Rescuing Julia Twice

by Tina Traster

  “How’s her eating?” he says, glancing over his bifocals to read her chart.

  “She’s on a fully organic, whole-foods, non-meat diet,” I say.

  “Meaning?”

  “Fruits, veggies, grains, eggs, lots of yogurt, everything organic. But no cow’s milk.”

  “Okay, that’s good. She’s actually in the 95th percentile for her weight. But that’s because she’s small.”

  “Her birth mother isn’t even five feet,” I say.

  “Right, I understand. I’m not too worried about her weight now, though it may be an issue later on. But she looks great. You’re doing a good job.”

  Those words are as comforting as his assessment on Julia’s progress.

  Dr. Traister is one of the godsends that have come along with my entry into motherhood. When someone first recommended him, I thought he and I, who have practically the same last name—an unusual name—could be related. The doctor and I tried to find common ancestors as we are both from Brooklyn, but we couldn’t make the link. While that might be so, I feel as though this wiry-haired, jeans-wearing, Gene Wilder look-alike, could well be kin. He’s familiar. And best of all, he’s relaxed and conservative in his approach to medicine. When I was a child, we made ritualistic pilgrimages to the pediatrician for every cough, sniffle, and ache. We were over-medicated. It was either that my mother was neurotically fearful about health or that she had a wicked crush on Dr. Kane. Over the years I’ve receded from the notion that doctors are gods and have replaced it with the idea that the human body is a machine that has the power to heal and regenerate. I steer clear of intervention unless it’s truly necessary. I plan to raise Julia this way, and Dr. Traister, as I’ve said, is a godsend.

  “Okay, you can dress her. Make an appointment in six months, and we’ll talk about vaccines,” he says.

  “Great, thanks,” I say, turning to pull Julia’s sweater over her head. I hesitate. “Dr. Trais … ”

  “Yes,” he says, poking his head around the reopened door.

  “Sorry, I know you have another appointment, but I did have one more question.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “How do I know if Julia is okay, you know, mentally?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that, I can’t explain this exactly, but sometimes, no, well, most of the time, it’s like she’s there but she’s not there. She doesn’t cling to me or look me in the eye or seem to enjoy being held. You know, she doesn’t reach for my hand. I know it’s not a hearing problem. It’s more like, like there’s a wall.”

  While I’m rambling, Dr. Traister is nodding.

  “Am I making sense?”

  “You could be describing something called Reactive Attachment Disorder.”

  “What?” I say, not entirely surprised by his answer.

  “There’s a syndrome in adopted children, particularly from Russia and Eastern Europe, called Reactive Attachment Disorder, where babies have trouble attaching to their adoptive parents. It’s a complex condition, and it may be too early to diagnose this yet because Julia’s only eighteen months old. But the gist of it is that babies who start life in orphanages haven’t had the same bonding experiences as those who have been raised by birth mothers. As I said, it may be too early to know if this is the case with Julia, but if you want to make another appointment to come back and talk about this—or if you want I can suggest a child psychologist. Just see the nurse on your way out.”

  He smiles. “Don’t worry. You have time.”

  My throat’s gone dry. The exam room’s bright lights sear into my brain. I was hoping Dr. Traister would say I was the one who was experiencing difficulty, ambivalence, maybe even postpartum depression. That it was me who needed “more time” to adjust to motherhood. I gaze down at the little blonde girl on the table and choke back tears.

  “More time,” I whisper. “We need a little more time.” I lift her up and carry her to the waiting room. I slide her into the stroller. Before I pull open the heavy door, I glance back over my shoulder at the front desk. Dr. Traister’s words protect me: Don’t worry. You have time. I let the heavy door swing shut.

