Moving Forward in Reverse

by Scott Martin

  This time it was Easter. We could expect the kids home by Easter, she said. Please be patient – those three little words every adoptive parent dreads to hear. I gritted my teeth, broke in my new right myoelectric hand, and finalized a trade offer for my fantasy baseball team.

  As the snow began to melt and the beginning of April presented promises of Spring, I called Barb once more. I wanted to scream at her through the phone; wanted to demand that she tell me what was going on., Where are my kids?! I wanted to yell across the line. They were supposed to be here five months ago!

  But instead I simply mumbled the same query I’d asked in each of the preceding calls: How were things progressing with our adoption now?

  When she begged for me to be patient yet again and couldn’t even give me a definitive date or holiday to pin my hopes to, I decided it was time to make my own waves.

  It had been nine months since we spent those precious forty-five minutes with Nadia and Danny, and from that day forth I had been living as if afflicted with some degenerative ailment. The flesh-eating disease felt alive and well within me, eating away at my heart with the passing of each day. I couldn’t wait anymore. Someone had to do something – there had to be someone I could reach out to who could do something.

  So I couldn’t count on Barb any more. As she had said herself, her hands were tied. She had several cases she was managing, I was sure, so what more could I expect? I, on the other hand, had only this one case and endless hours to dedicate to it. I was a problem-solver, I reminded myself, and this was just another (big) problem to be solved.

  I emailed the trade offer and opened a new webpage, typing the URL for Google.com, the newest bright star in the search-engine wave. I clicked the rectangular search box beneath the blue, red, yellow, and green letters and watched the black line of my cursor wink at me from the page.

  Okay.

  I was ready to get to work. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins, fed by determination and grit. I was going to do this. Whatever it took; however long it required, I would sit here until I had found the answers I was after. I was going to bring my kids home if it was the last thing I did.

  Okay.

  I looked at the keyboard, the right and left myos open and hovering over the keyboard. Thumbs ready to press the keys, and…

  Nothing. No great idea. No spark of brilliance. No shining light bulb to show me the way. Nothing. I had no idea where to even begin. Barb was my only real connection to the courts in Romania and she had already made it clear she was out of her depth at this point. I grimaced at the familiar words that echoed through my head: Please be patient.

  So who else?

  I stared at the screen and let my arms fall to the desk on either side of the keyboard. Who else can I reach out to?

  The only other contact I had at hand was Igor, who had given me his home number (‘just for case’) but he was our link to the orphanage, not the courts. I needed someone involved in the entire adoption process in Romania. I needed a court official.

  My thumbs started punching keys, tapping out a frantic tap-tap-tap on the keyboard. Nearly eight years with prosthetics had made me a very proficient thumb-typist, but even my exceptional speed wasn’t good enough. I felt as if I were in a race against the clock; every second counted. My kids’ lives were at stake here. I had to get them out of that despondent orphanage; I had to get them home where I could protect them and love them as they deserved to be protected and loved.

  By the time mid-morning had faded into mid-afternoon, my enthusiasm waned with my hunger. Five hours in and I was running on pure willpower. My brain felt like mush and a familiar fuzziness kept encroaching on my thoughts, casting a dour light over everything I read and saw. I had to repeatedly beat back the sinister little voice that told me I didn’t stand a chance; the voice that laughed at the myoelectric thumbs typing so furiously; the voice that reminded me despair and self-doubt had been my most steadfast companions, always lurking just below the surface; the voice I had vowed never to listen to when thoughts of Nadia and Danny could take its place.

  I forged on, sloughing through court transcript after court transcript; staring into the weathered, falsely-smiling faces of judge after judge; reading bland biography after bland biography and useless article after useless article, all telling me what Barb already had: parents must be patient. None of it seemed to be leading anywhere. What good was a judge when we didn’t even have a court date yet?

