A Watershed Year

by Susan Schoenberger

  None of this came out of her mouth. She wasn’t up for the inevitable debate that would follow.

  “Will you miss me when I go to Russia?”

  He let out a long breath.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, talking to the ceiling. “I was wondering if I could come with you.”

  “Come with me?” she said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been to Russia.”

  “It’s not exactly a vacation.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you being there all by yourself, with all those Russian men wearing black.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, touching his cheek. “Not that I wouldn’t like the company.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “You do?”

  “I do,” he said. “But tell me if you change your mind.”

  She nodded but felt somehow that he didn’t understand. He hadn’t thought any of this through—any more than she had—hadn’t truly acknowledged that she would have a child soon, who might need her more than anyone could anticipate. Louis wanted to help her; she felt his sincerity. But Mat was still just a mysterious boy in a photo who liked to draw hearts. She wouldn’t know what to expect until she brought him home.

  HARLAN’S MAY E-MAIL ARRIVED in the midst of an avalanche: Lucy’s frantic work on the research paper, her planning for the trip to Russia, and her deadline to grade a stack of philosophy term papers, one of which was titled “Kant Get(s) No Satisfaction.”

  Dear Lucy,

  The school year must be winding down for you by now. I had a chat with Dean Dean the other day. He called, I think, to see if I was still alive, and the discussion turned to you. He told me you were one of his “rising stars.” I probably wasn’t supposed to pass it along, but what’s he gonna do about it?

  I had a good cry this morning, just bawled like a baby. I don’t do that often, but it seems to help release the stress, and let me tell you, dying this way is stressful. The doctors hold out hope, almost literally, dangling it there in front of you on a pole so that you’ll dive for it, strive for it, and yet you can’t do anything but curse the cells in your body that are responsible for making you sick and hope they’ll respond to the treatment. Even if they do, you spend every day knowing your cells could turn on you again. As stupid as it sounds after all this time, you just want to know: Why does it happen? What evolutionary purpose does cancer serve? And more important, the inescapable cliché: why me?

  The second time I almost died wasn’t quite as bad as the first. I remember feeling feverish, and then a little nauseous when you were driving me to the hospital. After that, I was completely out of it until the next day, and when I came to, a bunch of doctors were standing around my bed looking at you, asking if I wanted a priest for last rites. Poor thing, you looked completely horrified, not only by the thought of me dying but by the idea that you would have to make that decision—you, who were neither my wife nor my girlfriend nor my sister nor my mother, though you were all of those, Lucy, the closest person to me on this earth.

  You shook your head, of course, but I could see that it was tearing you apart. You wanted someone to send me off to the hereafter with a freshly scrubbed soul. Then the infection subsided, and I surprised them all again by not dying. But not dying, I feel compelled to point out, is not quite the same as living.

  Have you visited my grave? I’m sure that you have. It’s not like I’ll have any perception of you being there, but it seems to comfort me that there’s a place that represents me. And then there’s Mary, looking over my little hillside, and that should help you, too. You know, I always found the saint thing a little off-putting, but sometimes, I can see it more from your point of view. Why not allow for the possibility?

  I also hope you’re enjoying my grandmother’s table. It’s an inspiration to me, how she got her life back together after the banjo accident. It’s just one more example of what I mean when I tell you to ignore all the aggravation that life throws your way, because none of it means anything in the end.

  Love, as always,

  Harlan

  “Unbelievable,” Lucy said aloud, though no one was around to hear.

  That day in the hospital had been a tornado of phone calls and running doctors and crying and praying. She had been so drained by the time they asked her about last rites, some very small part of her was relieved that Harlan wouldn’t have to fight anymore. He had mistaken her exhaustion for anguish.

  She had been the closest person on this earth to him. The closest one. After that crisis, he had given her medical power of attorney, but she thought it was because his mother never seemed to arrive in time. Really, though, it was because she knew him—and what he would want—better than his own mother. Better than anyone.

