Rescuing Julia Twice

by Tina Traster

  In my childhood home, we had a pair of crushed-velvet burnt-orange love seats in the living room. When I left for college, the cushions were as new as they had been the day they had been delivered thirteen years earlier. We didn’t sit around. We didn’t watch television. There was no television. We remained busy from sunup to sundown. Productivity was a way of life, an ism. My inclination, too, was to fill white space by reading, doing projects, practicing the piano, or preparing for a dance recital. As an adult, I was afraid to be alone with my thoughts, to face a blank calendar. My divorce, the blessedly apocalyptic moment where I reevaluated virtually everything, offered up a chance for change. I had to learn to be still. I finally understood that constant so-called productivity was really a tactic for avoidance. Rather than date right away, I allowed myself to grieve my lost marriage. I learned to hear my voice, to listen to desires that had been repressed. I pushed my mother’s voice out of my head, until it went away permanently. I taught myself to balance fruitful time with time-outs. I took baths. I did yoga. I sought out white space. I remembered how to daydream again. I was not afraid to be alone.

  Julia’s only a baby, but I worry she is afraid to be. To just be. Sometimes I think she moves around and verbalizes nonstop as a way of telling herself she is there. I wish I could soothe her so she’d be free to daydream.

  Today Julia and I have music class at 11:00 AM. Mothers, nannies, and occasionally a father bring babies nine to fifteen months old. We gather in a large circle around a chipper troubadour who nests in our enclosure. He has a skinned drum, a flute, a tambourine, and a guitar. It’s kiddie Kumbaya. This will be the third mommy-and-me music class I try with Julia. The idea is to spend time sitting on the rim of the circle, bonding with your baby through music. Seems simple enough. Mommy holds baby up and wiggles her to the tune of the music. Baby smiles, sways, shows delight. Endorphins course the veins. Over the span of forty-five minutes, the troubadour mixes up the music with drum beating, and he teaches simple hand motions to go along with the songs. All very simple, except Julia refuses to participate. She will not let me hold her up so she can move to the rhythm. She won’t even remain in the circle. As soon as we settle in, she takes off on her knees—and at ten months old, it seems incorrect to say she’s “crawling.” She’s a Ferrari on knees, a caterpillar on steroids. I can barely keep up with her. She uses raw determination to scud across the large gym floor. There’s a lot of territory in here and dangerous equipment, so I go in chase, again and again.

  The weirdest part is that she gets far ahead of me, gaining such distance that she can’t even see me, nor does she bother to look back. This doesn’t panic her. In the orphanage she learned that someone will eventually come along, pluck her up, and put her back in a crib or a high chair or another depot of sorts. It didn’t—and perhaps still doesn’t—matter who that is. She has no built-in notion that mother and child should be within reach of one another.

  I can’t figure out why Julia is so disinterested in an activity like this. Other babies wander a little here and there, but only she goes AWOL. She’s not deaf, I’m certain of that, so it’s not that she doesn’t hear the music. Music is a universal language, so it’s not a language issue. I leave again today feeling deflated because we have missed another opportunity to do something that might make us feel closer. In my darkest moments, I believe her behavior is intentional, that Julia simply won’t allow intimate moments to flower, though I cannot fathom why. Then I tell myself, That’s ridiculous, but I’m lying to myself. My gut reaction is right. Something is wrong.

  I’ve been at this mothering thing for three months. It’s only to myself that I admit I dislike it most of the time. Contrary to what I expected, I’m not experiencing any bliss. I’m not lost in love or swept up in rapture. I’m bored, restless. I don’t look forward to the days; I get through them. Having work and deadlines on my mind constantly and trying to squeeze in what I can when I can, doesn’t help, but I don’t think that’s the real problem. Enough time has gone by that I feel bereft. What if Julia and I never bond? What if I never feel deep love for her? Sometimes my mind plays a terrible game. If she were in perilous danger, would I save her if I knew I’d be risking my own life? I don’t know.

