A Perfect Match

by Sinéad Moriarty

  Why?’

  ‘Because there aren’t diat many Asian people living here and they’d always be different.’

  ‘God, Emma, that’s so parochial. That’s the problem with Ireland; everyone lives in the bloody Dark Ages. It doesn’t matter what you look like as long as no one else makes you feel uncomfortable. The problem is not the child being Asian, it’s the closed society you’d be bringing it into.’

  What are you saying? That we’re all a bunch of racists?’

  ‘Basically – yeah. Did you see the way Mum and Dad reacted when they found out Shadee was Iranian?’

  ‘Yes I did, Sean, and I’d say it’s pretty much the same way her parents reacted when they found out you were Irish. I wouldn’t say they were popping the champagne corks either. Well? Were they?’

  ‘No, they weren’t,’ he grudgingly admitted.

  ‘Mum and Dad want you to be happy and they just feel that adding cultural, racial and religious differences to a relationship can cause a lot of problems down the line,’ I said, defending my parents.

  ‘Fine, but it’s frustrating when your mother is basing her knowledge of a society on some stupid film with Sally Field in it. I got a package in work last week. It was the book Not Without My Daughter and inside was a note from Mum saying, “Just read it and make up your own mind. P.S. I met young Maureen Doherty last week. She was asking specially for you. She’s lost two stone on the Weight Watchers and looks fantastic. Plenty fish in the sea over here for you.”’

  We both laughed.

  ‘Look, Sean. They’re just worried about you. It’s not racism, it’s concern. Just like Shadee’s parents are worried about her going out with an Irish guy.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but it’s frustrating because I really like her, Emma, and I want my family to like her too.’

  ‘If she makes you happy, we’ll love her. Mum and Dad will get over the fact that she’s Iranian in no time. Now, getting back to the Russian child we’re going to adopt – what do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s great and I really don’t think it matters what country you adopt from, because you’ll be amazing parents. The kid will be very lucky.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. Now do me a favour and talk to Mum. I don’t want any more packages or notes. She needs to get used to the idea of Shadee.’

  ‘OK, I’ll do my best’

  7

  Three weeks later I was doing the make-up for one of the guests on Afternoon with Amanda. Her name was Anne Flynn and she had written a book about gardening with a strong focus on garden mazes – whatever rocks your boat I guess. As I applied her make-up, she talked incessantly about her children. She kept telling me how wonderful they were and what joy they brought her and how her life was so complete now … I smiled and nodded and continued blending in her foundation. After twenty minutes, it really began to bug me. I was sick of hearing about how fulfilling she found motherhood – it was making me feel empty and useless – so I tried to change the subject.

  ‘So, tell me about your book,’ I asked. Even though gardening and mazes left me cold, anything was better than her incessant chatter about the wonder of parenting.

  ‘It’s great actually. The kids love the garden. They get such a kick out of the maze I created. I have a picture of them in the maze in my book,’ she said, leaning down to open the book. ‘Let me see, oh yes, here’s the page. Look, aren’t they gorgeous?’

  I glanced down at the page feigning interest. Hang on. The little girl and boy in the photo were Asian. I looked up at Anne. She smiled and nodded, she had clearly been through this explanation a thousand times.

  ‘Yes, my two little angels are adopted. They were born in Vietnam.’

  ‘Oh my God. I’m adopting,’ I said, suddenly coming to life. ‘What’s it like? How did it work out? Is it amazing? Are they happy? Do they feel different? Tell me everything.’

  Anne – who had gone from hedge-shaper to hero in three minutes flat – filled me in. She said the adoption process was long and at times arduous, but that she could see it was important for the adoption board to be sure that the prospective parents were one hundred per cent committed as adoption is a huge step to take. She said that all you can do is love your children to bits and hope for the best. In her case, her two children were happy and stable and didn’t seem to be affected by looking different at all. She said the town she lived in had welcomed them with open arms and they were never made to feel anything but part of the community.