  She closed the e-mail and went to the dining room to stretch her arms around Harlan’s grandmother’s table and to wonder about the banjo accident, which must have been worse than it originally seemed. Hadn’t he mentioned a broken nose or something? Now it sounded more ominous. She wondered if Harlan would ever spill the whole story and was struck by the strange nature of the very thought. When someone died, weren’t you supposed to stop anticipating new information? Didn’t you take the old information and sum it up, complete the picture, an estimate of that life?

  But here she was, trying to guess what else Harlan would spring on her some tenth of the month in the future. Of course, others before Harlan certainly wrote letters—like Nana Mavis—or wrote in diaries that couldn’t be released until years after their death. It suddenly occurred to her that she might not be Harlan’s only e-mail recipient. Maybe he did this for his mother, or another friend? Somehow, though, she knew she was the only one. She also began to recognize his effort, the gathering of energy in those final weeks, because she was gathering energy herself from pockets deep inside that she never knew existed.

  She was due to meet Yulia for a final checking of paperwork and to apply for her visa. Later she would have to begin packing for her trip, which involved a long shopping list, clothes for her and for Mat, and gifts for the orphanage. Her classes were over for the semester, but she still had to complete her article for the dean. Every time she sat down to work on it, something else came up: preschools were already filling up for the fall, so she had to visit three and complete the applications; she called half a dozen pediatricians before she found one who had experience with Russian adoptees; and she had to gather over-the-counter medications Mat might need when she went to Russia.

  She thought about calling the dean to explain why she might not be able to finish the article in time, but she was afraid he might try to talk her out of taking on such a huge responsibility. The thought of being faced with reason terrified her, because the whole house of cards might come down under its weight.

  In that spirit of instability, she walked out the door to meet Yulia and almost ran into Cokie, who had her hand raised, midknock.

  “Thank God, you’re here,” she said, running a hand through her hair, which was now evenly blond and not far from platinum. “I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong?” Lucy said, stepping back inside. As Cokie walked past, she smelled something that reminded her of the indoor pool at the YWCA. “Are the kids okay? Paul? Are you leaving him again?”

  “No, no, everything’s fine.” Cokie took a deep breath. “I have to ask you something.”

  “Ask away,” she said, glancing at her watch.

  “Actually, what I need is a second opinion.”

  “I’m listening,” Lucy said, though she was adjusting the strap on her sandal.

  “Well, I had this idea, see, about writing this book. I think it’s huge. Just huge. Let me just get my notes.”

  Cokie rummaged around in her large black purse and pulled out a school-sized spiral notebook.

  “It’s a budget guide to beauty after forty. Look at my hair, Lucy. I found it on the Internet. It’s a mixture of lemon juice, honey, a smidge of bleach,
and a couple other things. It’s like magic. And then I found this place in Canada that sells Retin-A wholesale. And there’s this exercise that tightens up the flab under your arms. Is it fantastic or what?”

  “What does Paul say?”

  Cokie hesitated and glanced again at her notebook.

  “Paul isn’t what I would call ‘on board.’”

  “So I’m supposed to talk him into it?”

  “Just share your sincere enthusiasm. Don’t you see how big this will be? Oh, you’re not even forty yet, but just wait.”

  “You’re not forty either,” Lucy said.

  “Thirty-eight and a half. Close enough. And frankly, after thirty-five, it’s all downhill anyway. But you’ll just have to trust me that this book will make money. I’m one hundred percent sure of it.”

  “You don’t need Paul’s permission,” Lucy said, picking up her book bag. “Do you?”

  “No, but I need to quit my job so I can write the book, don’t I?”

  “Do what you have to do,” she said, looking at her watch again. “I’m sorry, Cokie, but I’m very late.”

  “So go already,” Cokie said, stuffing her notebook back in her purse. “I’m going to thank you in the acknowledgments.”