  The other day I was walking up and down Broadway strolling Julia. I thought back to the scene outside the courtroom when we finalized the adoption. Olga was prepping us, as she always did before any official interaction. She said the judge would ask a few questions, she’d interpret them, and we’d respond. They were simple basic questions, but she made a point to say, “If the judge asks who will care for the baby, tell her you will be home with the baby full time.” She said this with her eyes boring into mine. Then she knitted her brow and said, “Do not tell her the baby will have a nanny or go to day care.”

  “Of course,” I had said.

  In fact I hadn’t planned any kind of day care or nanny. I hadn’t planned anything at all. When we were called back to Russia to finalize the adoption so swiftly, time stopped. I turned my attention to returning to Siberia and preparing the apartment and Julia’s nursery for her homecoming. I could only project far enough to dream of the day we’d arrive at Kennedy Airport with our baby. I’m realizing I need to hire someone so I can free up some of my time. I need balance, and whether that’s frowned upon by the Russians or by other mothers, so be it. I need to face down my biggest critic: me.

  The next day, en route to a new mommy-and-me experiment, I stop at the health food store and hang a flier that says I’m looking for someone to care for Julia three hours every morning. I tack it up on the board and whisper to myself, “Gotta do this.”

  We continue walking down Broadway in the April morning sunshine. The dogwoods are blooming. I feel a little brighter than I usually do. Julia and I arrive at a brownstone where we leave the stroller on the ground floor with a fleet of other strollers. I carry Julia up one flight to the classroom. I’d read about mommy-and-me yoga and thought maybe, just maybe, this might work.

  Ten mats are staggered across the studio’s hardwood floor. Light pours through large windows, casting angular shadows. Mothers sit on mats, coddling and nuzzling their babies. Babies gurgle with delight. It’s as though you can enter the room only if you and your baby are a Hallmark moment. One woman and her child look like a Madonna and Child sculpture. The babies are propped on their mothers’ knees or draped over their mothers’ stomachs as though straddling a rocking horse. The babies are bounced and stroked and loved all over. It’s like a maternity ward, umbilical cords intact. There’s no chaos or crying. What kingdom have I entered?

  Please let this work. Please let this work. I offer a silent prayer to the yogi gods, aware I’m fragile and tired and hoping I’ll receive manna this morning. I remove Julia’s little wool sweater and her shoes. Mine are already off. There’s an empty mat in the second row. Women perched around me offer beatific smiles. I sit down while holding onto Julia’s chubby arm. When I’m situated on the floor, I pull her toward me. I try to imitate the other women. Some are sitting with their legs open in a V and stretched out. Their babies are squeezed in the crook made by the formation of the V. I try to assume this position, using all my might to pull Julia into place. The more I try to keep her next to me, the more she pulls away. The band of tension between us is palpable. This is no way to prepare for yoga. Deep breath. Deep breath.

  In wafts a waif wearing a bun and a dreamy expression. She probably doesn’t have children. Setting down CDs, she stretches both sides of her lithe body and takes a few deep breaths.

  “Good morning all,” she whispers, bowing her head. “What a beautiful morning.”

  Julia’s forcefulness strains my arms. If I hold her more tightly, I’m afraid someone will call child services.

  I release the pressure, and she takes off on her knees across the room.

  The waif sniffs the air.

  “Sorry,” I say, quickly sprinting after her. The room is small, so she can’t get beyond my sight. I
scoop her up and take her back to the mat. Just as she won’t stay close, neither does she resist being brought back to home base.

  “Okay, let us begin. Let’s sit opposite our babies.”

  “Om. Ommm. Ommmmm.”

  While the rest of the room is in freakishly perfect order, Julia and I are fumbling. This isn’t mommy-and-me yoga. It’s mommy-and-me wrestling. I situate her opposite me. I’m supposed to stretch up and around her to embrace her. She, in turn, is supposed to enjoy the nurture. But by the time I reach forward, she’s back on her knees, pointed toward the CD player. My heart flutters as she heads for the CD player, with all its shiny buttons. Fearful she’ll disrupt the perfect harmony, I leap up and snatch her. The waif avoids my eyes.

