Can You Keep a Secret?

by Caroline Overington

  I said, ‘You’re kidding?’ and she said, ‘No, that’s the name that the staff at the orphanage gave him so I suppose you can change it if you want.’ But I could tell that she was being sarcastic, knowing we wouldn’t change it, and the name was just perfect.

  Some of you will know that I don’t tend to drive much anymore – did I ever explain that? I get anxious going out too much, or at least I did, anyway! – but on this occasion, I jumped straight in the car and drove to Laura’s office and I parked the car over two spaces, and burst in through her front door, saying, ‘Show me, show me!’

  Laura handed over the folder. It was a manila folder, but an older style, and the documents weren’t in English, but who cares, because there was a photograph of a little boy – OUR SON – clipped to the front. It wasn’t the best photograph in the world. Basically it was a full body shot, and it showed Benjamin sort of looking at the camera, and sort of looking away, so it was hard to judge his expression, and he was wearing green corduroy pants with some kind of purple stockings underneath, and a mustard-coloured jumper.

  It had been taken at some distance so it was hard to make out his face and he had the worst haircut in the world. You know how everyone says that? That children in the orphanages have these terrible bowl haircuts, and the first thing you have to do when you get them home is take them to a proper barber? Well, Benjamin had a bowl haircut, and behind his head, up on the wall, there was a photograph of a king penguin, with a baby penguin standing in front.

  The first thing Laura said was, ‘Don’t worry, he’ll look better in some normal clothes.’ But I was already completely in love. I said, ‘He looks beautiful. He looks amazing. He looks perfect.’ I opened the manila folder and there was a second photograph of Benjamin pinned to the inside cover – they use actual pins, not paperclips – but it was a group shot so it was even harder to make out his face. There were maybe sixteen or eighteen children gathered together in a wooden pen – like a playpen but much larger – and most of them were wearing denim overalls with the straps crossed over in the front instead of the back, and I have to admit, some of them didn’t look very good. One had crossed eyes and was looking down at his hands; one had a crutch, just one crutch, under his armpit; and our boy – our Benjamin! – was stuck in the middle of the group and I couldn’t really make him out, except somebody at the orphanage had drawn a circle around his head with pen.

  I was so happy, and I admit I laughed at that second shot because all the children had the same bad haircuts and some of them had patterned socks and Coke-bottle glasses, and I was thinking, ‘It’s like everyone says: the first time you see a group photograph with your child, you think, who are all these weirdos?’ And I was thinking, ‘I don’t know if I want to take this photograph home. It might make Colby question what kind of children our son is mixing with.’

  But anyway, I was saying thank you, thank you to Laura over and over again, and I signed off on every last bit of paperwork we had, and I rushed out the door, holding the folder, and I thought, ‘Do I phone Colby now and tell him, or do I wait until he gets home?’ I decided to wait because that was what I did the only time I had a positive pregnancy test – I took it home and got dressed up and waited to surprise him – and this was the next best thing. So, I took the file home, and I made Colby one of his favourite dinners, and he knows me so well he could tell something was up, so when I finally handed the picture over I said, ‘You’re not going to believe this, but it’s finally happened. Here is our boy. And no, you don’t have to tell me – he’s got a bad haircut and the clothes are horrible! But he’s our son.’

  Well, the first thing Colby said was, ‘You’re kidding!’

  I said, ‘I’m not kidding, that’s him, and we’ll get him a decent haircut, don’t worry.’

  Colby was staring at the photograph and saying, ‘I can’t believe it,’ and he said, ‘What does the file say?’

  That’s when I had to tell him what Laura had told me: the file listed all these medical problems that Benjamin was supposed to have – hip dysplasia and ear infections and whatever else you can think of – but I wasn’t worried because I knew that Benjamin probably didn’t have any of those things. Like everyone who is reading this probably already knows, one of the first things you learn in the early adoption seminars is how the Russians fake the medical certificates for the kids in orphanages. But they don’t want to make them look better. They want to make them look worse. For some reason, the government in Russia doesn’t want the Russian people to believe that good, healthy children are going to America to live. They are very proud of being able to take care of all their own children now they’ve got democracy. Except it’s not true and good healthy children are being sent to America.

