Liana leaned forward and experimented until her backside didn’t slam so hard against the saddle. She tried holding her knees more firmly against Setzer’s sides. And then suddenly it didn’t hurt anymore.
They were flying.
* * *
At the top of the fourth rise, Austin reined in Windwalker, who snorted and tossed his head spiritedly as though begging for another hill to climb. Liana was glad when Setzer stopped walking of his own accord, sides heaving. She was afraid that pulling back on the reins might make even this gentle horse rise into the air and dump her off.
“Look like a good place for a quick picnic?” Austin dismounted.
Still on Setzer, Liana surveyed the soft-looking grasses that covered the clearing. Overhead the tree branches didn’t quite meet, allowing the sun in the cloudless sky to filter down and warm them. A few birds sang from the trees, and she saw a little animal scurry over an old tree that had fallen onto a large boulder. Leaves at the top of the trees whispered softly in a high breeze that did not reach them below in the clearing. The smell of the air was sweet and fresh and earthy.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “But how do I get down?”
“Hold onto the horn and swing your right leg down—the opposite of getting on.”
“Oh, I see. Really quite easy.” She waited for Jellybean to jump up on her, but the dog had vanished. Liana wasn’t surprised; the lazy dog’s interest had waned with each mile. “What about the horses? Do we take off their saddles?”
“If we were going to be long, I would. But I promised Mercedes we’d be back by dinner.” He tossed her the denim jacket he’d taken from his saddlebag. “Might get a little cold now that we’ve stopped moving. Good thing I left it at the farm—freshly washed thanks to Mercedes.”
She gratefully slipped it on over her T-shirt, rolling up the sleeves, remembering the last time she had borrowed this jacket.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“I was thinking of the swimming hole. I’d like to go there again before we go home.”
He grinned. “So you can let go of the rope again?”
“Hey, it was slippery.”
“Yeah, right. Let’s see what Mercedes packed for us.” He brought out a thin quilt, green on one side and watermelon red with black seeds on the other, and laid it on the grass, followed by several plastic containers and a loaf of bread. Liana, who hadn’t felt like eating since that fateful phone call in India, was suddenly ravenous.
“Any chocolate cake in there?” she asked.
“Nope. There’s apple pie, though. And fried chicken and potato salad. Oh, wait. Here’s your chocolate.” He threw her a large milk chocolate candy bar.
Liana caught it. Leave it to Mercedes to understand that a woman in mourning needed chocolate.
She settled onto the edge of the blanket opposite Austin. For a while they were busy eating, and only after her second helping of chicken and her third of potato salad did Liana sit back, content. Remembering the chocolate bar, she brought it out and opened the wrapping. “Mmmm,” she said, savoring the taste. “A food of the gods. Want some?”
“You still have room?” he groaned, lying on his side next to her, head propped up on his elbow. “I must have eaten enough for a week.” But he accepted a piece.
A robin landed on a branch above his head, chirping her song of the day. A butterfly landed near the edge of the blanket and was off again, floating aimlessly like a feather in the wind. “An ant has joined our picnic.” Liana flicked it off the blanket.
Austin grabbed her hand and brought it closer, lifting the sleeve of the jacket. Silently, he traced the bruise above her wrist.
“Must have hit it somewhere,” she said.
“Looks like one you’d remember.”
She shrugged and pulled back her hand. “There’s been a lot going on. There’s a lot I’d like to forget.”
He nodded and didn’t pursue the matter. “So did you like the ride?”
She couldn’t help smiling. “When we were running, it was like flying, just like you said. Like the swing over your river. Like the picture—” Oh, Christian’s eagle picture! Why did she have to remember that now?
“What picture?” he asked.
She picked at a few crumbs on the blanket, not looking at him. “One Christian painted for me. It was an eagle.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked up at him. “Will it always be like this?” she asked. “When your mother died, did you constantly remember things that reminded you of her?”
He nodded. “Yes, but it gets easier. Time does help—believe it or not.”
“He was taking pictures, you know. That last day.”
“So I heard.”
“They were for me. He was going to paint another picture for my birthday.”
Austin sat up and took her hand. “Christian was a grown man, and he should have known better than to climb onto a limb that wasn’t safe. It’s not your fault.”
“I know.”
“Do you really?”
She breathed shallowly to stop the ache in her chest. “Yes, but now I wish he’d gone into engineering like Bret. I wish he’d never seen a paintbrush. I wish. . . .” She shook her head and gazed into the trees.
“The pain will go away,” he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “Not today, not next week, or even next month, but it will fade.”
“I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Exactly.” His longing sigh told her he understood.
She reached for her fanny pack, unclasping it from her waist. “I have the pictures.” Developing them was the one reason she had left the house yesterday—that and to pick up milk for the cereal that had been her only food since she arrived at her condo. She’d brought the pictures on Austin’s surprise “drive” to maybe show him, as though doing so might somehow help her make sense of them, but she hadn’t found the right opportunity. Now she almost wished she had left them back at the farmhouse. There had been only twenty pictures on the unfinished roll—close-up pictures of a bird on a tree branch, a delicate flower, a squirrel carrying something in his cheeks, and even a bee in mid flight. There were four of the Las Vegas valley at sunset, each from a different vantage point. The last two pictures were of a squirrel on a tree branch high above the ground, one with the animal crouching, the other with it leaping across to another tree as though flying. Liana wondered if this last picture was the one he had planned to use for her painting, the one he’d snapped before his fall.