  Lucy walked to her car, glancing back at Cokie, who was looking at her reflection in one of Lucy’s windows and rubbing lipstick off her teeth. Cokie’s obsession with her looks had a veneer of desperation so obvious that Lucy wondered how Cokie couldn’t see it. But then again, she thought, no one sees themselves as others do. The tics, the fears, the neediness, the vanity—all of it could be laid bare in one conversation.

  But years and years of self-assessment in mirrors and photographs gave you only the barest clue of how others perceived you: of how your mouth twisted slightly just before you smiled, of how you had a tendency to clear your throat before speaking, of how your hair flew out in back when you rode a bike, of how you peppered your speech with “you knows” when you were nervous, and how it seemed as if you were trying too hard when you wore lip gloss.

  As she headed toward Yulia’s office, she stuck a hand in her own mass of dark hair and wondered what she would do when it started turning gray, which could be any day now. She didn’t want to get old, any more than the next person, but she hated the idea of coating her head with chemicals, the deception of it. On the other hand, everyone colored their hair these days, and they talked about it, too. So if you flaunted coloring your hair, could you stake a claim to honesty? It was all too complicated.

  As Lucy walked down the corridor to Yulia’s office, she saw a couple leaving, the woman holding a manila folder—the paperwork of lives in radical transition. Yulia was at her desk when Lucy came in.

  “Please sit, Lucy. We have much to go over. Not too many clothes, just one nice suit—black one—for court appearances. Make sure you have suitcase with wheels. In carry-on bag, you need to bring all documents, including home study, birth certificate, passport, and visa. Bring three thousand, maybe four, in cash. I will give you time line, phone numbers for facilitator and detsky dom.”

  “Slow down,” Lucy said, trying to take notes. “Don’t you have this on paper somewhere?”

  “You should have photos. House and family. List of questions from pediatrician, I-171H, I-864, and I-600. Here is name and address of hotel. Show it to driver.”

  Yulia handed her a slip of paper torn from the corner of a notebook.

  “I thought I had another month to get ready.”

  “You must leave in three days. Here is number for Delta. Flight 62 still has seats.”

  “This is insane, Yulia. There is no possible way I can leave in three days.”

  “If judge agrees to adoption, Mat is yours,” Yulia said. “But Russian authorities tell me when time is available for court appearance. We have no choice.”

  Lucy took a deep breath. No one needed to tell her that she was stepping into quicksand without anyone there to extend the traditional tree branch. She wondered if she had any sense left at all.

  “Don’t I need a tetanus shot?” she said. “Maybe the doctor can squeeze me in.”

  Yulia tightened her lips. “My apologies for your rushing. It was not intended.”

  “I just want Mat.” Lucy picked up her purse and started toward the door. “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need luck,” Yulia said, “just cash.”

  “Do you treat all your clients this way?” Lucy said, unable to contain her frustration.

  “Yes,” she said, untroubled by Lucy’s tone. “I do.”

  THAT NIGHT, Lucy couldn’t sleep. At three in the morning, she lay there envisioning the earth as seen from outer space. She would be in the central part of the planet’s dark side, and just about everyone in that longitude would be unconscious. There might be—what?—10 or 15 percent of the population awake, working in hospitals, thrashing in beds, walking beaches in worry, or robbing other people’s houses. And tonight, she was one of these nocturnal few, desperate for a few hours’ oblivion but unable to achieve it.

  So she thought of Mat, a stranger soon to be her closest relative, a little boy who was likely playing in the middle of the day but would go to sleep that night completely unaware of how much his life was about to change. In a state between waking and sleeping, she imagined showing up at the orphanage and being told there was no such child, then searching for the photo in her bag but being unable to find it, and then calling Yulia from a pay phone on the street, only to get a message saying the number had been disconnected.