  So, I told Colby, whatever the file said about Benjamin, he would probably turn out to be okay because looking at him, he looked fairly normal, and better than normal. He looked FANTASTIC. And the file said that he was four years old and that was perfect, and of course he was a boy and that was perfect. But like I said to Colby, in both photographs he looked pretty upset to be in the orphanage and I couldn’t wait to get him out of there.

  Of course, Colby wanted to know what else the file said, so I told him it basically said that Benjamin had been taken to the orphanage when he was about three and he’d been left there by his mother – or we assume by his mother as nobody actually saw him being dropped off – and nobody knew who his mother was, or why she’d given him up. But let’s be realistic: she was either very poor, like a single mother, or more likely she might even have been a prostitute, and maybe she decided she wanted to give Benjamin a better life.

  There was no information about Benjamin’s father, but I guess I didn’t expect any.

  So, there we were, the two of us with a picture of our son in our hands, and all I could say was: ‘I’m in love with him already.’

  Colby’s reaction was a bit different, but I heard that happens with fathers sometimes, even with their own children. It takes them a bit longer to fall in love. And to be fair to him – and I don’t know if this is the right thing to say – but how they had Benjamin dressed, he was even a bit ugly! In the photograph, I mean. But everyone says, it’s the haircut. They give them such bad haircuts.

  The main thing was, we finally had a child of our own, and all we needed now was permission to go and pick him up. And as anyone who has been reading this website will know, that was a HUGE challenge for me because I have not flown since 9/11 and there was a time when I was thinking that I could never get on a plane again. But then somebody offers you a baby overseas and says, ‘Come and get it!’ And you just won’t believe how fast I moved.

  We flew Delta, same as everyone, because it’s a direct flight – about fourteen hours to Moscow. It’s not too bad and at least all the stewardesses speak English.

  I sedated myself with quite a few Valium and that worked a charm because I fell asleep pretty much as soon as we took off, and the next thing I knew, the plane was descending into Moscow. Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly that easy but it was much easier than I thought it would be, and I guess it’s true what they say, you can do anything if you put your mind to it.

  It was dawn as we descended, and I looked over at Colby and said, ‘Look, it’s like the sun is on fire.’

  He’s so literal, he said, ‘It is on fire.’

  I said, ‘No, it’s like a ball of fire,’ and he said, ‘Because it is a ball of fire.’

  I said, ‘Oh, you’re so romantic,’ but I suppose he was just nervous. He made sure that we flew business class of course. We kicked off the blankets they’d given us and the stewardesses came around with coffee and I had two, because I was so dopey from all the Valium. It was probably a mistake to mix that medication with caffeine because I was ragged by the time we reached passport control. The woman behind the counter had a uniform that was this sad grey colour and everything around her was grey, and she had ink stamps and pencils to do her work with, not computers, and the
people getting off the plane from the good old US of A were all dressed brightly and were happy.

  She looked at me and she said, ‘What business you have in Russia?’ in this heavy, accented English.

  I said, ‘I’ve come to pick up my son,’ and I was so proud and excited, I was jumping from one foot to the other.

  She said, ‘Your son lives in Moscow?’

  I said, ‘I’ve adopted a boy from one of your orphanages,’ and I thought she’d say something like, oh lucky you and lucky boy, but she said something short and sharp in Russian instead, and rolled her eyes like, ‘not another one’.

  I decided to ignore her – you can’t make other people happy, as everyone knows – and we went through passport control, and Colby immediately started examining the vodka bottles that were lined up in glass cabinets on the other side of customs. They drink so much of it, I suppose to keep warm, and he was saying, ‘Remind me to get some of this on the way out.’

  I had to say, ‘Is that all you’re thinking about, buying cheap vodka? We’re here to get our son!’ But at least he was there, which was something because I really did believe that he had got cold feet.

