To Sing Frogs Chapter 33b

Marina-Grigorievna gave another sigh and a shake of the head. She wasn’t going to be able to take the easy way out. “Svieta, who is fourteen, is the oldest. She’s mildly retarded. (Retarded is as politically correct as Russia gets.) Natasha is thirteen. She’s moderately retarded. Lydia is the youngest one left here. She’s ten. Lydia is severely retarded.” The social worker paused, hoping that deterrent would be enough.

I couldn’t breathe. We had originally gone to Russia to adopt because we said we had enough to do with one Special Needs child. I had no right to make a decision without Amy and I didn’t know what to do. The bodies were floating past me in the river. I couldn’t let them drown. Amy wouldn’t have let them pass by either, no matter how hard it would be. “I understand children with Special Needs. We already adopted one. I don’t think mental challenges make it impossible for our family to consider this adoption.”

“It’s worse than that,” Marina-Grigorievna said through translation. “Svieta has severe behavioral problems, perhaps even psychological disorders. John, you shouldn’t take these children into your home.”

My chest went tight. My ears felt hot. I wanted to listen to the social worker. I wanted to walk away and never look back. “I need to meet them.”

Marina-Grigorievna looked at me sympathetically. “John, I want to help you. I understand that you want to help more children. Let me take you through our orphanages. I will introduce you to our youngest, smartest, most beautiful children who are available for international adoption. Then I will give you your pick. Please don’t move forward with these other children.”

I looked down at the pale-white skin of my tightly interlocked fingers. I had just won the international adoption lottery. Nobody ever gets an offer like I had just received. I didn’t want babies. However, it appeared at that point I could have what I did desire. I wanted Marina and Yula.

            Sometimes we don’t get what we want.

I tore up the winning ticket. Then I looked back up at the social worker. “Marina-Grigorievna, are you my friend?”

“Of course I am. You know that I am.”

“Then help me adopt my daughters’ sisters.”

It was now Marina-Grigorievna’s turn to look down at her own clasped hands. She remained deep in contemplation without moving for almost a minute. I waited. Finally she looked up at me with glassy troubled eyes full of empathy. She spoke in Russian and Stass gave me her words. To this day I hear those words in my own mind—as if they were spoken directly to me—in heavily accented English. “Foor no vun else Aye veel neever doo dees. Bot foor yoo, Aye veel doo eet.”

The smile I offered was one of the most sincere I had ever given. It was half-hearted when it came to me feeling like smiling. I nodded my head quickly and shallowly while pursing my lips as if to reassure—and express deep gratitude to—a friend, for grudgingly agreeing to pull the plug on my life support machine. “Spaseeba,” I said with a shaky voice.

She gave a slight, single nod to acknowledge my words, unable, or at least unwilling to speak.

“Marina-Grigorievna, I know I should not ask anything else of you. I have already required more than I had a right to. I need one more thing.”

“Tell me how I can help you.”

“Sarah has sent stuffed animals for Yula and Marina. She asked me to deliver them personally. Could you possibly write me a letter allowing me to visit their orphanage?”

Marina-Grigorievna’s somber face lit up with joy. “Sarah still remembers her friends?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, she does.”

The look of joy turned to shock as her eyebrows furrowed and her lips parted just a little. “Why would you ever say such a horrible thing?”

“Sarah remembers them every minute of every day. She disappears five or six times a day to pray and ask God to give her friends families. She can’t get over it. She doesn’t understand that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. She won’t accept the fact that it’s impossible.”

The social worker smiled softly. “It must be hard for her.”

“Yeah. I don’t know if she’ll ever get over it.”

“I’ll be happy to write you the letter.” She turned to her computer, typed out several lines, and hit the print button. Marina-Grigorievna pulled the paper from the inkjet printer and quickly added her signature. She reached out and I grasped the sheet. She didn’t let go. “One more thing,” she added. “Next time you talk to Sarah, tell her that God listens to her. Marina was adopted by a Russian family a month ago.”

 

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