To Sing Frogs Chapter 7b

First picture of Katya and John

Neatly made pale green pipe-frame beds filled the room. There were twenty-four of them in all and they covered the floor wall to wall. Spacing between each bed was about a foot, which was very tight compared to the “generous” eighteen-inch distances for aisles between the rows. An OSHA inspector would have peed in his pants.

Stass asked Katya which bed was hers, she pointed to the second one from the end with its head against the wall. The coordinator decided to sit there and directed us to one in the row running perpendicular across the aisle. We sat. Our daughter-to-be climbed up on Amy’s lap.

Mostly it was small talk. “What is your favorite food?” Amy asked.

“Pelmeni,” came the translation.

“What is your favorite animal?”

“Dogs.”

That surprised me so I cut in. “I thought a little girl like you would love kittens.”

“She says she hates cats.”

Much later we would learn the reason. “Koshka” is the Russian word for cat. Katya’s last name was Koshkina. The other children in the orphanage loved to taunt and tease the little girl, calling her Katya Kosh-ka-kina or simply Koshka. She would be incensed on our next visit when she learned the English word for Koshka. I remember Katya looking up at me angrily and saying; “Kat, Nyet!” Kat, No! Would the jokes about her name and cats never cease?

“What is your best friend’s name?” Amy asked.

“Yula ee Marina.” It would hardly be the last time we heard those names. In fact, there wasn’t a part of my mind or my heart these three little girls wouldn’t recreate over a duration of time and impossibilities. Still, at this juncture it was only more small talk.

Eventually the conversation lagged. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Though we were sitting on the edge of cheaply made pipe-framed beds, the relief we experienced was complete. Emotionally, it felt as if we were sunk into deep leather couches in front of a holiday fire. We sat. We smiled. We took each other in. It was the once-in-a-lifetime experience none of us could believe had actually finally arrived.

The inevitable happened. Katya threw her arms around Amy and began to sob. Tears streamed down her face and darkened my wife’s shoulder with uncountable tiny wet splotches. Amy held her closely and cooed forth comforting sounds that seemed to come bubbling up from a warm spring. “Oh, you poor baby. You poor little girl. I’m so sorry. I’m here, now. It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” Stass didn’t bother to translate. There was no need.

After a minute or so Katya pulled back and put on her best smile while looking up at Amy. She wiped her eyes and continued to smile—as big as she could—while she remembered her coaching. No one wanted to adopt boisterous children or crybabies.

            Amy wiped the remaining tears from the child’s face one by one and then tweaked her cheek, her nose, and then her other cheek. The little girl giggled then silence returned.

Not wanting to experience another breakdown, Stass mentioned to Katya that he and I could return to his SUV to retrieve some treats and a present. Her grin split her face. “Katya says we should go and get a treat and a present for her,” Stass confirmed. Then he turned back to the little girl. “Would you like to wait here with Mama while Papa and I go to get the treat and present?”

Katya grinned and nodded her head like a jackhammer. “Dá! Dá!”

When Stass and I returned, Amy was alone. One of the workers had taken the little girl away for dinner so we waited until she returned.