Can You Keep a Secret? (15 page)

Mavis-Marie was nodding.

‘So, making sure it’s accurate – that’s one thing. And here’s another important thing: once your adoption book is finished, you should make sure to cover it with a sturdy plastic. Like Lisa-Anh said, this book is going to be the most precious thing your child owns. You want something that’s going to stand the test of time, something that can survive the sticky fingers, something that your child can read over and over again.’

Caitlin nodded. That made sense.

‘And there’s one other important issue we should get to tonight,’ Mavis-Marie said. Colby shifted in his seat. He’d thought they were near the end. ‘It’s probably the most important thing. How many of you are thinking about changing your child’s name?’

Caitlin put her hand up. Colby hadn’t given the matter any thought, but also put his hand up, as did about three-quarters of the people in the room.

Mavis-Marie was nodding. ‘That’s as I thought. Most of you. That’s what we normally see. Most people think that because they are adopting a child, they have the right to name him – or her! But have you ever given any thought to the fact that your child will already have a name?’

Now Lisa-Anh was smiling.

‘Lisa-Anh, what was your name in the orphanage?’ Mavis-Marie asked.

‘Anh – that’s A-N-H, not Arne, or Anne.’

‘And when did you find that out?’

‘I suppose I always knew because it’s in my adoption book. My parents got a sheet of paper with my name, and some details about me: the colour of my eyes, and the colour of my hair. But the name Anh – they didn’t like it. So it was taken away from me. I don’t want that to sound mean. Mom and Dad meant well. They wanted to integrate me into American culture and give me a normal American name. They called me Lisa. But as soon as I was old enough, I took my old name – Anh – and I started using it, as well as the name they gave me. The name ANH – it’s one of the only things I brought with me from Vietnam. And I wanted it back.’

Caitlin put her hand up. ‘But what if the child you’ve been allocated has a name that isn’t suitable for America? I’ve heard of children from China being called Poo-Phat, or something like that.’

Some others in the room snickered.

‘Right,’ said Mavis-Marie, ‘there are some children who come with challenging names. But if you reject that name, what are you really doing? You’re rejecting your child’s language, aren’t you? You’re rejecting their culture. And in my opinion, it’s never a good idea to take anything from an adopted child, not if it’s come with them from the orphanage. Because, as Lisa-Anh says, those things are important, and your child’s name might be the only thing your child has from the orphanage.’

Colby put his hand up.

‘But what if the name doesn’t actually mean anything? What if it’s simply some name they gave the baby in the orphanage? What if they’ve just been found in a box on the side of the road. Who names those ones?’

‘Well, despite what you’ve heard, some of them
do
come with a name,’ said Mavis-Marie. ‘Sometimes the mother leaves a name pinned to the blanket or pinned to the child’s clothes. Sometimes the mother leaves the baby in the hospital, and in those cases the baby usually has a name. But no, you’re correct, sometimes the baby is abandoned and the baby has no name. And in that case the staff at the orphanage give the child a name. But that’s still a name that was given to them by the people who cared for them. That’s still their name.’

‘I don’t agree,’ said Colby.

Mavis-Marie looked startled.

‘I don’t agree,’ Colby said again, shaking his head. ‘I once heard about a couple who went to China to adopt,
and they told us that every child in the orphanage was called Mae. Every single one. And when they asked why, they said, that’s the name that the Americans like, so that’s the name they all get. How is that special? They changed their daughter’s name. Why shouldn’t they? You can’t have a situation where every child adopted from China to American parents is called Mae. That would be ridiculous.’

One of the other men in the room nodded. ‘We’re going to get our child from Russia and from what I hear, every boy in the orphanage is called Alexander, and they call them Sasha for short,’ he said. ‘That’s what Americans like, so that’s what they do.’

‘I don’t actually really see what’s wrong with changing a name that you don’t like,’ Colby continued. ‘When the baby comes to live with you, it’s your baby and you should have the right to choose the name.’

Mavis-Marie looked annoyed. She wasn’t used to having prospective parents argue a point with her. Most had been through the wringer. They were desperate for a child and willing to agree to anything so as not to antagonise people who might stand in the way of their dream.