  Fifteen

  “Julia, wait, waaaait …” I scream, but it’s pointless. “Goddamn it.” She’s barreling across a grassy mound toward an elaborate wooden labyrinth of layers to climb and explore. It has swinging bridges and watchtowers and secret passages and a sandbox. The village of New Paltz presents an impressive castellum compared to the bland iron relics on our playground at 97th in Riverside Park. She is barely in sight. Ricky has accelerated his gait to catch up with her. We want to encourage Julia to walk rather than push her in a stroller, but she’s impossible to hold onto. She won’t clutch a hand; she refuses to stay close. There is no duckling instinct. As soon as her little feet hit the ground, she takes off. Strangers may think it’s cute—a little girl embracing her “terrible twos”—but Ricky and I know something is wrong. At this age, most children will stretch their wings to a point, but they retract when they instinctively know they’ve crossed an invisible line. Julia doesn’t do this. She’s deaf to our frightened pleas. Indifferent to our distress. She has none of her own when she separates from us. I have come to believe there is something intentional about this behavior because she does it every time. Although she is not intellectually calculating this maneuver, I think subconsciously she’s trying to say, See, I’m in control. You can’t get near me.

  The other day she and I were at Barnes & Noble. I was trying to read to her, but as always she was disinterested and wandered away. I got up to follow her, expecting to find her ducking behind by the shelves—not hide-and-seek but the usual taunt. She wasn’t there or seemingly anywhere within thirty feet. My heart started racing. I looked around and headed toward the center of the store. I gasped when I saw her teetering at the top of a steeply declining eighty-foot-long escalator that drops to the first floor. I wasn’t sure what to do. If I called out her name it might propel her to take a fatal step forward, and if she did that, she’d certainly tumble to her death. As I neared the escalator, I saw other patrons closing in on her. The whole place seemed to freeze, and then in a surreal slomo moment, I snatched the back of her T-shirt and pulled her away from the precipice. She fell on her bottom and looked stunned, but she didn’t cry. I grabbed her arm roughly and sat on the ground. The room spun. I was dizzy. I put my head in my hands. I thought I was going to pass out, but a few people gathered around me and asked me if I was all right, if I needed some water. I said I was okay. I felt embarrassed, though to these bystanders I probably looked like an action hero in a Hollywood movie. I suppressed the urge to cry until we got outside, and then I sobbed the whole way home while I wheeled her in her stroller.

  Ricky’s out of sight but I hear him screaming, “Stop, Julia, stop!” Five minutes later I’m cresting the hill. I see the sun-flaming orange dot that is Julia’s dress and the top of my heroic husband’s head bopping and weaving as he spots her on the jungle gym. I often wonder, with horror, what it would be like to be a single parent with a child like Julia. I think about Jo, who traveled with us in Russia, a single mother of two internationally adopted children.

  The playground is filled with what Ricky and I call Chitty Chitty Bang Bang children. Blond and shaggy, they look slightly wild and unshackled compared to their Upper West Side counterparts. It’s probably just an illusion in this border-confined, hyperparenting universe, but these children look like little hippies in tie-dye from the local Groovy Blueberry and little Birkenstock-type sandals. Mom, who’s fortysomething, keeps her gray hair natural. Dad’s got a goatee and an earring.

  Julia is in the sandbox, which is six feet from where I am sitting. She’s commandeered some kid’s pail and she’s making sand pies. Ricky is dutifully attentive.

  A woman sits next to me. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand and smiles at me.

  “Is she yours?”

  “Yes,” I say, while I h
ear the voice inside my head that says, Not really.

  “She’s adorable.

  “Thanks. We’re visiting.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “The city.”

  It is understood what city I’m referring to.

  The playground patter begins, though it’s not the usual chore because I’m interested in her story. She and her husband are Brooklyn transplants. They came to New Paltz, a hip college town two hours north of Manhattan, three years ago after the birth of their first baby. They have two now, and for a while her husband commuted to the city, but a year ago they started making and packaging granola. Now they are building a business that is thriving, thanks, in part, to the great support she’s had from local vendors.

  “Wow,” I say, thinking how wholesome it all sounds. “Was it hard to leave Brooklyn? Do you miss it?”

  “It was difficult at first; we were definitely scared,” she said. “But it’s been fantastic. This is a great town. We’ve made good friends. The kids are happy. Here, wait, let me write down my number. If you come up this way again, give me a call. And check out our granola. The bakery sells it.”

