From Chapter Nine, “Do Not Pass Go”

Marc and I have been called to Ukraine on a moment's notice to meet a little girl about whom we can know – legally – nothing. Abe, the director of our adoption agency in Chicago, comes with us to make sure the process works as planned. But the director of the orphanage in Odessa, where the child lives, refuses to let us meet her. The director insists that a Ukrainian couple is interested in adopting the child who has been referred to us. Our Ukrainian facilitator, Alexi, tries his best to persuade her to relent.

The receptionist comes back and tells us curtly that the director is still at lunch. We may wait outside until she returns.

We sit on a bench in some nominal shade in the weed-choked lot, looking at each other. “Crikeys!” says Abe, looking from one to the other of us, his eyes wide. “I'm sorry, guys. This isn't what I expected.” Marc and I start to feel numb. We are not used to being this passive, this powerless. Just tell us what to do.

Small voices drift from the old low buildings, but no one comes out into the yard.

Across the street from the orphanage is some kind of religious order, hidden behind high stuccoed walls. Women cover their heads when they walk through the double wooden doors that face the street. Bells toll every fifteen minutes. No breeze stirs the weeds.

After two tollings of the bells, Alexi goes back inside. He is gone for awhile. Abe is reading Stalingrad . Marc and I haven't brought anything to read. We had thought we would be playing with the little girl. Alexi comes back out, and penetrates our gathering stupor. “She will see us now. Come. We can meet the director.”

We are expecting Dr. Christina. She will like us, we know. We love Dr. Christina. She will be impressed with our education, our resources, our earnestness, our life's work. She will recognize us as kindred spirits. She will give us this child.

The woman who steps out from behind the desk in her large, comfortable office is no Dr. Christina. She is in her late forties, curvaceous but trim, dressed in a clingy flowered black and white chiffon dress, sleeveless, v-necked, with a kicky ruffled skirt. A party dress. Her mid-length hair is dyed jet black and teased into a nouveau bouffant. Her large dark eyes are rimmed heavily with black mascara and liner, frosty white shadow on the lids. Her lips – caked with orange lipstick that exceeds their natural boundaries all around – are set in what looks like a permanent sneer. She flicks her eyes in our direction once, then homes in on Alexi. Svieta translates for us.

“These people” – the Ukrainian couple – “really exist,” she insists coldly.

She is furious with him. He has let it be known that he thinks she has invented this couple.

“They have been visiting this child regularly for about six months. They are about to make a decision.”

“Who are they?” Alexi demands. “You must prove that they exist.”

“I do not have to prove anything to you!” she snarls. “I have to prove only to Kiev, and they know.”

“They don't know anything about this couple.”

“They know now.”

Alexi tries another tack. “Can we just see this child now, so that, if the Ukrainian couple decides no, this couple will have met the child?”

“No. She is not available.”

This woman is like dry ice. I have never seen anything colder.

“I do have some other little girls who will be available in a few months. Perhaps your couple would like to meet one of them.”

We are dismayed. A few months? We dropped everything to come here to adopt a child who is available now . In a few months we will have moved, everything will have changed!

“I have one little girl who is not bad. Some eye problems. Perhaps they would like to meet her. She is available in September, I think. She is not bad.”

We will meet this little girl. First, Alexi wants to nail down the process with the director. She is going on vacation for two weeks tomorrow. Who will make decisions in her place? How long will we wait for the Ukrainian couple to make up their mind? They are haggling over these questions as we are ushered out of the office and back into the dusty yard.

We wait for a few minutes until Alexi joins us. “Let us meet this little girl. This is not going to be your child, but let us meet her. It is part of the game.”

We walk into the long low building that has been emitting child sounds. Two young women meet us with polite smiles. A doctor and a social worker. Please sit here in this office. We will bring in the child.

We perch on the edge of our seats.