Footnote: I’m all for having an Iranian meal, but I’ll need something stronger than that old chay, to wash it down with.
Mum and I laughed.
‘Thank you, Dan, that’s very helpful and the bit about the boiling hot tea is good to know, although how they can drink it without burning their mouths is beyond me. I’ll put some milk out so we can have some ourselves.’
‘And wine,’ said Dad. ‘Lots of wine.’
‘It says alcohol is strictly forbidden in point nine, Dad,’ I said, waving the list under his nose.
‘For Islamic Iranians, Emma - not lapsed Irish Catholics.’
James and I arrived late on the Saturday for dinner. Leinster had beaten Gloucester in a tight match with a last-minute penalty, fames was thrilled and got a bit carried away with the moment. I eventually dragged him out of the club house, four pints and two hours of post-match analysis later, and sprinted over to Mum and Dad’s.
We arrived just before Sean and Shadee, with James swaying a little and reeking of booze. I forced a few extra strong mints into his mouth and perched him in the corner of the couch beside Dad, who was seething at having missed the match, due to Mum’s insistence that he cut the grass and rake up the leaves for the visitor. Babs handed fames the list of Iranian bullet points, while I went to make him a strong cup of coffee. When the doorbell rang, I jumped up to answer it as the others all tried to look nonchalant.
‘Hi, sis,’ said Sean, looking very nevous. ‘Shadee, this is Emma. She’ll be your ally tonight. Make sure you sit between her and fames.’
Shadee smiled, ‘It’s great to meet you, Emma.’
She was small, petite and really pretty with beautiful almond eyes. She was wearing black trousers and a lacy black top. She had a really warm smile, and I liked her immediately.
Babs bounded up behind me, ‘Hi, I’m Babs, let me take your coat, yashmak, burka, whatever …’
‘This is Babs – the shit stirrer,’ said Sean to Shadee, who was laughing good-naturedly.
They came in and Sean introduced her to Mum and Dad.
‘Welcome … to … Ireland,’ said Mum. Very slowly. Enunciating even’ syllable.
‘Thanks, I’m delighted to be here.’
‘How … did … you … find … the … journey?’ said our newly appointed speech therapist.
‘For God’s sake, Mum, she’s not mentally challenged. She speaks better English than you,’ said Babs, rolling her eyes.
‘I’m only trying to make the girl feel welcome,’ hissed Mum. ‘Would you like a nice cup of chay? I know it’s your people’s favourite drink,’ she asked, nodding knowingly.
‘Well, I –’
‘She’ll have a glass of white wine, thanks,’ said Sean.
‘Wine?’ said Mum, looking confused. ‘But they don’t drink alcohol. It’s strictly forbidden to them.’
‘Who exactly are “they”?’ snapped Sean.
‘Islamic Iranians.’
‘Chay would be fine, thanks,’ said Shadee, trying to defuse the situation.
‘If the girl wants a glass of wine, give it to her,’ said Dad.
‘But I thought you were Muslim?’ said Mum.
‘My parents are, but I’m not a practising one. I’m a lapsed one, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m lapsed myself,’ said Dad, handing her a goldfish bowl-sized glass of wine, ‘Here you go, get that into you.’
Things improved after that. Everyone relaxed – even Mum. Shadee was polite, interesting, intelligent and utterly charming. Mum, keen to share her recently acquired knowledge on Iran, said that Ireland must feel small to someone from a country with a population of 68.27 million people living in 1.64 million square miles. I could see James’s shoulders beginning to shake. I looked down and tried not to laugh.
Shadee said that Ireland was a wonderful country that produced incredible people – she smiled at Sean at that point – and added that she always thought it would be a lovely place to live. She was pressing all the right buttons – Mum was delighted.
‘And tell me, Shady,’ said Mum, going into diplomatic overdrive, ‘are you one of the 89 per cent of shite Muslims or a ten per cent sunny one?’