  Now the mothers are being instructed to massage their babies. I put my hands on Julia’s powerful legs and squeeze. I glance around to see other babies lying prostrate on the floor, enjoying the physical contact. Julia whips around and she’s back on her knees again. “It’s no use,” I say, audibly. A mother in the front row looks over her shoulder with a compassionate expression. Sure, I think to myself. You look at me like that. What do you know? Or you? Or you? Or any of you with your babies and your perfect mother world? I realize I’m on the brink of tears or maybe a nervous breakdown. I’ve got to get out of this room. I can’t take another minute of this humiliation. I grab Julia, carry her downstairs, and put her in the stroller.

  “Why is everything so difficult with you?” I bark. In the height of my upset and disillusionment, I notice something important. Julia does not appear to be upset even though I’m so clearly unhinged. There’s no look of concern or fear in her eyes. Is this normal? I realize babies are egocentric, but if their mother, or even a constant caretaker, which is what I imagine Julia thinks I am, is having a meltdown, wouldn’t that jar a healthy baby?

  At that moment, I stop pitying myself. A tremendous shroud of sadness for Julia envelops me. My heart aches for her. How alone she must be. How alone I feel. We’re two unfortunate souls who’ve come together, both needing love yet each unable to help the other. As I walk home, I have my true yoga moment. I realize the universe—if one is to believe in something divine—has put us together to work through something complicated and powerful. I don’t know exactly what it is yet, but there, on the sunny spring street, I accept that Julia has come to me for a reason.

  Eleven

  Lurnie arrives at 9:30 Monday morning, thirty minutes late. Stan, the doorman, gave me her number. She babysits other children in our building. I hired her to look after Julia while I work from 9:00 to noon, weekdays. She seemed affable and soft-spoken, almost hypnotic because of her Jamaican lilt. Her mild manner might suit Julia. I’m a stickler for time. I try not to show my displeasure when she shows up late. She enters the apartment with a toothy grin and lunges playfully toward Julia, arms wide open for a hug.

  Lurnie and I have discussed my expectations. I need her to mind Julia inside the apartment but to stay as far away as possible from the desk where I’m on the telephone working. Lurnie was understandably perplexed when I told her I didn’t want her to take Julia outside the apartment. I had said, “I know it’s a weird request, but we recently adopted Julia and I’m still, you know, getting used to … ” She stopped me there, squeezed my forearm, and said, “I completely understand.” That’s what made me hire her.

  Newspaper reporters learn to focus in a fog of noise. Editors shout, televisions blare, phones ring, reporters converse on the phones. To write or think, you go into a long tunnel. The world around you dims. You’ve got a deadline. That’s all there is. I’m hoping that training is going to work with this new arrangement because the apartment is only so big.

  For the next few weeks, I resume something of a work routine while Lurnie and Julia cavort in every square inch of the apartment. By the end of May, Lurnie’s timekeeping is deteriorating. She shows up at 10:00 AM, 10:30 AM, sometimes not at all. Every day I wake with a knotted stomach, wondering how much of my day will be chipped away by her tardiness. It’s harder to eat breakfast. When she does show up, I’m less and less sunny. It doesn’t occur to me there are a thousand Lurnies who need the work. Everything about my existence seems so vulnerable.

  That next day I told Lurnie it was time to take Julia outside. First for one hour, then two, and then we’d work up to the whole morning. Lurnie looked relieved. Julia showed no look of concern when they left the apartment together for the first time. Finally having time, and the apartment, completely to myself was a relief, yet I can’t say I was at ease. Although I don’t feel a blissed-out, endorphin-pumping mother’s love when I’m with Julia, I’m also not at ease when I’m not with her. I feel the weight of her preciousness, like she’s irreplaceable, and that’s literally true. She can’t be replaced, and I can’t have another kid. We couldn’t afford to adopt another child. There are no second chances.

  For a few weeks, a new rhythm takes hold. I am more balanced and productive. Then Lurnie becomes even less reliable. It’s not unusual for her to be a no-show, for her to not even call. One dreary Wednesday is such a day. I’m particularly annoyed because in addition to revising a story that’s been sent back to me by an impatient editor, I want to finish last-minute arrangements for a party we’re throwing on Saturday. It’s Julia’s “coming-out” party. Ricky made great invitations for fifty guests. The card had a stork carrying a baby, and he Photoshopped the word “Aeroflot” on the stork. I bought Julia a special dress. We’ve been very excited to introduce Julia to our world.

