Rescuing Julia Twice (20 page)

“How's her eating?” he says, glancing over his bifocals to read her chart.

“She's on a fully organic, whole-foods, non-meat diet,” I say.

“Meaning?”

“Fruits, veggies, grains, eggs, lots of yogurt, everything organic. But no cow's milk.”

“Okay, that's good. She's actually in the 95th percentile for her weight. But that's because she's small.”

“Her birth mother isn't even five feet,” I say.

“Right, I understand. I'm not too worried about her weight now, though it may be an issue later on. But she looks great. You're doing a good job.”

Those words are as comforting as his assessment on Julia's progress.

Dr. Traister is one of the godsends that have come along with my entry into motherhood. When someone first recommended him, I thought he and I, who have practically the same last name—an unusual name—could
be related. The doctor and I tried to find common ancestors as we are both from Brooklyn, but we couldn't make the link. While that might be so, I feel as though this wiry-haired, jeans-wearing, Gene Wilder look-alike, could well be kin. He's familiar. And best of all, he's relaxed and conservative in his approach to medicine. When I was a child, we made ritualistic pilgrimages to the pediatrician for every cough, sniffle, and ache. We were over-medicated. It was either that my mother was neurotically fearful about health or that she had a wicked crush on Dr. Kane. Over the years I've receded from the notion that doctors are gods and have replaced it with the idea that the human body is a machine that has the power to heal and regenerate. I steer clear of intervention unless it's truly necessary. I plan to raise Julia this way, and Dr. Traister, as I've said, is a godsend.

“Okay, you can dress her. Make an appointment in six months, and we'll talk about vaccines,” he says.

“Great, thanks,” I say, turning to pull Julia's sweater over her head. I hesitate. “Dr. Trais … ”

“Yes,” he says, poking his head around the reopened door.

“Sorry, I know you have another appointment, but I did have one more question.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“How do I know if Julia is okay, you know, mentally?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know. It's just that, I can't explain this exactly, but sometimes, no, well, most of the time, it's like she's there but she's not there. She doesn't cling to me or look me in the eye or seem to enjoy being held. You know, she doesn't reach for my hand. I know it's not a hearing problem. It's more like, like there's a wall.”

While I'm rambling, Dr. Traister is nodding.

“Am I making sense?”

“You could be describing something called Reactive Attachment Disorder.”

“What?” I say, not entirely surprised by his answer.

“There's a syndrome in adopted children, particularly from Russia and Eastern Europe, called Reactive Attachment Disorder, where babies
have trouble attaching to their adoptive parents. It's a complex condition, and it may be too early to diagnose this yet because Julia's only eighteen months old. But the gist of it is that babies who start life in orphanages haven't had the same bonding experiences as those who have been raised by birth mothers. As I said, it may be too early to know if this is the case with Julia, but if you want to make another appointment to come back and talk about this—or if you want I can suggest a child psychologist. Just see the nurse on your way out.”

He smiles. “Don't worry. You have time.”

My throat's gone dry. The exam room's bright lights sear into my brain. I was hoping Dr. Traister would say I was the one who was experiencing difficulty, ambivalence, maybe even postpartum depression. That it was me who needed “more time” to adjust to motherhood. I gaze down at the little blonde girl on the table and choke back tears.

“More time,” I whisper. “We need a little more time.” I lift her up and carry her to the waiting room. I slide her into the stroller. Before I pull open the heavy door, I glance back over my shoulder at the front desk. Dr. Traister's words protect me:
Don't worry. You have time.
I let the heavy door swing shut.

“Julia, wait, waaaait …” I scream, but it's pointless. “Goddamn it.” She's barreling across a grassy mound toward an elaborate wooden labyrinth of layers to climb and explore. It has swinging bridges and watchtowers and secret passages and a sandbox. The village of New Paltz presents an impressive castellum compared to the bland iron relics on our playground at 97th in Riverside Park. She is barely in sight. Ricky has accelerated his gait to catch up with her. We want to encourage Julia to walk rather than push her in a stroller, but she's impossible to hold onto. She won't clutch a hand; she refuses to stay close. There is no duckling instinct. As soon as her little feet hit the ground, she takes off. Strangers may think it's cute—a little girl embracing her “terrible twos”—but Ricky and I know something is wrong. At this age, most children will stretch their wings to a point, but they retract when they instinctively know they've crossed an invisible line. Julia doesn't do this. She's deaf to our frightened pleas. Indifferent to our distress. She has none of her own when she separates from us. I have come to believe there is something intentional about this behavior because she does it every time. Although she is not intellectually calculating this maneuver, I think subconsciously she's trying to say,
See, I'm in control. You can't get near me.

