Grant freezes. You’re a liar, he writes. But he doesn’t press send. What if he makes the Sender mad? What if…?

Then he hears the soft click of the back door, which is directly under his room. He looks out the window and sees his sister heading out into the darkened greenbelt.

13

From Iris Pollitt’s “From Russia with Love” Adoption Journal

2002

My earlier entries have outlined all the paperwork we did—financial reports and assessments, the six home studies performed by a consultant, with results sent to Russia, the endless background checks. I was supposed to list every house I’d lived in, when my mom and I moved around a lot—yet I found them all, although my mother thought adopting from a foreign country was vaguely unpatriotic. (You’ll read this one day, baby, and I want you to know your gammy loves you; it’s just how she was.) I listed them on the form, the original, which I kept in pristine condition, working my notes up on printed copies because I lived in mortal terror I’d make a mistake on the submitted form—and that means I’d never get to meet you or be your mom. Our family’s finances were exhaustively chronicled—I even had to list the small trust set up for Julia by Kyle’s parents when she was born. I’m surprised they didn’t ask how much loose change was in Kyle’s pockets or between the sofa cushions.

Everything notarized, everything “apostilled” (my new word, which rules my life—apostilles authenticate the seals and signatures on birth certificates, court orders, or any other document issued by a public authority so that they can be recognized in foreign countries). The Russians, and Danielle, insist on all this. The stakes are high: if we take one misstep in authentication, we could lose our chance to have you…wherever you are.

Everything proper and done right.

I have a binder of notes, of forms, of checklists. It is like having a second job. You’ll appreciate this when it’s time for school reports. (Ask me for help, not Dad.)

SO I’d finished going through today’s paperwork TO BE YOUR MOM when Danielle’s unexpectedly at our front door, telling me THEY’VE FOUND YOU for us. (My penmanship is a little shaky right now. I just realized they don’t teach cursive anymore. Will you be able to read this? Oh, the thoughts I have on a day like today.)

But they don’t say “We found your child.” They say “We have sent you a referral.” This is what I know about you:

You are a boy, Alexander Borisovich Stepurin. Danielle had warned us to not specifically ask for a certain gender, and we truly didn’t care, but I am secretly a little pleased. I always wanted a girl AND a boy, but I never said it aloud. This is a good omen.