  I had been patient for almost a year and had nothing to show for it. Sure, there were the happily-ever-after stories of parents who had waited it out and were now kissing their Romanian children good-night every eve, but their success did little to diminish my distress. I wasn’t looking for reassurances that it would all work out in the end, I was looking for someone to take action. I was looking for a connection between the agencies, orphanages, and courts.

  Then there was something: a tickle like the brush of a blade of grass across my consciousness, easily brushed away and quickly forgotten. Something from the Getting Started packets Barb had sent us. I focused on the inkling of promise, drawing it out into a full-fledged memory. A description of the people and agencies involved in the adoption process came into my mind’s eye: Parents go through the agency, the agency contacts the council, the council contacts the orphanage, the orphanage returns to the council, and the council contacts the courts.

  I need to get at that council! I thought with sudden clarity. If our case was stranded between the orphanage and the court, they had to be the clog in the drain.

  I started punching out possible combinations with the words ‘council’ and ‘adoption’ in them until a link surfaced: The Romanian Adoption Council.

  Yes!

  I clicked the link and was directed to the English version of a clearly Romanian-written website. Even with certain things lost in translation, I was able to comprehend enough to know I had found a gem among the stones.

  ‘The Romanian Council for Adoption is a non-profit organization which seeks to aid in the adoption process. Its members include agencies and lawyers,’ it said. Bingo! I thought at the word lawyers. Finally someone whose purpose it was to wrangle the legal system into doing what they wanted.

  I read on: ‘Strongly involved in the adoption of legislation, may strive for the members of the Council to improve the process of adoption in Romania, both internally and internationally.’

  Yes! I slid to the edge of my chair like a racehorse dancing into the starting gate. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Rejuvenated by my find, I quickly scanned the page of Romanian-infused English for contact information and found myself staring at a list of names and numbers. Some had recognizable titles after them, but others were simply followed by a jumble of Romanglish.

  I picked up the phone and began dialing the first number I saw, the country code followed by an eight digit number for one Petru Moldoveanu located in Bucharest. It rang: once, twice, three times, and I lowered the handset back to the receiver.

  Ten hours ahead, I thought miserably. They’re ten hours ahead.

  It was five p.m. here. Chances were Mr. Moldoveanu wasn’t going to be found at his office at three in the morning.

  I sighed and looked over the list of names without reading any of them. So close – I had been so close to making a break-through. Ah, well, I sighed and forced myself to swivel the chair away from the computer screen to stretch. It’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.

  Or … I could call at ten tonight. That’d be – I did some hasty mental calculations – eight a.m. their time. Would Romanian officials be at their office by eight o’clock? I wondered. Being early risers hardly coincided with the clear dilatoriness of the system.

  If not, I’ll just call back again at eleven.

  32

  A Mom in Tennis Shoes

  ‘Please, Miss… uh,’ I hovered, waiting for her to fill in the blank. When all I got in response was more patient silence, I shook myself and pressed on. ‘I rea
lly need to speak with Mr. Moldoveanu. It’s urgent. It’s regarding my children in a Romanian orphanage.’

  ‘I am very sorry, Mr. Marrteen,’ she said in the same placating and heavily-accented tone she’d been using with me since the start of our phone call, ‘but Mr. Moldoveanu is verry beessy at moment. I weel take message for you to him.’

  I shook my head and tried not to groan. How long was I going to be talking in circles with this woman? I had waited six hours to make this call; to finally connect with someone who might be able to help, and she wanted me to leave my children’s fate up to a Post-it note?

  ‘I understand he’s busy,’ I said calmly, enunciating each syllable with extraneous care, ‘but this will only take a moment of his time. I promise. I just need a question answered. Two minutes. Please, they’re my children.’

  She paused and I held my breath, listening to the background hum of the phone line. ‘Okay. Two meenutes.’

  Yes!

  ‘Hold, please,’ she said in a perfect television-secretary voice.

  I held, scarcely daring to move lest the line drop forcing me to go through this all over again.

