“SO . . . SHE’S FINE?” I ask. “I can see her?”
“All of Callie’s treatments are closed to friends and family,” Jane says. “You know that, Lorna.”
Right. I do. Because of “the rules.”
So, pretty much right after the babies were brought back from the Arctic, the government came up with a guide for adoptive families about the care and treatment of Arctic Recovery Orphans. Some of the more memorable selections are as follows:
-To ease the transition to American culture, and to ensure companionship, only those adoptive parent(s) with at least one existing biological child no more than one year older than the Arctic Recovery Orphans (AROs) are eligible to participate in the Arctic Recovery Orphan Adoption Program (AROAP).
-Before taking AROs on extended (three days or longer) trips or vacations, doctors and caseworkers must give medical clearance and assign in-network care providers in areas of travel, in case of emergencies.
-All adoptive parents must sign a medical waiver stating that the government-appointed caseworker—not the adoptive parents/legal guardians—will serve as medical proxy and/or in loco parentis decision-maker regarding all medical issues and emergencies.
-Make sure AROs stay hydrated, as they will easily become dehydrated, exhibiting such symptoms as fatigue, jaundiced and flaky skin, and a generally depressed disposition.
-Conniptions are common and expected in AROs. Conniptions, however, should always be reported. Not all conniptions are alike, but common symptoms are as follows:
And then there’s this particularly instructive section:
-To prevent any ARO from becoming the topic of gossip or conjecture among curious, confused, or otherwise uncouth strangers, be up front about who the ARO is and where he or she comes from. Inform interlopers that your adopted child is an ARO and is therefore a victim of trauma. Inform them that even though your adopted child cannot speak, they are nevertheless a human being and should be treated thusly. [I can never tell if this one should freak me out, or if I should be glad that someone came up with the idea to dole out a polite, reasonable line to use in these uncomfortable but inevitable situations. Although referring to everyone else as “interlopers” is really weird, and also, you wonder what had to happen for someone to come up with this idea/polite line in the first place. Right?]
-Sunlight is a must! [I’m kidding. I think. Although there is another pamphlet, and it says something like “AROs require plenty of personal space and privacy—the same amount as your biological child—and a private bedroom with access to windows. And also, please have a garden.”]
-All Arctic Recovery Orphans must attend monthly medical check-ups at their designated hospitals. Friends and family members are strictly forbidden in the exam room during check-ups.
So, yeah, Jane. I know the rules. And I want to see my sister.
“Most of these rules seem just as arbitrary to me as they do to you,” says Jane unconvincingly. “But we do need to follow them. Though, honestly, you probably know more about the history behind those rules than many of my colleagues.” She means because of my parents. “When your father found those poor babies . . .”
Yes, Jane, I know.
But I like the way I tell it better. It’s the 1990s, and it’s very cold. My mom and dad are part of a university-funded expedition, but my mom can’t make this particular trip due to me being a baby that she just had. And so! It is very cold in the Arctic, on their ship, en route to this remote Arctic island that has been exhibiting some completely bizarre seismic activity. Suddenly, off the portside bow, a crew member spots another ship. They try to signal to it; it doesn’t respond. My dad and a couple of others board the ship, and they find it completely abandoned. Except for hundreds of infants, who happen to be totally and completely silent, just huddled there with no parental supervision or guidance, just a bunch of really quiet and totally alone babies, on an abandoned ship, in the middle of the Arctic.
So my dad and his team haul the babies on board. And then, as if this day wasn’t already full of sadness, most of the babies end up dying. From the state and style of the boat, the scientists deduce that it probably came from some Balkan state and that someone had hurried all of the babies into it before pushing it off to sea in some desperate attempt to give them a fighting chance at a life. But that’s just conjecture. I guess wherever they came from was a place that was already full to the brim with some fate worse than death at sea. Because whatever’s happening around you that makes you think putting a hundred babies into a boat and setting it adrift, unmanned, into the sea . . . whatever makes you think that that is the safest alternative . . . whatever that is must be horrifying.
And so my dad and his team shelter and feed and care for the babies that live. And soon they notice that something seems off. Though they seem to be able to see and hear, and they understand what food is, and they understand blankets, they don’t react to normal stimuli. Other than some screams, they’re basically totally silent. Which to me and based on what I know about babies doesn’t seem so odd, but to these scientists it was something worth getting alarmed about.
So Dad alerts the sponsors of the university-funded expedition, and he wrangles permission to bring the babies to the United States, where they will be processed into adoptive families that meet a very specific set of requirements, some of which we’ve already discussed.
Jane is still going on with her version of the story, but I think she’s wrapping it up. She gives a heavy sigh and tells me Callie will be right out, and then she is, escorted by a familiar-looking doctor in a lab coat that matches Jane’s. I want to say bye to Stan, but I also can’t tell if we’re not supposed to know about each other. So what I do is I text Stan: stan it’s lorna. this is me saying goodbye, like a spy, because of jane. i hope ted’s ok. :/ Stan almost looks up at me, but instead he makes a small smile and texts back: Good thinking. We r real spies now. And thanks. Me too.
And then there’s Callie.
I almost feel bad about throwing my arms around her in front of Stan, considering all he’s maybe had to deal with. But I do anyway, I hug her close, and I smile, and I feel her hug me back a bit too. Which is not her usual thing, but man, it is nice right now.
I put my arm around her shoulder and say, “How are things, kid sister?” She sort of looks ahead, and her face doesn’t look too sad, or too hurt, and I smile at her, and we make tracks to the door, which will lead us to the parking lot, wherein is parked the car, which will take us home.
I look over at Stan, who has to wait around for Ted a while longer. He waves, like It’s fine to go, don’t wait up for me, is how I choose to interpret that. As we’re heading to the door, I hear Jane say, “Ted’ll be with you in a moment, Stan. We gave him a little something to cool him down a bit, nothing to worry about.” I look back at Stan one last time before we push through the doors, and from the look on his face, this is not the first time that a conversation with Jane about Ted has ended this way.
Only about a mile into our journey, it starts to rain.
“It’s raining,” I tell Callie. I glance at her and watch my words wash over her like the rain does over us, here, now, in the car, just gliding off and sliding to the floor in a puddle to be stepped in.