Rescuing Julia Twice (2 page)

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt make it look easy. They adopt kids from all corners of the world, and the media broadcasts images of perfect Kodak moments. They'd have you believe that families bond and blend instantaneously.

They don't. Not always. Not in my experience or in the experience of many others. Sometimes the road to loving your adopted child is long and twisted and scary. You know something is wrong—but is it the child? Is it you? You drown in shame and confusion, hiding your feelings from the world. It can't possibly be that you've gone to the other end of the world to get this baby and you're not bonded after a month, six months, two years.

I knew something wasn't right early on. We adopted Julia from a Siberian orphanage in February 2003. She didn't clutch to me nor gaze in my eyes. She never rested her head on my shoulder or relaxed into a warm embrace. She didn't respond if I sang or read to her. It was like she was there but wasn't.

For a while, weeks, maybe months, I sank deeper and deeper into depression, thinking I'd made a terrible mistake. Maybe I wasn't cut out to be a mother.

Julia was a little more responsive with my husband but only somewhat. For the first ten months, I suffered guilt, shame, and sadness. After traveling ten thousand miles (twice) to bring home this child, I
was unwilling to let anyone know how I really felt. Then the revelations began. I hired a daytime nanny in early 2004. Anna was twenty-one, experienced and energetic. She'd come with a glowing review from the mother of her last charges. When she mentioned Julia was having trouble warming up to her, a ding went off in my head. Why? Why isn't Julia connecting to this lovely young lady who took her daily to the park, to play dates, to “mommy and me” classes? I had thought for sure that Anna might be able to give her what I couldn't.

A year later, I enrolled Julia in preschool and saw more of the same: a child who was not bonding with teachers or other children. She was as much an enigma to others as she was to us. Everyone agreed she was gregarious, vivacious, friendly, and outgoing. Yet at the same time, she was aloof, hard to figure out. When I picked her up at the end of the day, she was always by herself, sometimes sitting under a desk. Worried, I mentioned her odd behavior to her pediatrician. That was the first time I took notice of the phrase “Reactive Attachment Disorder” (RAD), even though I had heard it mentioned before. The doctor, who worked with foreign adoptees, explained RAD was common among institutionalized children. The early break from birth mothers causes trauma that makes it difficult for the child to trust or attach to another adult. This, he explained, is why Julia recoils when she is held. Why she doesn't have a favorite teddy. Why she won't make eye contact.

I wasn't ready to hear this. I told myself we just needed more time. I stored the doctor's explanation in the back of my mind, but pieces of it drifted out when I watched Julia fight naps or wander away from me constantly. Finally, when she was four, I was ready to face her demons, our demons. It was during a nursery school recital that I broke down and sobbed because I realized how lonely, displaced, and isolated my daughter was. Julia was unable to sing along with the group. Her disruptive behavior forced a teacher to take her off the stage and leave the room. This may not sound like the most unusual event for a young child—but put in context, I understood right then and there that I needed to intervene.

My husband, Ricky, and I banded together to read everything we could on the syndrome. We made a dogged effort and a conscious
commitment to help our daughter and make ourselves into a family. It was our daily work. We learned that raising a child who has trouble bonding requires counterintuitive parenting techniques—some that disturbed and surprised family and friends. People could not understand when we'd respond to Julia's fussing with a passive poker face rather than indulge her. We'd laugh during her tantrums until she abandoned them and moved on as though they'd never happened. They didn't understand that Julia wasn't willing to give hugs, and we didn't ask her to do so. With the help of research and case studies, we had a toolbox. Some advice was invaluable; some failed. Some techniques worked for a while. We were living inside a laboratory. I knew how lucky I was to have a partner like Ricky, because so many marriages and homes are ravaged by the challenge of adopting difficult children.

Over time, there was more engagement with Julia. It wasn't necessarily loving and warm at first, but it moved in the right direction. We were drawing her out. She became more capable of showing anger rather than indifference. As her verbal skills developed, we had the advantage of being able to explain to her that we loved her and would never leave her. That we understood how scary it was for her to be loved by an adult and that she was safe.

Progress took time, and the work of staying bonded with a wounded child is a lifetime endeavor. That's okay though, because Julia has stepped out of the danger zone. She's taken off her helmet and armor. She has let me become her mother. And I honor that trust by remembering, each and every day, how she struggles with subconscious demons and how mighty her battle is and will always be.

Author's note: Out of respect for their privacy, I have changed the names of some of the people who appear in these pages.

Olga is waiting for us as we leave the baggage carousel. She is a pretty thing, with a round doll's face and Delft-blue eyes. She holds a sign with our surname, Tannenbaum. After greeting us with a firm handshake, she takes us to an airport travel agent and helps my husband and me buy tickets to Novosibirsk, Siberia's capital. We pass tired-looking soldiers in ill-fitting uniforms. Without pronouns she explains what will happen to us over the next twelve hours. But before anything happens, we go to the Novotel in Moscow's Sheremetyevo International Airport for four hours of sleep and a meal.