17
During our next adoption session, we discussed all of the possibilities of diseases that a child cared for in an orphanage might have. James and I looked at each other in shock as the list got longer. Brendan kept crashing on about FAS – which turned out to be foetal alcohol syndrome. Apparently in Russia, with its high rate of alcoholism, FAS is a risk and is almost impossible to detect before the child is two years old. Brendan had a list of ways to check if a child had FAS: small upturned nose, low nasal bridge, speech disorders and clumsiness. He had similar checks for pneumonia, cleft palates, cerebral palsy, HIV, scabies, rickets … Brendan rabbited on with his depressing symptoms and fact findings.
Before the rest of us grabbed our coats and ran for the hills, Yvonne stepped in and gave us some of her own facts and figures. ‘Yes, it’s true that your child could have any number of problems. Children who have been institutionalized are not going to be completely normal. They will have been affected, and that’s just something that you have to face. Over fifty per cent of institutionalized children in Eastern Europe are born underweight. Some are premature births and some because their mothers drink while pregnant. Orphanages tend to be understaffed so the children suffer from lack of stimulation and this delays normal development. Children lose one month of linear growth for every three months they spend in care. But with the right treatment, love and medical assistance, they will grow and they will thrive.’
Thank God for Yvonne. The group breathed an audible sigh of relief. We understood it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. We knew we’d have to work hard with our babies to make up for their crappy start in lite, but we didn’t need to listen to Brendan giving us a list of the worst-case scenarios. ]ust when we began to feel a little less despondent, Dervla slapped on a video of sick children in orphanages around the world. Some of the babies were in a terrible state. Us women all reached tor our hankies, while the men looked everywhere but the television screen. It was harrowing stuff. As I watched in horror, I kept thinking about what Babs had said about the eczema incident. Would I be a disaster? By the time the video was over, we were all completely drained.
James and I drove home in silence. Well, we drove down the road in silence and then I asked him what he was thinking.
‘Honestly?’
‘Yes.’ I wanted to know if he was having second thoughts.
‘That the whole adoption process is an almighty pain in the backside. That I wish we could have had a child of our own and not have to go to these meetings and watch videos of sick children and listen to buffoons like Brendan listing all the problems we may have to face,’ said James angrily.
‘I know. It’s not fair,’ I sighed, looking out the window. ‘People who have babies naturally don’t have the worstcase scenarios thrown at them constantly. You don’t go up to a pregnant woman and say, ‘Do you know your child could have leukaemia or be autistic or suffer from some disease you’ve never even heard of?’ All they get is praise and ‘congratulations’ and ‘well dones’ and ‘isn’t it so excitings?’. God, I wish I could’ve got pregnant the normal way. It’s like a constant uphill battle. I’m sick and tired of it all. When did having children get so complicated?’
James looked over at me. ‘Hey, where’s my optimist?’
‘She’s been battered to death by the evil spirits on the Adoption Board and big, fat, annoying Brendan and his stupid charts.’
‘At least we’re over halfway through the group sessions,’ said James, in a lame attempt to cheer me up.
‘And then we begin the home visits,’ I groaned. ‘Six one-to-one sessions with a social worker and I bet, knowing our luck, we’ll get Dervla.’
‘Why don’t we go away for the weekend? Go to some plush hotel and relax?’
‘We can’t, we’re going to Sa
lly’s birthday party on Saturday.’
‘Pardon?’
‘We have to go, James. We never see Jess and Tony’s kids or any other children for that matter. We really need to hang out with some toddlers and get our feet wet. Besides, the social worker is bound to ask Jess and Tony if we’re good with their kids and they shouldn’t have to lie.’
‘Somebody shoot me now,’ groaned James as he swung the car into the driveway.
We arrived to Jess and Tony’s on Saturday afternoon, laden with gifts for Sally. What I had neglected in quality time, I was determined to make up for in material goods.
‘Hello, Sally.’ I beamed.
She looked at me blankly.
‘You remember me? Mummy’s friend, Emma.’
Sally shook her head.
‘Of course you do,’ I said, determined to jog her memory. ‘I went shopping with you and your mummy a little while ago.’