  By the time Anne had finished telling me about the day she picked her babies up from the orphanage and how she had fallen in love with them at first sight, there were tears streaming down my cheeks.

  ‘Oh God, it just sounds amazing. I’m dying for that to happen to me.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, pet,’ she said, patting my hand. ‘It’ll all work out. It’s a long and lonely road from trying for your own baby to adopting, but I promise you it’s worth it in the end. You must be both patient and determined.’

  We hugged and I finished her make-up through water­logged eyes. Her blusher was definitely a little off kilter, but thankfully she didn’t seem to notice. I went home on a high. It was all going to work out. I just needed patience and determination.

  When I got home I logged on to the Internet and typed in ‘Russian adoption’, which brought up 118,316 results. There was information about adoptions from Kazakhstan, Ukraine, Armenia and other countries I had never heard of. There were sites for Russian language, culture, songs and folklore, orphanages, adoption agencies … the list was endless. I eventually found a chat room where several women mentioned a book for those adopting from Russia. It was called The Russian Adoption Handbook by John Maclean. I rushed out to buy it.

  I went into the biggest bookstore in Dublin and tried to find the section on adoption. Having found only books on How to be a Great Mother, How to Cope with Postnatal Depression and How to Make Your Toddler a Genius, I eventually gave up and went up to the desk. A tall girl, thin to the point of being undernourished, looked up.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, speaking softly, so the man queuing behind me wouldn’t hear. ‘I’m looking for a book on adoption by John Maclean.’

  ‘What? Did you say adoption? You’re looking for books on adoption?’ she said loudly, as she began to type into her computer.

  ‘Yes,’ I hissed.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘The Russian Adoption Handbook,’ I whispered.

  ‘There’s a whole section on adoption in the social science and psychology section,’ she said and then, addressing her colleague on the other side of the room, she roared, ‘Derek, hey, Derek, can you show this woman where we keep the books on adoption.’

  I squirmed as everyone turned to see who the adopter was. I was bright red and sweating as I followed the obliging Derek and his saggy-assed jeans to the correct section. I found the Maclean book and browsed the other books in the section that dealt with how to cope when your child wants to meet its birth mother and how to cope with race issues. I decided to stick to the Russian adoption book for the moment. I’d deal with my chil­dren’s desire to find their birth mothers, when they were eighteen. Besides, they’d be so happy with James and me as parents that they wouldn’t have any interest in meeting their biological parents.

  When James came home that night, I greeted him – ‘Dobro Pozhalovat’ I exclaimed. He stared at me, nodded and said,

  ‘And the same to you too, darling. To what do I owe the pleasure of coming home to my wife wearing a large dead furry animal on her head and speaking Russian?’

  ‘It’s all in the name of research, James. Isn’t the hat great? I bought it today,’ I said, patting the enormous furry hat perched on my head. ‘Look, I got one for you too.’

  ‘Marvellous. I was hoping you had.’

  ‘Come on, sit down, I’ve loads to tell you.’

  James sat down and I plonked a large Russian hat on his head. He raised his eyebrows in anticipation.
<
br />   ‘Ochin preeyatna,’ I said, beaming at him.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ he smirked, ‘one of the two of us doesn’t speak Russian, so this could be a long night.’

  ‘I’m saying – “pleased to meet you”. I’ve also learnt izvineetye, which means “excuse me” and spasiba, which means “thank you”. I’ve sent off for “how to learn Russian in three months” tapes, so we can learn together in the evenings. I reckon we should be fluent by the time we start our adoption course. I also think we should go to Russia on holidays this year.’

  ‘Will we go before or after we’ve mastered the lan­guage? I think we should wait until we’re fluent. Between the language and our hats we’ll blend right in.’

  ‘Smart-arse.’

  ‘Spasiba,’ said James, getting up and taking off his hat.

  ‘Where are you going? I’ve loads more to discuss.’

  ‘I want to catch the second half of the Man U v. Arsenal game.’