Olga says, “Arrive 10:00
PM.
Take to Domodedovo Airport.”

Olga's step-by-step instructions are a comfort; I already feel as if I have been carved out of my body. I am floating above myself, watching. Could be Sudafed's mind-altering effects; more likely it is the enormity of our journey ahead. How does one prepare to meet her daughter for the first time? At a Siberian orphanage?

I don't know what time it is. It's dark. Ricky and I are lying in the warm and comfortable hotel bed, giddy and disoriented. The alarm startles us. We shower, dress, and go to the hotel lobby atrium to eat, the first decent food we've had since we left New York. Ten sharp, Olga and the
driver, her husband, pull up in front of the hotel. Olga asks us about our nap and dinner in clipped English while her stoic husband grabs our suitcase. We slide into a stale, smoky van with drawn-curtain windows and begin what seems like a covert operation. We are like refugees being smuggled across an illegal border, though we haven't left Moscow yet.

Domodedovo Airport, Moscow's airport for domestic travel, is a shock—a place suspended in the mid-twentieth century with exposed steel girders and acrid smoke hanging in the air. Olga helps us check in. Everyone's eyes follow us. Even with my fur coat and my husband's Russian-style sheepskin hat, we are obvious outsiders. Men with deep fissures in their faces wear hats piled like birds' nests and carry worn briefcases. Olga tells us they're traders from the East. Some are accompanied by tall, elegant women who look like pigment-less stars from old Hollywood.

Olga leaves us, our last link to anything accessible. My stomach somersaults.

We amble into the waiting lounge, aided by our phonetic glossary of the Russian alphabet. A man is peering inside a briefcase propped on his thighs, cackling like a lunatic. With 9/11 still fresh in memory, he frightens me. No one here speaks English. I nudge my husband. “That guy doesn't seem right. We should tell someone.”

Ricky glances over at him, then at the briefcase. “He's looking at an accounting ledger,” he says, stroking my shoulder. “Probably laughing because he's made a lot of rubles.”

Ricky and I have been together for only two years, but he knows how to diffuse my bomb. We had been childhood and college friends and reunited in romance in late 2000, when we were both thirty-eight. We married six months later and agreed we wanted a child. The fertility mill was a disaster—a large gamble with low odds—so we moved on to adoption. We chose a foreign adoption because we heard it was an easy though expensive transaction. No advertising in the
Penny Saver
papers. No birth mothers to deal with. No uncertain outcomes. Russia appealed to us because our grandparents hailed from Eastern Europe; we felt as though we were paying homage to our history by adopting from Russia.

Our flight is called. We're led outside onto the tarmac. Snow swirls. Frigid air bites at the exposed parts of my face. This can't be my life. I don't need another adventure to share with my friends and family. There are stories about older parents who are preparing to adopt a child and boom, they're pregnant. The woman always gets pregnant while she's scouting the adoption classifieds to find a young mother who needs to give up her baby. It's a nice fairy tale.

The plane is more of a relic than the airport. The windows are rusted and mismatched. There is duct tape on some. I don't want to know why. The seats are cramped. I slide into the window seat and gasp. Snow hits the window with crystal pings. The ground crew keeps deicing the wings. I can't breathe. I don't like to fly generally, but no one should fly on a night like this—not even someone who has a daughter waiting in Siberia. I want to run off this decrepit plane, but the bulkhead door has already been sealed shut.

“Do we really want a baby this badly?” I ask my husband.

He thinks I'm joking. I don't think I am. I don't know what I think except that there's a good chance we will die on this plane tonight somewhere over the Russian tundra. My mind races to CNN breaking reports about planes going down “somewhere in Russia.” Pilot error. Navigators impaired by alcohol. Bum radar in the control tower.

Surprisingly, the plane lifts off the ground with the grace of a heron. My eyes are closed, and I'm clutching my husband's hand. I'm moving through the longest night of my life, moving toward something I've told myself I want, yet I feel numb. It could be my cautious nature, but I know it's not. I am making a lifetime commitment to raise a child given up by another woman. A final, irreversible decision. I worry about our financial stability, though the real fear is more primal. Something I can't articulate is keeping me up at night and giving me stomachaches. I can feel it in my bones.

I rifle through my travel bag and pull out Colin Thubron's travelogue
In Siberia.
The man has traversed the vast territory, traveling alone by
train, boat, car, and on foot. I picked up the book during my last trip to Barnes & Noble. I remember thinking I should probably get one or two parenting books, but I couldn't bring myself to do so. Either I didn't believe there was a manual for raising children, or I wasn't ready to accept that I was going to become a parent. Okay, not just a parent, a
mother.
Easier, I thought, to read about this vast, mysterious place that I associate with dislocation, with lore, with
Doctor Zhivago
and
Reds.