them had expected this sort of thing from the Russians. They’d expected, maybe, searchlights and vodka bottles and barbed wire and an unfriendly, militaristic citizenry—although, in truth, they’d not even gotten that far in their imaginings. Had Eric and Holly even believed that Russia, that Siberia , existed until they were in it? Hadn’t they thought that the adoption agency was just being descriptive, calling it “Siberia”—which to Holly had always been a way to describe a place, not an actual place. She’d perhaps actually thought, even as the adoption agency arranged plane tickets for them, that by “Siberia” they just meant “off the beaten track” or “desolate.” Not that the orphanage was actually in Siberia.
But it was Siberia they found themselves in. Siberia existed. There were vodka bottles and searchlights and barbed wire, as Holly had expected, and there were women wearing babushkas, wagons full of straw, grim men in uniforms, some beautiful young girls with fur hats—none of which surprised her. Although Holly was surprised by everything else. Everything. And, particularly, the superstition. At the Pokrovka Orphanage #2 the babies had coughs and fevers, so the nurses had asked Holly and Eric to wear cloves of garlic around their necks. They’d handed Holly and Eric actual cloves of garlic dangling from pieces of gray twine. To ward off germs? Or . . . ?
In any other place, Holly would have balked, but, inside Pokrovka Orphanage #2, she slipped the garlic over her head happily, gratefully. She would have done anything at that moment—opened a vein, gorged on ashes, pledged her soul to Satan—to hold this baby they’d come all this way to hold.
Whose name would certainly not be Sally. Holly and Eric had known all along that they would call her Tatiana. It meant fairy queen in Russian.
Baby Tatty.
“THIS IS THE baby,” a nurse said, appearing suddenly in a doorway. Holly had expected an hour of paperwork first, or a long walk through a corridor. She’d pictured herself and Eric standing behind a vault door while a guard twisted a lock. Instead, they’d no sooner slipped the necklaces of garlic over their heads and sat down in the waiting room than they heard the words, heavily accented but in a musically feminine voice: This is the baby.
Holly had looked up to the open door to find that an astonishing amount of light was pouring from a window, or from a great wall of windows, somewhere behind that nurse, and the nurse’s hair, pale and cut close to her head, was glowing like a halo. That nurse (whom they never saw again, although they asked to) had a cherubic face, a stunning smile—straight teeth and glistening lips. She could have stepped off a cloud or out of a movie screen, bearing this child. She could have passed for any number of supernatural beings—angel, fairy, goddess—or an actress hired to play the part of one that day. It was hard to look away from her face, to look at what she was holding in her arms.
Eric always claimed that Tatty had been wrapped in a blue blanket, but Holly knew she hadn’t. Their daughter had been wrapped in a dirty-gray blanket, and it had looked to Holly as if the sun were trying to launder it, bleach it white, bless it. The sun was trying to make the baby shine. The sun wanted Holly to love the child, to take pity on her, to take her home. The sun couldn’t have known that no effort on its part was needed for that. Looking from the nurse’s face to the baby wrapped in gray in her arms, it was all Holly could do not to fall to her knees, not to cry aloud. Instead, she grabbed Eric so hard that, later, walking away from their first trip to the orphanage, they would laugh that she’d left him battered and bruised—and, in fact, she had. When Eric took off his shirt that night they saw that he had a purple mark in the shape of a small conch shell just above his elbow.
When the nurse had stepped fully into the room, Holly stood,
But it was Siberia they found themselves in. Siberia existed. There were vodka bottles and searchlights and barbed wire, as Holly had expected, and there were women wearing babushkas, wagons full of straw, grim men in uniforms, some beautiful young girls with fur hats—none of which surprised her. Although Holly was surprised by everything else. Everything. And, particularly, the superstition. At the Pokrovka Orphanage #2 the babies had coughs and fevers, so the nurses had asked Holly and Eric to wear cloves of garlic around their necks. They’d handed Holly and Eric actual cloves of garlic dangling from pieces of gray twine. To ward off germs? Or . . . ?
In any other place, Holly would have balked, but, inside Pokrovka Orphanage #2, she slipped the garlic over her head happily, gratefully. She would have done anything at that moment—opened a vein, gorged on ashes, pledged her soul to Satan—to hold this baby they’d come all this way to hold.
Whose name would certainly not be Sally. Holly and Eric had known all along that they would call her Tatiana. It meant fairy queen in Russian.
Baby Tatty.
“THIS IS THE baby,” a nurse said, appearing suddenly in a doorway. Holly had expected an hour of paperwork first, or a long walk through a corridor. She’d pictured herself and Eric standing behind a vault door while a guard twisted a lock. Instead, they’d no sooner slipped the necklaces of garlic over their heads and sat down in the waiting room than they heard the words, heavily accented but in a musically feminine voice: This is the baby.
Holly had looked up to the open door to find that an astonishing amount of light was pouring from a window, or from a great wall of windows, somewhere behind that nurse, and the nurse’s hair, pale and cut close to her head, was glowing like a halo. That nurse (whom they never saw again, although they asked to) had a cherubic face, a stunning smile—straight teeth and glistening lips. She could have stepped off a cloud or out of a movie screen, bearing this child. She could have passed for any number of supernatural beings—angel, fairy, goddess—or an actress hired to play the part of one that day. It was hard to look away from her face, to look at what she was holding in her arms.
Eric always claimed that Tatty had been wrapped in a blue blanket, but Holly knew she hadn’t. Their daughter had been wrapped in a dirty-gray blanket, and it had looked to Holly as if the sun were trying to launder it, bleach it white, bless it. The sun was trying to make the baby shine. The sun wanted Holly to love the child, to take pity on her, to take her home. The sun couldn’t have known that no effort on its part was needed for that. Looking from the nurse’s face to the baby wrapped in gray in her arms, it was all Holly could do not to fall to her knees, not to cry aloud. Instead, she grabbed Eric so hard that, later, walking away from their first trip to the orphanage, they would laugh that she’d left him battered and bruised—and, in fact, she had. When Eric took off his shirt that night they saw that he had a purple mark in the shape of a small conch shell just above his elbow.
When the nurse had stepped fully into the room, Holly stood,