  I say good-bye and drift over to Ricky and Julia.

  “How’s she doing?” I ask.

  “Great. She likes this place.”

  “So do I. I just met the nicest woman. Let’s get some lunch. It’s getting late.”

  We choose a busy bistro on Main Street. I lay the menu on the table.

  “What?” I say. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “What way? I’m not looking at you any way. What are you having? What is Julia having?”

  “I’ll have eggs. I’ll get her yogurt and fruit.”

  Despite the fact that I’ve practically written in blood that I will never leave Manhattan’s hallowed ground, Ricky knows I’m weakening. He’s aware my love affair with Manhattan has dimmed since 9/11. I’m hankering for change, but I’m too scared to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else. So he bides his time, waiting, like the patient saint that he is, for me to let go.

  For the past eight months, we’ve spent every weekend visiting suburbs and small towns up and down the Hudson Valley. We’re not househunting, per se. I pretend we take these weekend excursions because I write a column for the New York Post’s real estate section about living in such towns. But the truth is—and Ricky knows this—I could easily gather this material online and by phone. Exploring this territory, however, is a safe way for me to look at the merchandise without purchasing. I’m window shopping. And Ricky, who is quietly tactical, has got me watching HGTV nonstop. It’s a slow-drip intravenous drug.

  With each road trip we wander through a town, popping into bakeries, visiting playgrounds, checking out stores. I take note if a town has a bookstore, health-food shop, and swimming pool—things that are important to me. I pick up the local newspaper. Lately I’ll do an errand, such as go to the post office or buy glue at a hardware store. I’m getting beyond window shopping—I’m inside the dressing room trying towns on for size. Best find of all is the local bulletin board sheathed in fliers, ads, and requests in a coffee shop where I find out about a yoga class or a concert or a lost cat. It’s like putting my ear up against someone’s chest and listening to her heartbeat. Then we drive around and look at houses. Inevitably on some main road near town or on a hill on the outskirts I see an old farmhouse and I screech, “Wait, stop!” Ricky slows down and brings the car to a halt. I roll down the window and gawk, like a lovesick teen. I say something like, “That’s a beautiful old house,” or “Wouldn’t it be great to have a covered porch like that?” And Ricky says, “Absolutely.” Then he asks coyly, “Are you ready?” and he seemingly means am I ready to go back home now, but I get the double meaning of his question.

  Mondays after our jaunts, I finish my story research by phone in interviews with city folks who, like the woman I met in the New Paltz playground, have relocated. Their personal anecdotes add a human touch to the column, which is filled with practical information. I only need fifteen minutes to extract a good quote, but I can’t get off the phone. As soon as they start talking, I’m a fish on the end of a reel. I want to hear it all. How they finally made the decision to leave. How they chose this town, their house. What it’s been like. Do they have regrets? These people are as happy to talk as I am to listen. One woman told me about standing at her kitchen window, watching her daughter swing on a rubber tire that hangs from an old oak tree in their front yard. Another man related how he sits on his deck after his commute back from the city. He said he loves to watch the deer munching on his shrubs at dusk. After each call, I’m lost in thought. If this were us, would things be different? Would Julia settle down? Would I enjoy motherhood? Would an old farmhouse surrounded by tall trees take away the hurt?

  “Do you remember … ” I shout, then pause to wait for the moaning fire engine to rumble past the outdoor cafe on Amsterdam Avenue where Ricky, Julia, and I are eating dinner. “Do you remember that lake house we rented a few years ago?”

  “The one in Ellenville?”

  “Yeah, John and Carroll’s house.”

  “Sure. What about it?”

  “Why don’t we rent it again this summer? We can do a few weekends and maybe a two-week stretch in August.”

  “Sounds interesting. How would that work?”

  “Well, the rental is very reasonable. I could work out six weekends.”

  “What about Julia? Where would she sleep?”

  “There’s the second bedroom on the ground floor.”

  “We’d need to get a crib in there.”

  “We could get one from IKEA and build it in the room.”

  “Call Carroll. See if it’s possible.”