‘Well, I’m not sure how many children you’ve raised,’ she said, knowing that the answer for most people in the room was none, ‘and I’m not sure how much experience you have in this arena. I have a lot of experience, and what I’m telling you, as an expert in this field, is that we don’t recommend that you change your child’s name. Of course we can’t stop you. You’ll be the parents and you’ll have legal rights.
But it flies in the face of what my experience tells me is the best way to go.’

Later that evening, after Colby had vented some frustration by mimicking Mavis-Marie during the drive home, Caitlin opened her laptop and updated her blog.

I knew it was coming, but today we finally got the big lecture on how we have no right to name our child. My husband, Colby, went off at the social worker, which I knew he would. I tried to stay quiet but actually I agree with him: why shouldn’t we be able to discard whatever name some nurse at the orphanage has given our child, and give him a name that we love? They go on endlessly about how important it is to make the child part of your family and then they don’t want you to give him a name? It’s crazy. What do other people think?

It took a couple of days this time, but soon there was another comment:

Comment: Obviously it’s up to you, but don’t you think you should listen to the experts? You haven’t had any success having a child of your own, and now you’re taking on people who know the most about adoption. It sounds a bit arrogant to me and don’t be surprised if you reap what you sow.

So, that was April 2006. In November of the same year a delivery van pulled up outside the Colberts’ home. The driver looked at his clipboard, checked the details on his order sheet against the number on the gate post, made a small mark on his clipboard with his pen, put his baseball cap on his head, and went up to knock on the front door.

‘Delivery for Mrs Colbert,’ he said.

‘That’s me.’

Caitlin was by then so thin that she had to wear a pullover in summer, in part because she was always cold; in part because when people saw her sinewy arms and ropey veins they gasped. But that was okay. The only people she ever really saw, besides Colby, were tradesmen. Her renovation of the house had begun anew: men came to take down walls they had just put up; to re-paint walls because Caitlin had changed her mind about the colour; to lay carpet, and then to lay tiles where new carpet already lay; to fit toilet cisterns,
and then to take them out again, as Caitlin made and re-made the house known to the neighbours as the Nougat House.

‘It’s exhausting,’ Colby complained to Summer. ‘She’s gone from the kind of person who lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Townsville, to a person who has a team of tradesmen on site at any given hour.’

‘Well, at least she’s keeping busy,’ said Summer, which was the kind of backhanded comment that New York’s professional working women make about those women who are kept in Larchmont and Connecticut.

This particular delivery driver – Stan – looked past Caitlin, down the pretty hall and said, ‘Where does it all go?’

Caitlin stepped to the side and gestured behind her. ‘I was thinking the attic. There’s stairs along the wall there, in the living room.’

‘The attic?’ he replied. ‘I thought this was nursery furniture?’

‘It is.’ Caitlin beamed. To herself she thought, ‘He can see I’m not pregnant. Maybe he thinks I’m crazy!’

‘Right, then,’ said Stan, doubtfully.

He went back to his truck. He folded the two rear doors back against the body of the rig, and secured them with clips. He grabbed hold of a handle inside the truck, lifted himself up, and walked around for a while, making a few more notes on his clipboard as he went. There were four cartons for Mrs Colbert. One by one, Stan moved them to the back of the truck, and lowered them to the ground. One by one, he put them onto his trolley and pushed them up
the hill, through Caitlin’s front door, and down the hallway.

‘You want me to carry them up the stairs?’ he asked.

‘Do you think you can?’

‘Maybe not alone. Your husband’s not home?’

‘No. But it would really help me if you could do it.’ Caitlin picked up her purse from the side table. The implication was clear: if Stan took the boxes up, he’d get a big tip.

‘Do you mind if I go up and have a bit of a look?’ asked Stan.

‘Not at all.’

They went up the stairs together.

The attic had been transformed in those years since Colby had bought the house. The ceiling had been painted a shade of blue so soft and lovely that it almost wasn’t blue but white. The timber around the attic windows was much brighter. The wallpaper was a lovely blue-and-white stripe, and there was already a baby-soft rug on the floor.

‘Nice job,’ Stan said, looking around.

‘Thank you.’

Stan paused again. ‘Excuse me for asking, but is this your baby that’s going in here?’

