To Sing Frogs Chapter 28a

Celeste at Marriott Aurora Hotel

Chapter 28

 

The Hardest Goodbye

 

  Sick and wrong. A five-year-old shouldn’t be able to comprehend the principle of documents stopping the world from turning. Not only did Sarah understand—to our complete surprise—she accepted the news with relative ease.

“So when Celeste’s documents get fixed, then Papa will bring her home to Amérika?”

Natasha, the young woman who was sent up to help us translate, sat on the couch in her perfectly pressed uniform and starched white blouse. She smiled. This wasn’t going to be as bad as we anticipated. “Yes.”

Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “When will Papashka and Lub— Celeste come home?”

“About a week after you and Mama and Denney get home.”

“And Dyehdushka Bill.”

“Yes. And Dyehdushka Bill. He’s going with you and Mama and Denney.”

Sarah shrugged her shoulders again.

Denney sat quietly on the floor playing with a toy truck. Celeste still didn’t understand. The middle child fidgeted on Amy’s lap oblivious to anything being discussed.

Celeste was accustomed to sharing Mama Olga so she understood she couldn’t capitalize all of her new mother’s time, but there was a difference now. When Celeste lived at the orphanage, Mama Olga could get out of her field of vision without creating a fit of hysteria. That was not possible with Amy. The little girl had lost sight of Mama Olga and now she was gone for good. A mama might disappear when you can’t see her and that’s a fact. For Celeste it had happened more than once. Lost mamas never came back, so she wasn’t about to let it happen again. Amy couldn’t even shut herself in the bathroom without Celeste screaming, screeching, sobbing, and beating down the door.

“We need to talk to Celeste,” Amy said to Natasha. “She still doesn’t understand.”

That was the real heartache. For the rest of us, we understood. After a week of frustration (a comparatively short setback when dealing with Russia) we’d all be back together. No harm, no foul. With Celeste it was different. She would be devastated. It would be horrifying. How do you prepare yourself to hurt a child that much?

Ignoring the perfect presentation of her near-formal uniform, Natasha made herself a part of the family. The tall slender girl removed herself from the couch, knelt, then modestly sat while folding her feet behind her and to the side. She grabbed Celeste’s little hands and spoke the calming washing noises. It was then when I realized how much I would miss Russian baby talk. The cutsie “E’s” from English baby talk had always rubbed me the wrong way. But even I was soothed by listening to Natasha gently explain to our daughter about Mamashka, and Papashka, and Dyehdushka. More skahs. More kahs. More shkas. I wanted to lie on the couch. I wanted to close my eyes and let the hushing sounds carry the hurt away.

Celeste wanted to play. She squeezed Natasha’s fingers and jabbered words that were not words in any language.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Simmons. She doesn’t seem to understand. She doesn’t talk much for her age. If you have any ideas…”

We didn’t. “Thank you. No,” Amy replied. “Thank you so much for your help.”

“You’re welcome. I only wish I could do more.”

 

 

Sarah helped me stuff the luggage. I have loaded my share of suitcases and knew it was going to be close. Even though we really had too much baggage, between the clothes, gifts, souvenirs, toys, and necessities I didn’t think we could make everything fit. Not even with the zippers expanded. It was time to pay for all of the overindulgences when we used shopping to distract from other frustrations.

Dyehdushka Bill had left to pack his own bags. Denney was down for a nap and we hoped the sleep would carry him through to the airport. Amy sat, rocking Celeste on her lap while tears streamed down the mother’s face.

Sarah chattered excitedly while we put the luggage puzzle together. I’ve been a father long enough to know the dangers of telling a child yes when you don’t know what they asked. I was numb though. Sarah had to be excited about the trip home, flying on airplanes, meeting her brothers, playing with the family dog, riding the horses, and everything else sprawled out in her immediate future. I carelessly lived on the edge.

“Dá Sarah.” “Dá Sarah.” “Dá Sarah.” I don’t know but I still might owe her a pink convertible sports car or a million-dollar wedding. I hope not.

 

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