  Three years ago, Ricky and I rented John and Carroll’s house for summer weekends. Being in the Catskills took me back to sleepaway camp. It had been two decades since I’d swum across a lake or laid back in the grass and stared at a starry sky. The snug two-story bungalow was basic, with loose wires, unpainted walls, and clattering appliances, but the view of the dappled lake from the large living room window and the silence at night were restorative.

  The house is still available, and I book it. When I tell Ricky about the two-week stretch, he suggested having Anna come with us. I thought it was a brilliant idea.

  By July we are spending weekends in the country. On Fridays, we load the car with food, toys, books, clothes, and our cat. Two hours later, with the sun sinking behind the brooding Catskill peaks, we take a left off Route 209 and turn onto a rough mountain road. Concrete and commotion is replaced with desolation and ruin. The ghostly path is lined with abandoned bungalow colonies and hollowed-out horse ranches from the long-lost days when the Catskill Mountains were a first-class tourist destination. Every other house is for sale. One family keeps a herd of goats. The Hotel Rainbow on the right, now a camp, is filled with wool-wearing Hasidim milling about the grounds. Finally we turn onto Camp Road to Carroll’s house. My chest releases. There’s more space in it. I’m like an asthmatic sucking an inhalant.

  We walk down to the lake at dusk to watch the water lilies close, as though there were tiny invisible storekeepers pulling down iron gates. The peepers belch; a gaggle of geese look like a fleet of lawnmowers. Slowly, the silence takes over.

  Mornings are fresh and pregnant with hope. I take Julia with me to pluck graceful fire lilies and gather them in bunches for a table bouquet. Later, Ricky squeezes Julia between his knees while we row across the lake in a canoe to a tiny sandy beach for a picnic. Lately I’ve returned to painting, a childhood passion. On canvasses, in sketchbooks, and on smooth rocks, I paint or draw a house, a village of houses, or a pastoral scene with many houses. I use dabs of color to put flowers in the window boxes, and I apply quick strokes to make a picket fence. I’m not ready to house-hunt, so I house-dream. I’m a child at play, insinuating myself into a fairy tale, lost in a world I can only get to through paint.

  “That’s a nice o
ne,” Ricky says, peering over my shoulder.

  I’ve painted a row of stone French village houses strung together like pearls. On one I added an awning and a sign, “Julia’s Cafe.”

  “When Julia has a real room one day, I’ll hang them on the wall.”

  Ricky squeezes my shoulder.

  “That will be wonderful,” he says.

  I squint at the clock in the bedroom. It’s 6:00 AM. I hear Anna downstairs with Julia. Since we arrived ten days ago, Anna has been caring for Julia in the morning while Ricky and I sleep until 8:00 AM, a luxury we’ve not had in nearly eighteen months. My body’s been trained to wake at six, so it’s hard to drift back to sleep. It’s easier when I hear the flimsy screen door creak closed because I know Anna has taken Julia outside in the stroller for a walk.

  It’s been strange to have Anna with us in the Catskills. It’s no surprise she works diligently to keep Julia fed, clean, and occupied. She’s given me and Ricky the freedom to take a few hours for ourselves, day and night. What does feel odd is watching Anna tend to Julia when we’re in the house or car together. I see Anna works as hard as we do to corral Julia. Julia isn’t any more inclined to listen to Anna than she does to us. Anna’s steely determination wins the day, and she perseveres without complaining. She never looks defeated, though now I see how Julia can tire even a seemingly indefatigable twenty-five-year-old.

  One night after Julia falls asleep, Anna and I are sitting on the couch watching The Wizard of Oz. During commercials, we chat about her family in Poland. Eventually the conversation turns to Julia, and she asks me to tell her more about Julia’s adoption from Russia. When I hired Anna eight months ago, I’d mentioned Julia was adopted but said nothing more. I did a quick recap on the Siberian odyssey and told Anna how we spirited Julia out of the orphanage in the middle of the night and flew in another snowstorm until dawn. I knew I could keep her captivated, but I decided it was time. So I took a sharp turn.