  ‘Well, tough, this is more important. Besides, you’re going to have to start supporting Russian football teams. Anyway, sit down and listen to these statistics: Russia is twice the size of America and has a population of one hundred and forty-five million people – so they must have zillions of orphans. The country is made up of a total mish-mash of people. It has Russians and Ukrainians and Moldavians and Tatars and other types of people too. The economy is in a slump and the average monthly wage is only about fifty Euro and the winters are very, very cold.’

  ‘That’s fascinating, darling, you’ve given me a real insight into Russia. Can I watch the match now?’

  ‘No, you can’t. I’ve rented out Doctor Zhivago, so we can get a sense of what Russia is like. Come on, you know you want to,’ I said, squishing the hat back on to his head.

  ‘Oh God, Emma, please, not Doctor bloody Zhivago. I’d rather nail my balls to the mast of a sinking ship. It’s about eight hours long. Come on, I’ve had a long day. I promise never to take my hat off, if you spare me the film.’

  ‘There’s no need to be so dramatic. We have to do as much research as we can, so shut up and watch the movie,’ I said, putting the DVD into the player. ‘Besides, we might pick up some key phrases.’

  ‘It’s Omar bloody Sharif and Julie Christie, not Gorbachev and Yeltsin.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. I just think some of the extras might be speaking Russian in the background and we’ll get a feel for pronunciation.’

  I sobbed through the movie, while James fell asleep. Lara, I thought, what a beautiful name. I’d call our daughter Lara and our son Yuri. I woke James up at the end to tell him about the names I’d chosen.

  ‘Is it over? Please tell me it’s over?’

  ‘Yes it is, and you slept through ninety per cent of it. So what do you think of the names?’

  ‘Lovely, fantastic, whatever you want. Can I please go to bed now?’

  ‘Da.’

  Two weeks later I came home to find James on the phone. I knew he was talking to his brother Henry, because his accent was much stronger and he was being all ‘What-ho-ish’.

  ‘Don’t be silly, we’d love you to come over. It’ll be great to spend Christmas together … No, Emma won’t mind at all … no, the kids won’t be any trouble. We’ve two spare bedrooms here so there’s plenty of room … Super idea spending the week together with Mother and Father away … Ha, ha, yes, we should be able to sneak off for a few pints of Guinness and leave the girls to it … Ha, ha. OK, Hen, call me when you’ve booked your flights.’

  I stood by the door, praying I had misheard the conversation. James could not be foolish enough or insane enough to have invited his brother, sister-in-law and three kids for Christmas. Imogen was a cow and her son Thomas, now four years old, was a brat. The twin girls were sweet, but I really didn’t fancy having kids in my face for Christmas week. I found it hard being around children. My home was my little haven where I could hide away from children and babies and nosy relations asking me why I wasn’t pregnant. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, hi, I didn’t see you there,’ said James, looking a little sheepish.

  ‘Who were you on to?’

  ‘Henry.’

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Actually, he was calling about Christmas. You know the way our parents are going on that cruise with the Mason-Joneses this year, well, Henry thought it’d be nice for us to spend the day together. So, he was calling to ask if they could come and spend Christmas with us.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘I said yes of course. He’s my brother, I’m hardly going to say no.’

  ‘So you’ve invited your brother and his wife and their three children to our house for Christmas without discussing it with me?’

  ‘I’m discussing it with you now.’

  ‘No, you’re telling me now.’

  ‘Well, I think it’ll be nice to have Henry and co. around. We see your family all the time, I hardly ever get to spend time with my brother. Besides, it’ll be fun having children around at Christmas.’

  ‘And when you and Henry are off drinking pints of Guinness, who is going to be entertaining Imogen and the kids?’

  ‘They can entertain themselves. Look, it’ll be fine. Don’t get all het up about it.’

  ‘I’m not getting het up,’ I lied, as my temperature rose a few degrees. ‘But, I still find it really hard being around babies, you know that.’