  Her heart pounding, she followed the dream logic to its conclusion, in which she wandered through the somber Russian night, back to her hotel, where they had no record of her and couldn’t find her luggage, and she would be stranded, orphaned herself. She woke up at five, sticky with sweat, and raced to the kitchen to check the paperwork on the dining-room table once again. Then she curled up on the couch and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep until the morning sun flooded the room, and she suddenly became fully awake, realizing there wasn’t a minute to spare.

  eleven

  * * *

  Lucy attempted to hang her carry-on on the hook inside the airport bathroom stall, but it kept slipping off, so she rested it on the floor, within reach of the bands of bathroom thieves who surely waited for such lapses. Rosalee was near the bank of sinks.

  “So you’ll call me as soon as you land, right?” Rosalee said in a voice that echoed through the bathroom.

  “Ma, don’t yell, I can hear you,” Lucy said from inside the stall. “I’ll try, but I don’t expect my cell phone to work from there, and Yulia says the pay phones are impossible to figure out, even if you’re Russian.”

  “So you’ll call collect,” Rosalee said, still shouting.

  Lucy emerged from the stall with difficulty, hauling out her large carry-on bag and her raincoat and trying to keep her rain hat from falling off her head. She was overheated and sweating inside the layers she was wearing because Yulia had told her not to bring more than two bags. She pushed up her sleeves, washed her hands, and let the cool water run over her bare wrists as her mother looked in the mirror and etched in her lips with a liner, then filled them with red lipstick.

  “I wear this color when I feel fat. Too many cookies around after the funeral,” Rosalee said, turning the tube upside down. “L’Oreal’s Red Letter Day. Draws the eyes up to the face. So how will I know you’ve landed safely?”

  “I solemnly swear to land safely,” Lucy said to her mother’s reflection in the mirror. “And if anything happens while I’m there, the American Embassy will notify you.”

  “You know I won’t sleep a wink until you’re back home with your little bundle.”

  “He’s four, Ma. He’s a little more than a bundle.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Rosalee said. “I bought a trundle bed for the spare room, so he can stay over. And Dad’s going to buy out the toy store while you’re gone. I told him I want a mountain of toys for my new grands
on.”

  “My adoption book says we shouldn’t overwhelm him with toys. He has to bond first.”

  “I say a few presents will help him bond. So there.” Rosalee nudged her. “Try and stop me.”

  Lucy smiled and hitched the carry-on over one shoulder. She was numb with anticipation, desperately anxious, wanting to fast-forward time to a few months from now, when Mat would be a normal kid waking up in his tidy little twin bed with the fish-patterned sheets, and she would be a normal mother, picking up his toys and reminding him to throw his dirty clothes in the hamper.

  “This is my son,” she said under her breath.

  “What?” Rosalee said.

  “I better get moving. Yulia said to leave extra time to go through security.”

  When Lucy emerged from the bathroom, with Rosalee behind her, she was startled by the sight of Cokie, Paul, and the kids; her father; Angela and Vern; and Louis, all standing near the security gate with balloons and a large paper banner that read “Mazeltov!”

  Cokie stepped forward as Lucy came toward them. She looked annoyed. “The guy at the flower shop said that ‘mazeltov’ meant ‘good luck,’ but I’ve since been told otherwise. I’m taking it back after you leave.”

  Cokie was wearing some sort of strong citrusy scent that smelled familiar—possibly air freshener. She tucked a small plastic bag into Lucy’s raincoat pocket, whispering, “Here’s a little beauty trick for the trip. You’ll wake up looking fabulous.”

  Paul came over and stood next to Cokie. “Good luck, Luce. Free meal for you and the kid at T.G.I.’s, soon as you get back.”

  Lucy looked at her watch. She had an hour before her plane left, but she wanted to get through security, the final barrier before the journey could truly begin. Her niece and nephews hugged her next, then Angela, and then Vern, who looked up at her: “Remember, I get to teach him baseball.”

  “Of course, Vern. We’ll get him a little ball and bat as soon as we get home.”