‘Yes,’ said Caitlin. ‘Well, it’s mine, but we’re adopting.’

‘Right. That’s nice. That’s great, actually, but this baby, it’s going to be your first?’

Caitlin crossed her arms. ‘That’s right.’

‘Okay,’ said Stan. ‘I don’t want to give you advice, but you really want to put a baby in here? I mean, you’re not worried about the little fellow rolling down those stairs?’

‘Don’t be silly. A handyman is coming. He’s going to put up a nice rail.’

Stan peered down the stairs again. ‘You’re not worried about the baby being too far away from you when he cries in the night?’

‘What do you mean? I can come straight up.’

Stan looked dubious. ‘You don’t have to take it from me, but you’re not going to want to do that.’ He pushed his cap back. ‘We’ve got three little ones, my wife and I, and getting up in the night – the last thing you’re going to want to do is climb up some stairs. You want the crib near your bed. You can roll over and give them a bottle, and hopefully they’ll go straight off to sleep. And coming up and down those stairs with a baby in your arms, that’s not safe. You want to be on the ground level. I mean, this is a big house.’

Caitlin smiled thinly. ‘If you could just bring the boxes up,’ she said.

Stan shrugged.

‘Alright, then,’ he said. Carrying boxes up stairs – big boxes – was a pain in the butt and to his mind it was absurd to stick a child in the attic, but a big tip, from a bored and skinny lady in a big, beautiful house in Larchmont – well, that could change the outlook of his whole month. He grasped the first of the boxes and said, ‘You know what I’ll do? I’ll hoist them up. Let me get some rope out of the truck.’

It took about an hour to get all the boxes in place. Stan looked hot and exhausted. ‘I need a signature.’

Caitlin scribbled her name at the bottom of the form, opened her purse, tipped him, and waited for him to leave. She wanted to get the cartons open. They were full of baby things. There was a timber crib, in glossy white paint, that Caitlin would have to Allen-key together, and there was a matching change table, with a spongey mat, covered in a teddy-bear pattern. There was a miniature bookshelf, also glossy white, and a padded rocking chair called a glider, where Caitlin would be able to sit with her little boy, reading books and playing counting games. There was a small timber boat, and some plastic lobsters and crabs to hang in netting from the ceiling.

‘I think I’ll go for a sea-faring theme,’ Caitlin had told the staff at Pottery Barn, when she’d called up on the phone to place her order. ‘Mainly because we’re pretty sure we’re getting a boy. But also because that’s how I met my husband. On a boat. A yacht. I was the deckhand. This was in Australia. We’ve been together for years.’

‘How lovely,’ the salesgirl had said. ‘How far along are you?’

‘Oh, I’m not pregnant. We’re adopting,’ said Caitlin, who said it often and with pride.

‘Oh, wow. That’s wonderful. I’ve always thought about doing that. Adopting. From here, or from overseas?’

‘From Russia,’ said Caitlin. ‘A little boy, not a baby.’

‘And they tell you that, do they, in advance what you’re getting, boy or girl?’ the salesgirl asked. ‘Or can you, like, request?’

‘You can put down a preference. We’ve put down a boy. But I suppose if they came to us with a little girl and said, you know, she really needs a home, we’d be open to that. But honestly, if you want a boy, you’re likely to get one. Most people put down girl so the waiting list for girls is longer.’

‘Well, I think what you’re doing is wonderful,’ the salesgirl said. ‘I mean it: I always wanted to adopt. I’d like to have one or two of my own and then adopt. Really help a child who needs a home.’

‘That’s exactly how we feel.’ Caitlin smiled. ‘But we’re adopting first.’

The day after the furniture was delivered, Caitlin put the crib together, and then smoothed a sheet over the mattress. She put shiny new books on the shelves, opened a bottle of wine and her laptop, and made a new entry on her blog:

Well, everyone, I thought you’d all like to know that the furniture for the nursery arrived! Yes, I know we haven’t been allocated a child yet but I have gotten to the point where I just want to feel that something is actually
happening.

Of course, we were warned at the outset, like everyone, that this can be a long process, but it’s still hard to accept how unbelievably slowly things move, and I wouldn’t be being honest if I didn’t say that the sitting around and waiting has really been taking its toll.

