before he left. “Welcome to America.”
She gave me a shy smile but didn’t move away from Stan’s leg against which she leaned. “We are most happy to be making for America,” Eva added, and my heart melted. She sounded like a mini-Stan, and I knew in that moment I could love Eva.
“Pavel?” I asked, and he peeked out from behind his sister, his eyes so similar to his sister’s, wide with fear or shock? I didn’t know, but Sacha joined me on bended knee and spoke gently in Russian. I heard my name, and then shyly Pavel extended a hand.
“Hello,” he murmured, and I quickly took his hand before he retreated.
“Pavel does not make good English,” Eva said. “I teached some little bit.” She launched into Russian and tapped her brother on the head; Pavel’s expression lightened.
“Big Mac,” Pavel announced and made a show of rubbing his belly. “Hungry.” He appeared so proud that he’d said those words, and all I wanted to do was reach over and ruffle his dark hair. I didn’t though. I just smiled as hard as I could. After all, smiling is a universal language.
“Happy Meal and toy,” I corrected, thinking that a Big Mac might be something we could work up to.
“Much happy,” Eva said and nodded at me.
I expected there to be tears, grief, and shock, and maybe that would come when the journey was done, and we were back home. I stood, and leaned over to kiss Stan, just a quick brush of lips and a quiet promise of a better hello later. I wanted to hug him, keep him close, and never let
him go.
He was pale with bags under his eyes; I’m not sure he’d slept much since he’d left me, and he needed to be cared for. So did the children, and I did what I do best. I channeled my dad-skills and held out a hand for Eva to take as Stan picked up Pavel.
“Okay, guys, ready to go?” Sacha asked. He had his hand on the door, the final barrier between us and home. I meant to ask about bags, but the feel of Eva’s hand in mine and the way Pavel looked at me over Stan’s shoulder meant all I could think about was that we were the luckiest men alive to be adding them to our family.
The bags were in the car, I didn’t even ask, although Stan thanked Sacha, so I assumed the fixer had had something to do with it. He didn’t come in the car with us. He patted the roof, said he had things to do, and that he’d visit in the morning. I shook his hand through the open window and thanked him.
Then it was just the four of us, the kids belted in, Stan in the passenger seat where I could see him. We exchanged glances, and I could see his eyes were bright with emotion; this meant so much to him. He cleared his throat and squeezed my hand and then took a breath.
“McDonald’s!” he announced.
We made our way home, stopping for lunch, the kids fascinated with the staff, the food, the sauce dispenser, the bathroom signs, and most of all, the Happy Meal toys.
I don’t think I will ever forget Pavel taking his toy and holding it close to his chest, looking as if he’d won the lottery. The little figurine of a dinosaur was precious to him, and he wasn’t letting it go. Eva gave him her toy as well, a tiny figure dressed in safari gear, with a big butterfly net. I’m not sure what film tie-in this was, but it didn’t matter to Pavel. He carefully took the other toy and seemed uncertain, looking to Stan for confirmation of whether he could have both.