  ‘I understand, darling, but you can’t avoid children. They’re a fact of life and we’re on the road to having our own now, so it’ll be good practice for us to have kids around,’ said James, looking very pleased with himself for having come up with that excuse.

  ‘Well, I don’t think my mother’s going to be too happy about having to feed the cast of Gandhi on Christmas day. She finds cooking for her own family a stretch.’

  ‘I thought we could have dinner at home this year.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Imogen’s a great cook so I’m sure she’ll be happy to help you and you’re not so bad yourself when you put your mind to it. I can pitch in if needs be.’

  ‘It seems that pitching in is your forte. You’ve just pitched right in and ruined not only my Christmas holidays, but you are also now trying to ruin my Christmas dinner. I love Christmas Day in my parents’ house with the sing-song and the selection boxes.’

  ‘To be honest, I could live without the sing-song,’ said James, who always squirmed, as we howled out Christmas carols after overeating and drinking.

  ‘Singing is part of the magic of Christmas Day. You’re just jealous because you never had any craic in your house, and had to sit around listening to the Queen’s message.’

  ‘I’ll have you know that the Queen’s annual address to the nation was one of the many highlights of Christmas Day in our house.’

  ‘Along with Santa not turning up, famine in Africa …’

  ‘Smart-arse.’

  ‘Just admit it’s more fun in my house.’

  ‘Marginally livelier. Anyway, the point is, I don’t think it’s fair on your mother to have Henry and co. landed on her for dinner.’

  ‘What about them being landed on me for a week? Where’s the fair in that?’

  ‘Marry me, marry my family,’ said James, stealing the phrase I always used whenever he complained about my family – which was very rare.

  ‘Look, you call Mum and ask her. She’d never say no to you. Besides, by Christmas Day, we’ll all need a change of scene after four days living in each other’s pockets.’

  James called Mum.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Burke, James here.’

  ‘Oh, helloooooo, James,’ I heard my mother coo down the phone. She loved that James still called her Mrs Burke. She thought it was very gendemanly of him.

  ‘I’m sorry to land this on you, but my brother Henry and his wife and three children are coming over for Christmas and we were going to have dinner here, but Emma said she’d radier go to your house as
usual, so I wanted to check how you felt about having five more mouths to feed. I quite understand if it’s too much trouble.’

  ‘Not at all, James, it’ll be a pleasure to have them. We’ll be delighted to see them again.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’

  ‘The more the merrier. We’ll have a really good sing-song this year,’ Mum bellowed down the phone as I stifled a giggle and James buried his head in his hands.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ said son-in-law of the year.

  8

  A month later I was standing on the sidelines of a rugby pitch with Lucy. We huddled together to keep warm. It was the first match in the European Cup and Leinster were playing some team from England – I think it might have been Bath. Now that Lucy was living with Donal, she felt obliged to support him. It was great having her with me to cheer them on at matches.

  ‘So what exactly is going on here?’ asked Lucy. She had never been to a rugby match. She was an only child and her father had left her mother when Lucy was five years old and moved to America with his mistress. He was an extremely successful property developer and she was always well provided for financially, but she definitely missed not having any males in the house. Sport was not something she had ever watched.

  I wasn’t exactly Des Lynam myself, but I knew a bit about rugby from growing up widi Dad and Sean watching die international matches. I had also obviously picked up a bit more info now diat I was married to James, though I did tend to switch off when he started describing new tactical moves to me. Know your audience, James!

  ‘The easiest way to describe it is this. Numbers nine to fifteen run around a lot, and pass the ball to each other in a long line across the pitch. Number ten kicks the ball when diey have penalties. He’s deffo a key player – James was very grumpy last year when he was injured. Numbers one to eight spend most of the time in the muck with ten other players lying on top of them. The only time you really notice them is during the line-ups when the number two throws the ball in and they all leap up to catch it. That’s really where Donal comes in. He’s brilliant at jumping up and catching the ball and then they all pile on top of him and he gets squished into the mud again.’