The other day she and I were at Barnes & Noble. I was trying to read to her, but as always she was disinterested and wandered away. I got up to follow her, expecting to find her ducking behind by the shelves—not hide-and-seek but the usual taunt. She wasn't there or seemingly anywhere within thirty feet. My heart started racing. I looked around and headed toward the center of the store. I gasped when I saw her teetering at the top of a steeply declining eighty-foot-long escalator that drops to the first floor. I wasn't sure what to do. If I called out her name it might propel her to take a fatal step forward, and if she did that, she'd certainly tumble to her death. As I neared the escalator, I saw other patrons closing in on her. The whole place seemed to freeze, and then in a surreal slomo moment, I snatched the back of her T-shirt and pulled her away from the precipice. She fell on her bottom and looked stunned, but she didn't cry. I grabbed her arm roughly and sat on the ground. The room spun. I was dizzy. I put my head in my hands. I thought I was going to pass out, but a few people gathered around me and asked me if I was all right, if I needed some water. I said I was okay. I felt embarrassed, though to these bystanders I probably looked like an action hero in a Hollywood movie. I suppressed the urge to cry until we got outside, and then I sobbed the whole way home while I wheeled her in her stroller.

Ricky's out of sight but I hear him screaming, “Stop, Julia, stop!” Five minutes later I'm cresting the hill. I see the sun-flaming orange dot that is Julia's dress and the top of my heroic husband's head bopping and weaving as he spots her on the jungle gym. I often wonder, with horror, what it would be like to be a single parent with a child like Julia. I think about Jo, who traveled with us in Russia, a single mother of two internationally adopted children.

The playground is filled with what Ricky and I call
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
children. Blond and shaggy, they look slightly wild and unshackled compared to their Upper West Side counterparts. It's probably just an illusion in this border-confined, hyperparenting universe, but these
children look like little hippies in tie-dye from the local Groovy Blueberry and little Birkenstock-type sandals. Mom, who's fortysomething, keeps her gray hair natural. Dad's got a goatee and an earring.

Julia is in the sandbox, which is six feet from where I am sitting. She's commandeered some kid's pail and she's making sand pies. Ricky is dutifully attentive.

A woman sits next to me. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand and smiles at me.

“Is she yours?”

“Yes,” I say, while I hear the voice inside my head that says,
Not really.

“She's adorable.

“Thanks. We're visiting.”

“Where are you from?”

“The city.”

It is understood what city I'm referring to.

The playground patter begins, though it's not the usual chore because I'm interested in her story. She and her husband are Brooklyn transplants. They came to New Paltz, a hip college town two hours north of Manhattan, three years ago after the birth of their first baby. They have two now, and for a while her husband commuted to the city, but a year ago they started making and packaging granola. Now they are building a business that is thriving, thanks, in part, to the great support she's had from local vendors.

“Wow,” I say, thinking how wholesome it all sounds. “Was it hard to leave Brooklyn? Do you miss it?”

“It was difficult at first; we were definitely scared,” she said. “But it's been fantastic. This is a great town. We've made good friends. The kids are happy. Here, wait, let me write down my number. If you come up this way again, give me a call. And check out our granola. The bakery sells it.”

I say good-bye and drift over to Ricky and Julia.

“How's she doing?” I ask.

“Great. She likes this place.”

“So do I. I just met the nicest woman. Let's get some lunch. It's getting late.”

We choose a busy bistro on Main Street. I lay the menu on the table.

“What?” I say. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“What way? I'm not looking at you any way. What are you having? What is Julia having?”

“I'll have eggs. I'll get her yogurt and fruit.”

Despite the fact that I've practically written in blood that I will never leave Manhattan's hallowed ground, Ricky knows I'm weakening. He's aware my love affair with Manhattan has dimmed since 9/11. I'm hankering for change, but I'm too scared to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else. So he bides his time, waiting, like the patient saint that he is, for me to let go.