  We waited by the baggage carousel for our four suitcases. I know that sounds like a lot, but I had one, and Colby had one, and we had one filled with new clothes for Benjamin, plus you have to take an extra suitcase filled with what are bribes, basically.

  You have to fill it with tobacco, nail polish, pantyhose, tampons, condoms and lipstick, and they expect you to hand them out to everyone you meet, like the ladies in the orphanage, for example.

  Laura also told me, ‘Pack diapers. It’s hard to find disposable diapers in Moscow. Diapers, wipes, bottles, pacifiers, anything you think you’re going to need, take. Don’t assume you can get a decent quality item there.’ I’d said, ‘But Benjamin won’t need diapers because isn’t he nearly four?’ And Laura said, ‘In my experience, they all need diapers.’

  Anyway, our suitcases came out, and it was amazing, nobody offered to help us, not even for tips. Our guide wasn’t there yet – he was supposed to be on the other side of the baggage area, with a card with our name on it – so we dragged two suitcases each across the grimy tiled floor, towards the exit, and yes, our driver was there – his uniform was also grey – and he shook our hands.

  He introduced himself, saying, ‘I am Anatoly.’

  I said, ‘I’m Caitlin, and this is my husband. Everyone calls him Colby.’

  ‘He can’t understand you,’ Colby said. So I tried again, pointing to myself, saying, ‘Caitlin,’ and then pointing at Colby and saying, ‘Colby.’

  Anatoly nodded, and Colby said, ‘Let’s get in the van, it’s freezing.’

  It was cold outside but not snowing, although there were piles of old snow on the ground from a previous snowstorm. The van was ancient and the heater was just blowers that didn’t work particularly well, but being from New York, we had fur jackets, lined mittens, and heavy snow boots, so I guess it was okay.

  It was midnight New York time when we set off into traffic, and I was exhausted and allowed myself to nap against Colby’s shoulder. We had been warned that the first stop would be the hotel and we’d have to spend a day and a night there before we headed out to the orphanage. We weren’t allowed to have a choice about which hotel we checked into: we had to book a certain hotel and a certain driver and we had to stay a certain number of nights. Laura had already told us that what they charge for the room is highway robbery.

  The hotel was like something out of a time warp. I know a lot of you have already stayed in these ‘official’ hotels, but it had been described to us as a ‘four-star international hotel’, which makes me wonder what star system they use. Then again, the price was definitely four star. When Anatoly pulled up out front, Colby got such a shock he leaned forward, saying, ‘Hang on, I think there must be some mistake,’ but there was no mistake. There was a dusty disco ball hanging over the reception desk, which had been covered with linoleum tiles at some point, but they were peeling off, and some were actually completely gone, leaving squares of dried glue.

  The wallpaper behind the reception desk was burgundy. Colby had to sign a guest register – it had a vinyl cover, and was as wide as his arm span – and he was given a brass key, tied to a block of wood. Everything was just so old-fashioned! The elevator was creaky and slow, and the room was tiny – and there was basically only a bed in it and two bedside tables. The bed was a double, and Colby was either going to have to sleep sitting up or have his feet dangle over the edge. There were two brass lamps sticking out of the wall, one of which did not work.

  Besides that, there was one chair with metal legs standing in a corner, and an old bathroom with a showerhead over the bath, and a cracked mirror on the cabinet. The toilet paper was brown and hard. The fanciest thing in the bathroom was the tissue-box holder. It was gold lace.

  I went to the window – they had lace curtains – and there was just a brick wall.

  I couldn’t help myself. I said, ‘It’s horrible.’

  ‘It’s only a few nights,’ said Colby.

  We had an entire day to waste, so we went to Red Square, taking the photographs of those buildings with the onion tops to put in Benjamin’s adoption book, and we took photographs of Russian men in long fur coats. Colby asked Anatoly to take us to a money changer so we could change American dollars into roubles, and we were amazed at the rate we got: about five times more than we’d got at our bank in America. It was so cold that we decided to have lunch at McDonald’s – the Russian families had all dressed up to go there, like it was some kind of special occasion – even though I never eat McDonald’s and can’t stand the smell. Then we went back to the hotel and tried to waste the rest of the day.