  When the symphony music clicked to silence and a man’s guttural voice barked into my ear, I had to bite my lip to keep from stumbling over my words in my haste to be heard.

  ‘Mr. Moldoveanu, my name is Scott Martin. My wife and I have begun the process of adopting a brother and sister from Romania – we actually began the process a year ago, but our case hasn’t even been scheduled a court date yet. Is there anything you or I can do to speed things along?’

  I could hear him breathing like a bull in a chute, deep laborious breaths that carried images of too many brandies and long nights spent behind a cigar. I thought I could hear him scratching stubble on his cheek or chin and began wracking my brain for what else I could say to plead our case.

  ‘I can’t help you, Mr. Martin,’ Mr. Moldoveanu said in a deep-chested grumble. ‘It’s a matter for the courts.’

  ‘Can’t –’ I started, but it was too late. The line was dead.

  ‘Damn it!’ I swore as I put the phone back in its cradle. Rage, discouragement, and frustration clawed their way through my morale. I had been so sure this was the key to freeing the hold-up. Wasn’t ushering legal adoptions through the system exactly what The Romanian Adoption Council was for?

  ‘Damn useless bureaucrats,’ I huffed and looked at the computer screen.

  Now what?

  ~~~

  April showers turned into May gloom and with still no word from Barb that things in Romania had changed, I gave her another of my monthly phone calls. Just in case.

  My kids were still nearly six thousand miles away and delayed for no reason I could see other than the laziness or ineptitude of others. I couldn’t stop trying.

  ‘Hi, Laura,’ I said when the familiar, collected voice of Barb’s secretary cut the peal of the second ring short. My voice carried all the hopefulness of a leaf in autumn. I could already sense the fall was coming, and there was not a thing I could do about it.

  Despite my misgivings, I asked to be connected to Barb and waited as the line clicked and buzzed, finally opening to a woman’s resigned inhale.

  ‘Scott,’ Barb greeted me, her voice conveying the enthusiasm of a child who just found socks inside his present.

  ‘How are you? How’s Ellen?’ she asked, likely trying to delay the inevitable disappointment we both knew we faced.

  ‘Fine. Good. Has there been any news?’

  I heard her fill her lungs with a long and deep inhale. By the sound of it, disappointment was definitely around the corner. I stole myself for whatever news – or lack thereof she may bring.

  ‘Scott,’ she sighed on a woebegone exhale. ‘I’m so sorry to tell you this. I really wish it weren’t true…’

  I closed my eyes. Here we go again. As I waited for her to continue, I mouthed the words I loathed most: Please be patient.

  ‘The Romanian courts have just begun a one month vacation.’

  My eyes snapped open. I started to speak, thousands of denials and proclamations of impossibility on my lips, but all that formed was a strangled gasp. Muscles clenched across my chest and my lungs heaved on air they no longer seemed capable of breathing.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Scott. Truly I am. It’s horribly unfair, I know. But–’

  I jerked the receiver away from my ear. I didn’t want to hear it. Whatever ‘but’ she had to share, it wasn’t going to change a thing.

  A month?! My kids are trapped in a decrepit, desolate orphanage and those lazy … I couldn’t think words foul enough for the heartless officials who were more concerned with their vacation hours than the neglected children abandoned in decaying orphanages all across their country.

  ‘Scott?’ Barb’s distraught voice chirped from the handset. ‘Scott? Are you still there?’ Hearing the clear concern and anguish in her voice, I gritted my teeth against the indignant fury blistering my consciousness and brought the speaker to my ear.

  ‘Yes. I’m here,’ I reassured her in a monotonous tone. Before she could say anything more, I continued, ‘Thanks for letting me know, Barb. I’ll stay in touch. Take care,’ and hung up.

  I pushed waveringly to my feet. I couldn’t be in that office any longer. Clomping down the short flight of steps, my feet finding each step from memory alone, I shuffled out of the master bedroom and across the hall. I pushed open the door with a hand that, were it made of flesh, would have been just as numb as the metal and plastic one I wore, and gazed into the room beyond. My eyes traveled lovingly over the two small, twin beds; traced the outline of the names carved from wood on each of the shelves; stroked the fur of the stuffed animals clustered around the pillows; and followed the path of the frogs to the framed rainbow I had nailed to the wall so long ago now.

  I subconsciously flexed the fingers of the right myo, remembering. I can’t give up. My eyes strayed back to the beds, still neatly made, and I saw Ellen, leaning over each bed as she so lovingly tucked in the corners of the blankets and tenderly arranged each of the stuffed animals. I won’t give up. Until the day Nadia and Danny are tucked into these beds, I will pull every string, jostle every boat, and harass every person I can think of.

  I turned towards the master bedroom and straightened my shoulders. For Nadia. As I retraced my steps to the loft office, I held in my mind the memory of Danny’s warm head resting against my chest. For Danny.