  I’ve got to talk to Ricky’s mother, who’s agreed to cater the party. I need to make some calls to follow up with people who have yet to RSVP. Ricky’s put together a CD track, and he bought Fiddler on the Roof to give the party a hint of Russian-ness.

  I blow my lips in frustration and mumble, “I just can’t rely on anyone.” Julia is crawling around the apartment, dragging books from her room to the living room, not to read but to rearrange.

  “Now what?”

  I lift Julia onto the changing table and put on a fresh diaper. “We can dress later,” I say. “Let’s see what I can wear to your party,” I say, guiding her to the bedroom by holding her outstretched arms while she toddles wobbily. She’ll be walking in a few weeks. I lift her up and plop her on my bed. She throws herself on top of the cat, who instinctively seems to know not to harm her. But I pull Julia back and show her how to pet the cat more gently.

  I hesitate for a moment, then walk three feet across the room to a bureau of drawers. Just as I bend down to pull open a dresser drawer, I hear a thud that paralyzes my body. Before I whip around, I know the bed is going to be empty, but I cannot believe it when I see her on the hardwood floor. She’s lying next to the leg of the wrought-iron bed, and she’s silent. I scream and lunge to get her. By the time I do, she is wailing. There are no cuts or bleeding, but she’s more inconsolable than I’ve ever seen her. A hideous purple blot is spreading along her left temple, like wet ink. I hold her tighter than I ever have. Oh my God, oh my God, what have I done? What is the matter with me? How could I have turned my back for a second while she was sitting on our tall queen bed? Oh my God, what have I done? I hug and hug her. Her crying subsides. My leaden legs slog toward the kitchen. I bend sideways into the freezer and extract ice cubes, which I wrap in a dishtowel. She fusses when I press cold compresses against her temple. Oh my God, what have I done? I could have killed her. I’m dizzy. I feel like I’m going to throw up. Time has stopped.

  Deep breaths. Deep breaths. You’re the adult. You’re the mother. She needs you to remain levelheaded. I reach for the phone and hit speed dial for the pediatrician.

  Hysterically I tell the receptionist I have an emergency. She puts a nurse on the phone. I start rambling, but she stops me. She’s asking the questions. Yes, the baby cried. No, she didn’t pass out. Yes, she seems alert. No, she didn’t vomit. The nurse makes order of chaos. An angel at a dark moment. Julia’s vital signs seem okay. The nurse doesn’t recomm
end a visit to the emergency room, though she tells me to watch for a series of signs that might indicate a concussion.

  I’ve got Julia on my lap, but now she’s done crying and appears ready to resume her busyness. She eats a rice cracker. The eggplant-shaded bruise is an abomination. It broadcasts to the world I’m not bonded enough to my baby to know that leaving her on a tall, queen-size bed is a stupid, careless idea.

  I have no choice but to soothe myself. The nurse said it sounded like it wasn’t a critical fall. All the vital signs are there. Breathe. Breathe. I can hardly breathe.

  Then it hits me.

  Oh my God. What am I going to tell Ricky?

  I have never lied to my husband. I have an unnatural need to keep everything in sunlight. That’s not his nature, but over time, that’s the way we’ve become together. But for the first time I know I’m going to lie by omission. I’m going to tell him she’s taken a fall, but I’m going to say she ran into the bed leg. I can’t bring myself to say I turned my back on her while she was on the bed. It’s not that he’ll chastise me; in fact, it’s the opposite. He’ll be patient and understanding and tell me every new mother makes a mistake or two and that I’m being too harsh with myself.

  I run down the conversation with the nurse, point by point. He listens calmly. He believes I have the situation under control. Maybe I do. He says he’ll call in a couple of hours to check in. I put down the phone and stare at the baby, who is piling stuffed animals into a toy stroller. It’s amazing. She’s fallen, got hurt, been soothed, moved on. But that purple blotch taunts me. It’s a warning. You got a pass this time. Count yourself lucky.