Truth be told it was actually a year and a half ago, but jess had understood that 1 didn’t want to be around children while I was having my fertility treatment. I tound it too difficult. I was too emotional and volatile. Still, it was pretty sad that Jess’s daughter didn’t even recognize me. I had been very negligent and selfish. I needed to spend a lot more time with Sally and little Roy. I’d call over every week or so and play with them. Quality time was what was needed here. God forbid that Dervla would ask Sally what she thought of Mummy and Daddy’s friends Emma and James – only to be met with a blank stare. It would be a disaster and I certainly didn’t need any more black marks on my evaluation form.
I decided not to torment Sally any longer and opted for bribery. I handed over the presents. She ripped them open – like mother like daughter, Jess had always loved presents – and squealed with joy. It was Las Vegas Barbie with ten different outfits. I thought it was pretty cool myself. She’d remember me now, I thought smugly.
‘Thank you, Mummy’s friend,’ said Sally, reaching up to kiss me. I hugged her. She smelt of apple shampoo. My heart ached. I was ready to be a mother. I wanted a child so badly it hurt physically. I looked up at James. He nodded sadly.
Jess came over to the sounds of her daughter’s squeals. ‘Oh, Emma, it’s perfect. Las Vegas Barbie is the coolest present going for four year olds. Thanks,’ said Jess.
‘She’s beautiful, Jess. She’s a really gorgeous little girl and you’re a brilliant mother. Sorry I don’t tell you that enough, and sorry for not seeing more of her and Roy,’ I said, getting a little choked up.
‘Hey, you’re always telling me I’m a great mum and you’ve been an amazing friend. You’re constantly having to listen to me bitching about my weight, or lack of sleep or lack of life. I don’t know what I’d have done without your support over the last few years. I know it’s been really hard for you, but you’re going to be a fantastic mum. I can’t wait for you to get your baby.’
‘Jess, I need your help with the music,’ said Tony, as Sally pulled out of his leg shouting to have her Britney CD played. ‘Oh, and, Emma, you better watch out, your husband is being chatted up by a very cute young thing called Molly.’
I looked over at James who was in deep discussion with a little girl in a cowboy outfit. They appeared to be discussing sport. I wandered over and sat down to listen in.
‘Do you own Liverpool?’ asked Molly.
‘The football team?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No. I wish I did though.’
‘My daddy told me you were the team’s teacher.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m actually Leinster’s teacher.’
‘What enster?’
‘It’s a rugby team.’
‘What’s rugby? Is it the same as soccer?’
‘Well, it’s kind of the same, but you can pick up the ball and run with it in rugby.’
‘Why?’
‘So you can score tries.’
‘What’s tries?’
‘It’s like a goal in soccer.’
‘Is there a goalie?’
‘No.’
‘Who stops the ball going into the net?’
‘There actually aren’t any nets, there are just goal posts.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you have to run over the line with the ball and touch the ground with it, so you don’t need a net,’ said James.
‘My daddy says you’re a inconsister teacher. Up and down he says.’ Molly demonstrated this by waving her arms up and down.
‘Did he really? Which one’s your daddy?’ asked James.
‘That’s my daddy,’ said Molly, pointing to Tony’s partner, Gordon Woods.
‘OK, Molly, you go and tell your daddy that I said he should stick to what he knows,’ said James, laughing as Molly ran over to tell her father.
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough, until I got stuck with Sonia and Maura from Jess’s baby group. They both had their children with them and Sonia was hugely pregnant again. If I was a betting person, I’d have put odds on that she was going to pop at the birthday party. After exchanging the usual pleasantries – weather, cost of groceries, traffic, if and when we’d been on holidays lately, the ages and progress of their children – they asked me if I’d had any children.
‘Since we met last year?’ I asked.
‘God, is it a year ago already? Time flies when you’re a mummy,’ said Sonia.
‘No. None.’
‘Would you like to have children?’ asked Maura.
