To SIng Frogs Chapter 28c

The all but abandoned restaurant at the Marriot Moscow Aurora

The body lurched again. The head, wet with sweat earlier, was now dry. Her short, blonde hair was matted. Celeste whimpered. Like she had so many other times throughout the day. Then she began to stir. It was now dark outside but a glow from city lights filtered in through the window. My daughter was still on my lap and I hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights in the room. The television also remained unused. We had spent the entire day—since the departure of the others—in the chair.

Celeste slowly opened her eyes, looked around and finally recalled where she was. She sighed. Then she looked up urgently.

“Peesh Peesh!”

She had to go to the bathroom. When she was finished I turned on the rest of the lights, washed her face and combed her hair. She kept saying dai. Give me. I knew where it was going even if I didn’t know what to do.

“Dai stó?”

“Papa, dai Mama.”

I picked her up and kissed her forehead, turned out the lights, and carried her out of the room. It was time to get something to eat. Celeste grew more animated in direct proportion to our proximity to the restaurant. Dyehdushka Bill always went away and then magically appeared when we ate together. Surely it would be the same this time, and with the others.

When they didn’t come she asked the waitress for her mama.

“Her say her vant mama.”

“Yeah. Her mom and sister had to leave earlier today. We are having some document troubles so she and I have to wait until next week.”

“Ohhh. You adop, yeas?”

“Yes.”

The waitress leaned over my daughter and tried to explain.

“I tink she no understand.”

“I know. Thanks for trying.”

I asked the waitress what Russian kids liked to eat. I hoped a favorite food would divert her attention.

“Pelmeni. Evry child luv eet.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, eets, ah, I don’t know. Engleesh not very gude. Sorry. She like eet. Evry boy and geerl like. All Russian child love eet. I bring eet for her, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks. Bring me the steak, medium-rare. And a Coke.”

“Beeg steake or leetle steake?”

“I’m American.”

“Yeas,” she laughed, “of coorse de beeg one. Tea for yoor daughter?”

“How about apple juice.”

“Yeas. Of coorse. One large steake, medium rare. One pelmeni. One Coke and one apel joos.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

Celeste gulped down the adult sized glass of apple juice as two miniature streams trickled down from the corners of her mouth and onto her shirt. She held the glass out to me wanting more. The second glass was half-empty before the plates arrived.

There were only two or three other tables with one to three people each in the large restaurant. It was a skeleton staff. Three stories of hallways—totally bereft of people—stared down on us with abandoned loneliness while we waited.

Ravioli. That was the word the waitress didn’t remember. They weren’t drowning in Italian sauces but the plain pasta-pockets were easily recognizable. Celeste knew what they were and immediately began to skin the little morsels of meat. She took each piece of pasta, dunked it in the side of sour cream, and devoured it. Within minutes the little balls of meat were piled up on the table next to her unused spoon. The pasta was gone. She picked up the bowl and held it out for more. Normally I’d have forced her to finish the remainder before re-ordering. Not tonight. I sent for two more orders and another glass of juice. That’s the least you can do for somebody when they’ve lost another mama.

 

 

Back in the room we turned on all of the lights, nuked a bag of microwave popcorn, and cracked open two soft drinks from the minibar. I turned on the TV and rented a movie, mostly just for sound. Neither of us really wanted to watch it. Celeste fell asleep in my arms, probably sometime after I dozed off. In the wee hours of the morning I woke up, tucked her into her bed and then collapsed into mine.

 

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