To Sing Frogs Chapter 22d

"Mama Olga" getting Luba ready to leave, forever.

Mama Olga’s eyes were glassy from tears shed throughout the morning. They punctuated her melancholy and somber mood. Luba was grouchy. Cowlicks of her short blonde hair pointed heavenward while the corners of her mouth reached for Hell.

The director had reason for her attitude. She was painfully aware that the princess she had planned to add to her own family would now be gone forever. Luba only knew she had been dragged from her nap prematurely.

The little girl scowled and chirped reprimands at us while marching around the office in a white tank-top undershirt and plain cotton underpants.

On the ride to the Partizansk Baby Hospital, Katya had grown increasingly excited to be reunited with her baby sister, never stopping her chatter or questions to Stass. Now after several rejections from the sibling who no longer remembered her, the older sister sat quietly with us on the intruder side of Olga’s desk.

The director told us we had missed quite a going away party for Luba. She added that she might not be feeling well due to the fact she had been allowed to eat anything she wanted for the entire time since she got up. The heartsick would-be-mother could deny the child nothing during their last few hours together.

When the final paperwork had been reviewed and signed, Mama Olga picked Luba up. Then she carried her to the woman—who no matter how kind, compassionate, or worthy—would steal the title she had held for over a year. It was the title of “mother” that Olga hopelessly desired more than almost anything else in the world, to make permanently and exclusively her own.

“Nee!” Luba squawked as the director handed her to Amy. “Nee! Mama Olga.” Of course the director had tried to explain the situation to the child who was now just shy of three. She had read the soft books to her and talked about the pictures and their subjects dozens of times over the past two months. Still, Luba didn’t get it. She just wanted Olga and no one else to hold her.

Amy quickly got out the bellbottom jeans with embroidered butterflies. Then she showed them to our new daughter. It was Luba’s weakness; beautiful clothes. She snatched the jeans from Amy’s grasp and held them close to her chest while reaching out for Olga with her other hand. Without hesitation my wife grabbed the striped hooded sweater, a perfect match to the jeans. The child ceased reaching for the director and shot out her hand to clutch the sweater. Now instead of groping for the woman she recognized as her mother, all she could do was lean away from Amy and chirp her objections.

Olga helped Amy dress Luba, who transformed from tired grouchiness to conceited pretentiousness. Her nose raised and her chin lifted. Her head tilted a bit to one side as if in a practiced display of how she would present her superior wardrobe to inferior peers. Not today.

The socks and shoes appeared to be adequate, in her smug estimation, while the mothers-in-transition placed them on her feet. That was, until Katya stood, began to chatter, and stomped around showing her little sister how much fun their feet could be.

Luba squealed and dropped from Amy’s lap. Then she stomped her new magical shoes. Soon the two sisters were running around the office and crashing into chairs, desks, and cabinets. They never took their eyes off of the magnificent display of colorful flashing lights.

We watched silently while Olga basked in the agony of giving a life to Luba that she could not have provided herself.

“John, Amy, really, it’s time to go.” Stass said. It was obvious from the serious lines in his face that he was growing anxious. Why are you so uptight? “You need to put the coat on her. It’s time to get going.”

Amy grabbed the coat, hat, and scarf—matches to Katya’s—and approached Luba. “Nee!” the child screeched while stopping cold. She pointed a motionless finger threateningly at Amy as if she could use magic to keep her back. “Nee! Mama Olga.” Then she ran behind the desk to the director.

My wife followed our daughter while Dyehdushka Bill and I continued to silently watch. “Look, Sweetheart… Look at the beautiful flowers!” Amy held out the dark-blue coat with a white faux-fur-lined hood and pointed at the pocket. It was embroidered in pink, red, and light-blue blossoms with bright green leaves. “See the pretty flowers?”

Olga translated and held Luba’s hand out, helping her to touch the embroidery. That much was fine. Luba did find the flowers to be beautiful.

Then Amy attempted to put the coat on her. The child screamed a blood-curdling shriek and spun into the director. “Mama Olga! Mama Olga!”

“What’s wrong?” my wife asked the director. Stass didn’t translate. There was no need; it was what everyone was thinking. Olga shook her head and lightly shrugged her shoulders as if to say she had no idea. Then she lifted the child and stood while holding out her hand to Amy in a request for my wife to let her try. Amy handed the coat over and the director used the fur lining to stroke the sobbing child’s face while uttering words ending in comforting sha ska and shka sounds. Finally Luba calmed. She once again became frantic—shrieking and screaming—when Olga attempted to put the coat on her.

“Dear God, no…” I knew what was wrong.

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