  ~~~

  I wrote to Oprah. Why not? She had clout. Perhaps she could apply a little pressure or knew of someone who could. There had to be someone, somewhere who I could reach out to and have them in turn reach out to someone else and so on and so forth until we reached one person who could get the ball rolling. I had tried everything else I could think of, so why not Oprah?

  I opened a blank Word document and set the thumbs of the myos on the keyboard.

  Dear Ms. Winfrey,

  I realize this will first be read by your assistants and not you, but I must try…

  When a week and a half had passed with no word or whisper from Oprah or any of her many assistants, I picked another number off the list of The Romanian Adoption Council members and dialed. I was greeted by a dainty male voice, full of late-Spring cheer.

  ‘Buna ziua!’ he called, making me want to scowl at his probably well-rested, post-vacation gaiety.

  ‘Hello, is Mr. Popescu available, please?’ I asked, unenthused.

  ‘Uhmm, yees, yees, I believe he ees. May you hold, please, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll hold.’

  I waited patiently, feeling a twinge of optimism at being able to reach this Council member so easily. Maybe my luck is changing after all.

  ‘Hullo?’ a man blurted into the phone. ‘Dees ees Erik Popescu.’

  ‘Mr. Popescu, my name is Scott Martin. My wife and I have been trying to adopt a brother and sister from an orphanage in Giurgiu for nearly a year now, but our case has yet to be placed on the court schedule
.’ I took a breath, steadying my voice which had inched up an octave as I crammed the same blurb I’d used too many times before into one breath. ‘Is there any amount of American dollars which I can offer that will move this forward?’

  Silence distended between us, swelling to fill every cavity and canal of my ear. Seconds trickled past as I waited. Just when I thought I might have made it through to someone’s inner greed, there was a definitive click! and the line went dead.

  I listened to the dial tone blaring into my ear with unfair finality, the timbre of a flat-lined cardiogram. The end, it seemed to be saying. Game over.

  Eventually I lowered the handset back into its cradle, unable to grasp it any longer. It was the thirtieth of May and after two months of digging and pleading and fighting, I was irrevocably exhausted and utterly devastated.

  ~~~

  May became June and I was no closer to bringing Nadia and Danny home than I had been back at Easter. Every avenue I’d pursued thus far had rammed me straight into a brick wall. I’m not quitting, I told myself as Ellen and I sprawled on the sofa, lazily eyeing 60 Minutes’ correspondent Steve Kroft as he interviewed a very contrite Mayor – former Mayor Milton Milan on his recent conviction of corruption.

  I’m like a child’s windup toy, I coached myself. The kind which hits a wall and simply changes directions; the kind that never lets up. Maybe we should get some of those for Nadia and Danny. They might like them. I wonder if they’ve ever seen a windup toy…

  I shook myself, forcing my focus back to the issue at hand. No matter how many toys I bought, it wasn’t going to bring Nadia and Danny home any faster. I needed to stay strong and keep digging.

  Martins don’t quit, I reminded myself, clenching my jaw and letting my chin jut out with family pride.