I’ve pretty much given up trying to talk to Colby about the whole thing. In fact, if I’m being honest I’d have to say that it’s almost like he’s gone cold on the idea. Ever since we had to go to that
information night about adoption books, it’s like he’s had second thoughts or something.

Every other day, when I bring it up, he says things like, ‘Are you sure we know what we’re getting ourselves into?’ And I know what’s going through his mind: how tough is this actually going to be? Because the more you read about adoption the more scared you get.

Colby was saying the other day: there are people who say that the children who come out of the orphanages are badly damaged from all the years of being left there without anyone to love them. They can be violent, and it takes more than love to heal them, like it takes serious work. And I’ll admit that I’m scared about whether we’ve taken on too much, and whether the child we get will love me, and whether I’ll be able to love him, about how he’ll fit into our family.

Plus we have the problem of Colby’s mother saying that she doesn’t think of an adopted child as a real grandchild. I get so offended by her attitude, and I know Colby does, too, but he’s still devoted to her. He made me go into the City with him to see her the other night, I suppose to try to win her over.

She lives in the Ansonia in New York City. Everyone seems to think it’s so grand and so luxurious, and maybe that’s true for some apartments, but Colby’s mom’s apartment in the south turret is completely rundown. She’s got a man, Reginald, who works for her. He dresses up in an old butler’s uniform, and waits on her hand and foot. God knows how long he’s been there. I probably shouldn’t be saying this, since I haven’t actually gone to the trouble of hiding my identity – or Colby’s! – but really, who cares? This is my life. I’m allowed to tell my story. I’m not defaming anyone as long as I tell the truth.

Anyway, this Reginald served up slabs of meat in gravy. I haven’t eaten any meat in two years. I’m very careful about what I eat, Colby says too careful. They know that. Obviously they don’t care. We had to sit at the dusty table in her formal dining room – it never gets used, unless we’re there – and be served, and I tried to explain that we had filed our paperwork and finished our Home Studies and were ready to leave for Moscow at any point.

Colby’s mum rolled her eyes and tapped her cigarette – she smokes at the table – and said, ‘Never in a million years did I imagine my son going to Moscow.’ That surprised me. Like, what was her problem with Moscow? Colby said it was something to do with the Cold War, which being Australian I actually don’t understand, but anyway, I said, ‘Will you be coming to the airport to see us get off the plane and meet your new grandson?’

I already knew the answer. I just couldn’t help wanting to rile her. I should have known better. She said, ‘Why on earth would I go out to the airport, Caitlin? To meet a child to whom I’m not even related?’ I was so upset on the way home. I said to Colby, ‘Why is she like that?’ But sometimes it feels like Colby is getting cold feet, too. There was a story in
New York
magazine the other week about adoptions gone wrong – I’m sure some of you read it – and about how the children can have all kinds of problems.

Colby read it – don’t ask me how he came across it. He showed it to me and he said, ‘How do you know what we’re getting into? What if we end up walking into problems like this?’

I said, ‘They won’t let a child into America who has big problems,’ but he kept saying, ‘They can have problems, Cait, we should think carefully about this.’ So, today I asked him straight out: ‘Are you
getting cold feet?’ He said, no no, and went on about how he was worried about me, and I said, ‘That’s not true, you are worried about you.’

It was the first big fight we’ve had about the adoption, and it really left me worried, and I guess that’s why I’m blogging now: I’m wondering if anyone else is dealing with a husband who’s getting cold feet?

Comment (1):

Oh, Caitlin, I don’t envy you! I remember when we were still waiting for our son to arrive and we really did start to think: how can it be worth all this stress and worry? And will it ever happen? But hang in there! Because it does happen, and when it does – it’s magic!

Comment (2):

I have to say, I disagree. Have you considered actually listening to your husband and even to your mother-in-law? You ask people for their opinion but it seems like you don’t like the answers that you get! If both your husband and your mother-in-law have got what you call cold feet, maybe they can see something that you can’t, and maybe adoption isn’t the right answer for you. But I guess you don’t want to hear that advice because you’re already getting it, and then you’re on here asking for a second opinion.