Moving Forward in Reverse

by Scott Martin

  The couple, it turned out, were local llama and alpaca farmers (those were llamas we could see behind them). They also had two children of their own: a boy and girl each in their teens. The three children standing before them had joined the family less than a year ago. Less than a year and already they looked so natural together; so relaxed as they posed for the camera with the smallest boy (aged four) clutching at his dad’s pant leg and the oldest (seven years old) reclining gently against both parents, hands hanging in his pockets.

  When asked why they decided to adopt children from Haiti, the wife responded simply, ‘Because there was a need.’

  And when asked why they adopted siblings, the husband explained with an unwavering grin, ‘One of the boys caught our eye. After we learned that he had a brother and sister, we asked ourselves, “Why not?” It was the right thing to do.’

  My mind flashed to Robert Kennedy and his paraphrase of George Bernard Shaw’s line: “There are those who look at things the way they are and ask why… I dream of things that never were and ask, why not?”

  Why not, indeed.

  When the segment ended with the family of five waving cheerily to the camera as Mom scooped the little girl into her arms, Ellen sat up. Cool air rushing to fill the vacated space against my chest as she twisted to face me. Our eyes met and mouths opened simultaneously, words tumbling forth in an avalanching rush.

  ‘Wecandothat!’ I blurted in a barrage of syllables, then paused, panting with excitement as Ellen’s words overlaid my own like a repercussion. It took me a moment to decipher the echo and realize that it was Ellen exclaiming the same thing at the exact same time. We stared at each other like a couple of preteens after a roller coaster ride, all dilated eyes and splitting grins. The phrase kept replaying across my mind on an endless loop, getting more concrete with each repetition: We can do that… we can do that… we can do that!

  I glanced at the TV where the anchor was back at center stage, now with a small snapshot of the family of five in the corner of the screen.

  They even look like us, I realized as I gazed at the white faces of the Caucasian couple beaming at us from behind their three adopted children. Mid-forties. Laid-back. Locals. Everything was lining up, pointing us down a defined path: We could do that.

  Ellen and I ordered pizza and scampered up to the loft-office in the master bedroom to begin researching the idea.

  I let Ellen take the office chair and pulled the extra seat over for myself. My mind was a frenzied whir as we waited for the computer to boot. Thoughts and images bounced around my skull like racquetballs, hurdling in one direction only to ricochet off a wall and go rebounding the other way.

  We’re going to adopt! We’re going to bring unrelated children into our home and make a family. We’re going to…?

  Are we crazy? Maybe this whole idea is lunacy… Can we really do it?

  As my leg began to shake, bouncing up and down with anxiety and doubt, my eyes travelled to the five-by-seven silver photo frame beside the monitor and the words printed in black text on white paper captured behind the glass panel. My rendition of Bobby Kennedy’s paraphrase:

  Do not ask

  why

  but rather

  why not?

  I’d carried that quotation with me from desk to desk as a teacher and a coach. It was one of my mottos. The mantra that helped me get where I was and the reminder I turned to whenever too many things seemed stacked against me. When I had to decide if I’d ever walk again, when I had a bagel in front of me and only two amputated arms to hold it with, when I stood at the bottom of nine flights of stairs, when it came time to return to UWEC and the life I’d known as an irrevocably changed man: those were why-not times.

  Adoption? Why not?

  28

  The Email

  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 sce
ne 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 p
rovoked 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.

  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.