8
Grant
In his room, Grant debates where to hide the money. He can’t believe his luck in Dad leaving him alone for a few minutes. He wonders how Mike and his son, Peter, are taking the news of Danielle’s death. He’s close to Mike, who is like a genial uncle who lets you get away with mischief. He probably shouldn’t call him right now, but maybe Mom will let him call Mike later.
Grant has left the thousand dollars in the manila envelope. He knows his mother has looked under his mattress for weed and pills (he’s heard parents talking about prescription drug abuse, and they had a school assembly about it); he doesn’t do that stuff, but she might look there again anyway. He doesn’t really hide stuff in his room. The bottom drawer in his bureau is full of swimsuits, and it’s winter, so he decides Mom is not likely to paw through there anytime soon. He stuffs the envelope of cash under the stack of swimsuits and arranges them so that none of the paper shows. He closes the drawer.
How would he explain this money to anyone? He doesn’t have a job. He couldn’t save up that much. Will people assume he stole it? He’s trying not to think of how he might spend it. New Nike shoes, video games galore, asking that pretty girl in his English class to the movies and not have it be an outing full of a half-dozen friends.
But he can’t spend this money. It feels wrong. But if he doesn’t spend it, Mom will eventually find it, and then what?
He goes back to the computer.
He opens the email that contained the message. He can’t email his friend’s spoofed email back. Drew will get it, not his mysterious benefactor.
He looks back at the picture of the young woman dancing in the rain in front of the Eiffel Tower. Then he sees it. In the corner, a Gmail address, integrated into the picture, but written very small. A random-looking series of numbers and letters, not something a person would ever accidentally type or use as a regular address.
Left there to see if he would notice?
Grant goes to Google’s image search page and enters in woman in rain Eiffel Tower. They learned to use this feature in his history class.
There is a large number of matches—apparently photos of women and couples with umbrellas near the Eiffel Tower are romantic. He finds the image six rows down and clicks on it. It’s a stock photo, from a company based in France. He knows that stock photos are the kind of photos companies buy to use in ads or brochures or websites. There are several similar pictures, with the same young woman standing near the tower, with a variety of colored raincoats and umbrellas. In a few of the photos a handsome man accompanies her; they laugh, they hold hands, they walk. A variety of licenses are available for the photos, in different sizes and resolutions.
Why send him this, a meaningless photo designed to be used in an ad?
Lies come down like rain, the message said.
Well, it was a picture of people in the rain. Lies like rain.
Grant writes a new message to the Gmail address: I found the money and the picture of the Eiffel Tower. Who are you? What do you want with me?
And then he presses send.
9
From Iris Pollitt’s “From Russia with Love” Adoption Journal
2002
So the consultant/lawyer I talked with about foreign adoption, Danielle Roberts, suggested that I keep a journal to chronicle our process in adopting a baby from overseas. It can be a long, hard road (look! My first cliché!), and journaling, she said, could help me through the ups and downs. “A writer like you probably already keeps a journal, don’t you? To write down images and phrases, right?” she said, and I nodded. And she said, rightly, that our new child might really like to read this one day, to understand what Kyle and I went through to get her or him, and that Julia would value it as well—she may not remember any of this when she’s older. And that we would want to remember every detail.
I got into doing a journal when Julia was so sick, and hopefully this will be a help along the same lines. Sometimes it’s calming just to get the thoughts down on paper.
So, pen in hand, I start. This will be harder than writing a song.
How did we decide on adoption? Four miscarriages, then Julia, and then the doctors told me no more pregnancies. Not meant to be. We love Julia, of course. But we wanted another child.
Kyle said we should adopt an American child. And for a week, we discussed that. We didn’t want to adopt a child older than Julia. With a newborn the birth parents have ninety days to change their minds and take the child back—and away, forever—from you. After having dealt with Julia’s illness, I couldn’t risk it: a mother with regrets changing her mind or a father asserting his rights. Although that seems so unlikely in these situations, you never know. I wanted distance between us and the birth parents. Distance to give safety, distance to give perspective. Thousands and thousands of miles.
Distance meant certainty.
When we first moved to Lakehaven, I got to know some women who had adopted internationally. I listened to what they had to say, the pros and cons, and a mom (her name is Francie) who had three adopted kids from Russia, a girl and two boys, swayed me. They were really cute, happy, well-adjusted kids. Francie said it was a lot of paperwork and a lot of bribes(!), but otherwise the process would go smoothly and there was no chance of a birth-parent interference. And I’m Swedish on my mom’s side, and Kyle’s grandmother’s family are descended from Czech settlers who came to Texas, and we thought, right or wrong, a Russian child might look more like a blood relative. I know that shouldn’t matter, but it did, to me.
So, Francie, with the three adorable Russian kids, contacted the service she used to manage the process—they’re called Global Adoption Consultants—and that is how I met Danielle Roberts, your guardian angel (or she will be). I was lucky. They were based in Austin, the only agency here.
Danielle and I met for coffee for the first time to talk. She was striking, dark haired, in a business suit, elegant. Nice watch, nice rings. I notice stuff like that—I think it matters how a person presents themselves. (Warning: you will be a well-dressed baby.)
I bought us both vanilla lattes, and we caught up on my friend Francie and her three gorgeous children. Francie had sent Danielle an email about me, and of course Danielle asked me about writing songs for NSYNC and Britney Spears, and she did that thing people do where they sing the lyric at you, and I smile and nod and say “yeah, I wrote that,” and thankfully she didn’t ask if I was still writing songs and I was suddenly nervous the Russians would charge me more because a couple of songs I’d written had been hits. The musician gets richer than the writer—that’s the way of the world.
And then I said brightly, optimistically: “So, I have a thousand questions.”
“Don’t ever ask a question,” Danielle said. Her face was serious, almost grim. The friendly smile had vanished.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I can’t ask you questions?” Panic blossomed in my chest. This wasn’t going to work.
“You can ask ME anything. Always.” She leaned forward, like she was telling me a secret. “But when you set foot in Russia once we’ve been matched with your baby, you do not ask any questions. You do not challenge the Russians. You do not argue with them. You tell your husband not to explain things to them. You keep your mouths shut, you hand everyone you meet a little money or a gift, and you come home with your baby.”