“He was a good photographer.” Austin studied each picture. “They feel alive.”
The ache in Liana’s chest grew larger, too large to be contained, whether in her body or in the entire world. She swallowed hard and returned the pictures to her pack, next to the one of Karyn and Guenter Schrader and the child she had once been. This family photograph now seemed a lie, but she couldn’t leave it behind, anymore than she could forget Christian.
“About us,” she said.
Austin met her eyes. “Yes?”
“I don’t think . . . I mean, I really like you. I like who I am when I’m with you. But . . .” She trailed off, not knowing exactly what she wanted to say.
He shook his head. “No buts. That’s where we begin. I know what I want, and I know you can’t promise me everything I’d like right now, but I need to know if there’s room for me. I need to know if you are going to let the past stand in the way of our future.”
Liana thought about that for a moment. “I don’t even know who I am. How can I begin a relationship like that?”
“Don’t you mean that you don’t know who you were?” He pulled her closer. She could feel his breath on her cheek and wanted more than anything to allow herself to love him. “Whatever you were,” he continued, “wherever you came from, you are who you are now.” Austin’s hand stroked her hair. “Every experience you’ve had has made you the woman I see right here.”
His face was so close she could
see every tiny line around his eyes, the beginning of his beard, the scar on his forehead. I am who I am now, she thought. That much was true. And maybe that was all she needed to know. Maybe she didn’t have to be sure.
Her hands went around his neck, linking at the back. She pulled him close.
CHAPTER 28
Diary of Karyn Olsen Schrader
Tuesday, March 13, 1979
At the baby orphanage today, Meka, the new child I wrote about before, was just sitting there, looking so sad. Her blue eyes were focused on the tiny, dirty window, and I wondered how she must feel, having been raised for a year or so by her family and then left one day with strangers. The orphanage workers tell me she cries out a name at night, always the same one—Halyna. I can’t imagine her confusion and fear. I was abandoned by my father, but my mother and Clari were always there—until I walked away.
I asked if I could take Meka outside (yes, I have learned quite a bit of Russian now—and Ukranian as well, though use of that language is basically prohibited by the Soviets). The director agreed, and because I don’t really like to be out walking the streets alone, we arranged for me to take her home for the evening. She was bundled in so many pieces of clothing that she looked like a little ball. Here they don’t seem to change the babies that often but add another layer of clothing if they wet. It’s one thing I don’t understand—that and how they make the babies sit on the toilet for hours after they eat, until their little legs turn purple, in the hopes of toilet training them. Isn’t that abuse? Yet I recognize how few the workers and how many the children.
Guenter wasn’t with me when I took Meka from the orphanage, having had an emergency surgery at the hospital, and I wondered what he’d say when he came home. But he smiled and played with her. We went out for a walk later, and Meka suddenly froze, staring at a lady. Then she relaxed as the lady passed. I wish I could see her thoughts. Did that lady look like her mother, the woman who had given her away? Was it perhaps her mother, who no longer recognized her own child after so little time away?
After that Meka wouldn’t smile or laugh, and she held herself stiff as I carried her, as though she didn’t want to get too close. It broke my heart. I wish I could give her what she needs. Maybe a nice family will come and adopt her.
Wednesday, April 11, 1979
I visit the baby orphanage a short time each day now. It takes away from my work at the hospital, but I must make sure Meka is all right. I take her food, and she eats it with an enjoyment that I love to see. But no matter how much I give her, she is still too thin. Since I let her out of the crib during my visits, she’s learning to walk now and can take a few steps by herself. On my days off from the hospital, I keep her with me all day and night.
I must confess, I want her. I told Guenter, and he seems happy that I have found something to live for. He has extended our stay a few weeks in Ukraine so that we can try to adopt her. I don’t know how it will happen since foreign adoptions are not allowed, but somehow it must. I cannot lose her as I did Lara. The orphanage director has promised to help. If only I had brought Lara’s birth certificate. Meka is a few months younger (the records say she was born on October 20th), but perhaps we could pass her off as Lara to get her out of the country. I know that with her dark hair and fine bones she doesn’t look much like us, but it might work. At least we have the same color eyes. Whatever, I can’t leave her behind. She has brought me back to life, and we are her only chance at a real future.
Friday, June 8, 1979
The director let me take Meka home for good, and she has been with me all week. I love her so much already. I’m so afraid that her birth mother will come back for her, though the director assures me that the mother signed a paper and likely has another child, or more, to care for. I’m working the night shift at the hospital now so that I can stay with Meka during the day. Guenter is with her in the evenings. I can see that he loves her as much as I do.
We have had no luck with the adoption through regular channels, but Guenter says his cousin knows someone who may be able to help get us papers. I am so happy. I know Meka is not my Lara, but she has filled every empty part of my heart. I still mourn Lara, but now I know I can live without her and be happy. Meka has taught me this.