  We were a bit surprised when we got back as we found a woman sitting behind a desk on our floor. I hadn’t noticed that desk on the way up. She asked to see our key on the big block of wood, and she explained with sign language and broken English that we were supposed to hand our key to her every time we went out. I couldn’t get my head around that: why should we tell them we were going out and give them the key to our room?? It sounded a bit suspicious. I’ve been reading other people’s websites for a long time, though, and I knew to expect some very strange behaviour.

  We went into our room and lay on the bed after I’d put the bathroom towels down on the cover because it wasn’t clean.

  ‘How are we supposed to sleep in here?’ I asked, but I already knew the answer, which was that we had no real choice.

  I was jet-lagged and thirsty but I didn’t trust the water, and Colby had finished the last of the cans of Diet Coke we’d brought back with us from our shopping trip. There was no TV so it was a long night. I kept waking up and complaining about the mattress and the dirty sheets, and Colby kept telling me to go back to sleep. I said to him, ‘I can’t really believe it’s going to happen.’

  He said, ‘We don’t have to worry anymore.’

  Finally morning came and breakfast was served in a room on the top floor of the hotel, which was only about twelve storeys high. When they’d told us that the night before I thought, ‘Okay, there’s going to be some kind of restaurant up there,’ but it was a room that was the same as the bedroom, except without the bed. There were four tables, each set with a lace cloth, and four vinyl chairs. The breakfast was buffet-style: hard bread with ham, cheese, coffee and tea. I couldn’t eat. Colby piled his plate up high.

  At 8.30 am Anatoly was in the foyer, as arranged, for the long drive to the orphanage. It was still very cold, but probably no colder than a cold day in New York. We sat in the van, staring out the window. Everything looked cheap and dreary, like housing commission. Colby couldn’t get over the buses, how they were so big and belching smoke. We recognised the orphanage as we got closer to it, from the pictures Laura had showed us and, I suppose, because it’s the same orphanage that so many of you have already been to! It was a concrete building with a chain-link fence around
it, and those swings with rubber seats and heavy chains hanging out the front.

  We walked hand-in-hand up the front path, stepping over weeds that were growing through the cracks. I had expected to see children running around but there weren’t any. The first person we actually saw was a very fat Russian nurse in a pink uniform who was carrying what looked like a pot of thin soup, with peeled potatoes floating in it. Anatoly spoke to her in Russian and she nodded and said, ‘Da.’

  ‘Come,’ said Anatoly, and led us to a room with a bench seat, like a pew, and vinyl-tiled floor. We waited for about fifteen minutes before the fat lady came back, not with the pot of potato soup this time but with our little boy.

  That’s right, with Benjamin!!!!!

  The way she carried him, under the armpits, he was facing her bosom, so we didn’t see his face straight away. Then she put him on the ground, and I was waiting for him to turn around, with my heart pounding and my eyes nearly popping out of my head. But he didn’t turn around, so the nurse took him by the shoulders and turned him towards Colby and me.

  We were still sitting where we’d been told to, on the wooden pew, with our mouths hanging open. Benjamin looked exactly like the photograph: skinny, with a bad haircut, and those corduroy pants and purple stockings underneath. It was like he hadn’t even gotten changed. His head was small, and he had a sharp nose, and small, dark eyes, and his nose twitched. And this is a BAD thing to say but I couldn’t help thinking of a rat!!

  I know, I know! How bad is that! But that’s what I thought.

  I was a bit concerned about his reaction to us, too!! I’d had a fantasy about the first time I saw the child we’d been allocated in the orphanage, of having him run into my arms, maybe saying ‘Ma!’ But we didn’t really get any reaction from Benjamin. I was a bit shocked. Colby said not to worry. He put his arm around my shoulders and said, ‘You were right about the haircut. It’s terrible.’