To Sing Frogs Chapter 22a

The flowers outside our hotel door that greeted Amy that morning and Sarah, later that day.

Chapter 22

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Multi-colored lights flashed as I banged the shoes together for one last inspection before putting them in the daypack. Adopted children from Russia don’t leave the orphanage with the shirts on their backs; they just leave. Adopting parents are expected to bring their own clothes for them. It’s just as well. The last preparations parents make for removing their child from an orphanage are exactly like dressing up a newborn baby to leave the hospital. Mothers—and fathers who are comfortable enough in their own sexuality to admit it—go to great lengths to make sure outfits are just right. Parents are typically giddy about dressing the children for the first time as they confirm them into their new lives.

Amy’s jetlag alarm held off until five-thirty. Then she couldn’t wait any longer. I was dragged from the bed like a casualty of war and we began unpacking suitcases that were filled with clothes and toys for the girls. We would only be able to visit Kirrill at his orphanage until the waiting period was over. One suitcase remained—like a box trapping Schrodinger’s cat—in limbo.

Price tags were cut from clothing labels. Jeans, shirts, dresses, and all other clothes were separated out, stacked, re-stacked, arranged, rearranged, inspected, and laid out anew for the perfect presentation to each of the girls.

Amy selected and reselected clothes the girls would wear for this monumental occasion more times than I could count. She kept asking me for my opinion. It obviously meant nothing because she continued to second-guess each new choice. Finally I agreed to choose which shoes would go and left her to the rest, refusing to give more input. I guess I’m not that confident in my own sexuality.

Classic Billy Joel played quietly in the background at the hotel restaurant. Only the Good Die Young. Several adopting couples were scattered around eating breakfast and watching birds flit about windows as a rising sun brought the surrounding world to life.

Grandpa Bill joined us for breakfast while we waited for Stass to come. The menu was pure American-style comfort food. Amy and Bill had pancakes but I couldn’t resist ordering bacon and sausage with my hash browns.

“It’s pretty obvious this place is run by a North American,” I said while loading up a forkful of hash browns and chunky red salsa.

“They do a good job,” Bill admitted. “Especially with the foods they have to import. Usually non-North Americans don’t go to the trouble.”

“Yeah, I ordered Buffalo wings in Munich one time and got chicken slathered in ketchup.” Bill and Amy laughed.

The Vlad Inn’s food was as American as TGI Fridays, though higher on the quality scale. It wasn’t just the food. An entertainment room was set up with a free pool table and an honor system drink cooler. You don’t get further from Russian culture than the honor system. DVD players were available for rent from the front desk along with shelves and shelves of American movies. A stay at the Vlad Motor Inn might well have been confused with one in a family owned hotel outside of Boise, Idaho. It was the perfect place to immerse young Russian orphans in American culture while still having the native language support to ease children into a sea of English.

Bill and I—seasoned world travelers—were discussing all of the nuances the hotel had nailed dead-on while keeping Amy in stitches. We both had a catalog of experiences. We had stayed in other areas where attempts at catering to Americans had failed miserably. Bill told us all about boiled bacon. Breakfast was gone and the dishes were cleared when Stass walked in.

“Are you ready?”

Of course we were. I almost had to hold Amy back. As always, Bill was the first one up to hold the door. He waited until I followed Amy out. Really, I tried to follow Amy out. She stopped cold just barely outside the door. I ran into her as if she was a car doing a brake check on the Autobahn.

Amy gasped, held her hands up to cover her mouth and began crying. Before two seconds had elapsed she was sobbing. She still didn’t move.

“What?”

She tried to speak several times but couldn’t get words past her sobs. Finally she thrust her index finger forward and pointed at the ground a few feet away.

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