Of course, everything is not easy with my new daughter. She was abandoned, and I think that is what causes her to have such scary bouts of anger sometimes. She has broken every breakable dish we have—she throws them when she doesn’t get exactly what she wants. Everything has to be just so with her—her stuffed animals, her blankets, her socks, and even her dish at dinner must be the one she always uses. Sometimes I feel she’s testing me. But she is beginning to open her heart to us. Together we will all learn to love again.
Thursday, August 16, 1979
My heart is pounding with terror and my hand shakes so badly I almost can’t write. At the airport the passport guard did not accept the letter we had for Meka. He said we could not leave the country with her because our documents were not entirely valid. Guenter argued with him in Russian, but the guard was right, and we knew it. Still, I was not about to leave Meka. She began crying and fussing as we stood there wondering what to do. Nothing I could do would calm her—probably because I was crying myself.
Suddenly, Guenter plucked her out of my arms and gave her to the guard. “Fine,” he said calmly. “You keep her. We have a plane to catch.” Then he gathered up our documents, took my hand, and started to walk away. I was pulling against him, unable to believe his callousness. She was our daughter in spirit, if not biologically. How could he abandon her? His grip on my arm was like iron, and I could not break free.
Meka was screaming really loud, as though she knew exactly what was happening. I was ready to start screaming myself when the guard came around the desk and gave her back to me. “Get on the plane,” he said shortly in Ukrainian (not Russian!). “Do not come back.”
I held Meka to me and ran. When we got to the gate I saw that Guenter had tears sliding down both cheeks. On the plane he took Meka from me and held her tight. “I was so afraid,” he said. Then I understood that it had all been a ploy. He would not have left her either, but he had hoped the threat would work. Fortunately, it did.
We are in the air now, and Guenter is still holding Meka, who sleeps in his arms. I think it will be some time before he lets go. I have never loved him more than I do at this moment. Regardless, I will not feel completely safe until we are back in India.
Monday, October 3, 1979
I have never been happier. At last we can be a family. We have named our precious little girl Liana Meka Schrader. She seems content with us, except for occasional bouts of anger. The child psychologist that I took her to confirmed my suspicions. He said her behavior likely stems from issues of trust, having been abandoned by her family, cared for by overworked orphanage employees, and then finally coming to us. He said if we continue to give her a secure and loving environment, she will learn to trust us and the episodes should disappear completely. He said it might take longer, though, to get her to stop sucking her thumb! I say, let her have it if it comforts her. She has already endured so much for a small child. If need be, we can scrape money together for braces later.
Guenter is back at Charity Medical, and we are again living with Mamata. She is such a sweet person—a perfect grandmother for Liana. Eventually, when I return to work, she will look after Liana.
I found a letter from Liana’s birth family—from a sister. It was with the documents given us by the orphanage. It was received some months after Liana was put into the first orphanage, and it was the last letter or contact from her family. Guenter has made a translation, and I’m including it here because I know someday Liana will want to know what happened.
To my sister, Meka:
Dear little sister, my fifteen years of life has been a tenu ous existence, and I earnestly hope that yours will not be the same. If we ever meet again in this life, which will happen only through the will of God, I will
have all that I could desire. However, I must admit that I fear the questions you will ask, and if I will be brave enough to tell you the truth about why we gave you up. I write it all down now in the hope that someday you may read it and forgive me.
My father died when I was five, leaving our mother a widow who was very poor. She worked at a packaging plant. Several times she lived with men, searching, I believe, for a husband to take care of us. But always they would leave. She was a hard worker but not very wise when it came to men. She had many miscarriages before you, but when I was fourteen her belly began to swell with new life. I remember my great excitement, thinking I would finally have a brother or sister. There was fear, too, I admit. Mother cried with despair almost daily, wondering how she would feed another mouth.
You were born on a cold day in October. The wind that day was one that penetrated your coat and all your clothing no matter how many layers you wore. Mother was taken with birthing pains during the night, and I was very frightened because there was so much blood. I took her to the hospital, spending all of our savings on a cab. You came before the doctor arrived, but the nurses were prepared. Mother was weak and barely conscious, so I took you in my arms. So tiny, so very, very tiny. But perfect—a miracle. I loved you intensely from the minute I held you. Mother was disappointed that she did not have a boy, for she was certain he would be able to grow up and support us, but she also loved you deeply. Never doubt that. Though use of our language is forbidden by the Soviets, she later spent hours holding you and singing old Ukrainian lullabies. I loved those nights, and I would sit by her feet and listen.
A few days after your birth, Mother went back to work at the factory. I stayed with you, taking you to her for feedings. This went on for about ten months until Mother became sick and had no milk. Soon she could not work at all, and I began to clean houses to earn money. I would take you with me sometimes. I would worry when I left you with Mother because she was so sick and couldn’t take care of you. Sometimes we wouldn’t have anything to eat all day. Many times you cried yourself to sleep in our arms for want of food. I could not give you anything because I had nothing to give. On these days my heart broke. I would beg from the neighbors, from restaurants, from strangers in the street—anything to stop your pitiful cries.
Flying Home Page 27