‘Uhm,’ I paused. I could lie and say that I had no desire for children at all. I could say that I hadn’t got around to trying yet, or I could just be honest and stop feeling embarrassed and awkward because I couldn’t get pregnant. ‘Yes, I do want children. I want them very much. In fact James and I have just started the adoption process. We’re in the middle of our course.’
It felt good to be open about wanting children. I felt relieved.
‘Trouble down below was it?’ asked Sonia, pointing to my crotch.
I stared at her in shock.
‘My sister-in-law had problems in that area. She ended up taking so many fertility hormones that she almost grew a moustache,’ she said, laughing as Maura joined in.
I took deep breaths and counted to ten. There was no point losing my temper. They didn’t mean to be bitches I reminded myself, they just had no idea what it was like, because every time their husbands winked at them – they got pregnant.
‘Isn’t adopting a bit of a worry? It’s a bit like wearing someone else’s clothes, isn’t it? I mean, you don’t know who the parents are. They could be drug addicts or murderers and it could be in the genes, you just never know, do you?’ said Maura.
‘No, I don’t see it like that at all, actually. I think it’s a wonderful way to have a family. I can’t wait to go to Russia to get my baby,’ I said, plastering a smile on my face.
‘I think it’s very brave of you,’ said Sonia, rubbing her big, pregnant stomach affectionately. ‘I could never do it, but good for you.’
‘What does your husband think?’ asked Maura.
‘About what?’
‘Having to adopt. I know Stephen wouldn’t like it. He wouldn’t be open to bringing up someone else’s child.’
‘James doesn’t mind at all. In fact, he’s delighted about it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re very lucky. He must be very understanding and supportive of you.’
‘Supportive of what?’ asked Lucy, who had just arrived with Donal who had made a bee-line for James.
‘The girls here are telling me how lucky I am to have a husband who doesn’t mind adopting. They feel it’s a bit like wearing someone else’s cast-off clothes and could think of nothing worse than bringing up another person’s child. They think I’m very brave.’
‘Lucky and Brave. Wow!’ said Lucy. ‘I think you have it all wrong. Adopting has its advantages you know. For starters, you don’t end up looking like a big whale,’ she said, staring po
intedly at Sonia. ‘Nor do you have to pee every four minutes. You don’t have to deal with constant hormonal changes or have your vagina ripped to shreds at childbirth. You don’t have to worny about losing all the weight you piled on while you were pregnant and, best of all, your husband wants to have sex with you before, during and after the baby. Personally, I think you two are the brave ones.’
I love Lucy.
18
Over the next few weeks I saw very little or James. His draconian training regime kept him at the club. He was determined to get to the semi-finals again this year and was facing the Cup favourites – Biarritz – in the next game. He was like a man possessed, it he wasn’t at the club, he was at home watching replays of all the Biarritz matches that season. He kept scribbling down messages and reminders on Post-its. They were everywhere: La Pieire – weak on the high balls. Bring the game to them. Break their rhythm – mix up the plays. I even found one stuck to the fridge. Winning is a mind-set, attitude is everything. I stuck a picture of Cameron Diaz beside it with a note saying, Being thin is about discipline – say no to chocolate.
Three days before the big game we attended our fourth adoption session. James was like a cat on a hot tin roof. He couldn’t sit still and kept looking at his watch and sighing as the minutes turned into hours. He was flying to France that afternoon with the team. I was flying out with Lucy the next day. James had to be at the airport at two o’clock and our meeting wasn’t due to finish until half past one. Half an hour to get to the airport was cutting it very fine and he was getting decidedly agitated. I nudged him.
‘Stop it,’ I whispered.
‘What?’
‘Stop looking at your watch. You’re supposed to be listening.’
‘I can’t help it; my mind’s on other things.’
‘Well, try harder. We need to make a good impression.’
‘Thinking about the game?’ asked Gary, who was sitting directly behind us.
‘Yes,’ said James, grinning. ‘It’s a bit all-consuming.’
A Perfect Match Page 12
