To Sing Frogs Chapter 28b

Sign marking the 60th anniversary of D-day

My thoughts and real focus were on Amy and Celeste. I should have been paying more attention to Sarah. It would be difficult to let her go and I might have savored the hour we had together as much as she did. Opportunities lost.

I carried Denney and pulled a train of luggage. Amy packed Celeste. Sarah, for once, didn’t mind walking. She got to drag a suitcase too. Then Mama let her push the “L” button on the elevator. Life couldn’t get better than that.

Bill was waiting as we got off the elevator. He’d already delivered his bags and they were loaded in the van. He smiled at Sarah dragging the overstuffed suitcase and then he grabbed the handle to the ones trailing me. Grandpas simply understand what five-year-olds need.

The driver shook his head before stacking the bags in the van. What was it with Americans and so much baggage? I handed Celeste to Bill and gave Sarah a long hug. She squeezed me tightly around the neck. “Yá tibyá lo bloo, Preensessa.” I love you Princess.“Pahká.” See ya later.

“Pahká, Papashka.” Bill traded me back quickly and dove into the van with Sarah, keeping her excited and not giving her a chance to be sad.

I traded Amy. Tiny Denney moaned with pain from his swollen liver even though he was still asleep. I held my cheek against his fevered head. I’d feel so much better when Amy got him to a doctor.

Celeste was happy it was her turn with Mama again. She jabbered and played with Amy’s necklace unhindered by the tears streaming down the distressed face. The mother held and kissed and hugged the little girl. Then she traded me back before emotions could overwhelm her.

“Nee!” the little girl screeched. No! It was still her turn! Denney had received more than his share of mama-time that morning. “Nee! Nee! Mama!” Amy climbed into the van while still holding Denney. Celeste’s squawking escalated. It was only in objection to unfairness. She still had no clue as to what was about to happen, until the door slid rapidly closed.

The little girl gasped and went immediately rigid as if she had been hit with a bucket of ice water. She was still sucking in air when the sails filled with wind. There was nothing left to hold the others back as they sailed away without the anchor.

“Neeeeeee! Mamaaaaaa!” It was blood curdling. People waving from inside the departing vehicle only made matters worse. My daughter wailed, writhed, and screamed while violently scratching my skin with her fingernails. Her arms, legs, head, and body flailed. She pushed, hit, and kicked, screeching forth her inexpressible despair. That’s what you do when you lose another mama.

 

 

The tiny body lurched, gasped, then relaxed back into me. A long sigh accompanied by whimpers followed. At least she was asleep. Celeste’s screams and wails had not diminished when we went back into the hotel. The sounds echoed down the hollow elevator shaft as we retreated to the isolation of our room. She continued to fight me as we sat in a high back chair. I held her firmly. After nearly an hour she began to submit. By the ninety-minute mark she fell asleep. I could have put her to bed then but I didn’t want to.

There we sat drooping in the chair. I was as exhausted as Celeste. I was too tired to sleep. My condition wasn’t because of separation from the others nor was it as simple as seeing Celeste suffer. Of course it was difficult to watch a child who couldn’t, or wouldn’t understand, wanting to help her but realizing the futility of an attempt to override her will. You can never force anyone to believe. Belief is always about understanding and choices.

My burnout went deeper. I was worn out from the meeting with the Michigan social worker, adoption applications, training classes, child referrals, home preparations, international travel, court hearings, delays, document troubles, frustrations with language barriers, and even jetlag.

Those were simple things. The orphanages devastated me. I was sick with seeing so many children without families. Celeste had lost a mama. I lost children.

I thought about Ksenya, Natasha, Masha, and Daria. I thought about Maksím, Jenya, André, and Aleksander. Mostly I thought about Yula and Marina, the ones I had hoped to claim. For once in my life logic and practicality brought me no comfort. A limit to my family and financial resources did not seem like an adequate excuse. Those children had trusted me with their friendship, and for their trust I abandoned them. I left them to a world without families. I turned them over to reports, generalized news stories, and finally to statistics. I betrayed my friends and walked away.

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