A Perfect Match Page 23

  ‘Your brother just called to tell me he’s engaged. I presume you knew about this, but decided to say nothing.’

  ‘He told me last week, when we were in London, but it wasn’t up to me to tell you, Mum. It’s his news, not mine.’

  ‘I suppose the wedding will be in Iran and we’ll all have to be covered from head to toe in black sheets and eat sheep’s brains for dinner.’

  ‘As far as I know they’re thinking of getting married in some little country village in Cornwall, where Shadee used to go on holidays.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with getting married in a little village in Ireland? Not good enough for them, is it?’

  ‘Why don’t you call Sean and discuss it with him?’

  ‘What type of ceremony will it be? Muslim, I suppose. Oh, she may say she’s not practising, but, mark my words, when push comes to shove the Muslim in her will come out. They’ll make him convert, they’re a persuasive lot. He’ll be a Muslim and then my little grandchildren will be Muslims too. We’ll never get to see them because her family won’t want us trying to convert them. What did I do to deserve this? Joan Cantrell from the bridge club told me only last week that she saw a documentary on Iran or Iraq – she couldn’t remember exactly – but anyway the men treat the women like dirt she said. The girls can’t go to school or be educated or anything. I don’t want my grandchildren brought up in that kind of world …’ said Mum, beginning to sniffle.

  ‘For goodness sake, do you honestly think if they treat women that badly that Shadee will want to go anywhere near the place?’ I snapped.

  ‘She’s used to it, so she’d think it was normal.’

  ‘She’s a maths teacher, for God’s sake. She went to school and college in England, why the hell would she want to go back to that? Jesus, Mum, listen to yourself.’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to take my head off. You’re very grumpy today. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Let’s see now. Could it be because I’m waiting to hear back from the agency about matching us up with a baby? Every time the phone rings I stop breathing because I think it might be Alexander and he’s found us a child. But instead I pick up the phone and it’s you giving me an earful about Sean’s wedding. Not my wedding, not my problem. Call Sean and do not ring me again unless it is to lend me your support or ask me how things are going in my life. I am sick to death of discussing Babs and Sean with you. Now go and torment someone else.’

  ‘Emma!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was the ring nice?’

  ‘Stunning. Goodbye.’

  For the next three weeks I turned into Dougal in the Magic Roundabout. I literally ran around in circles. I stood in supermarkets staring at the shelves, with no idea why I had come in or what I wanted to buy. I consulted with brides-to-be about their wedding make-up, not hearing a word they were saying while I stared at my phone, willing it to ring. I bought baby clothes and then returned them to the shop because I was scared of tempting fate. I walked around with a knot in my chest and sometimes I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. I limited myself to calling Alexander every two days to ask, in my now desperate voice, why he hadn’t matched us up yet. He told me to be patient. I refrained from telling him to shove his advice up his arse. Patient – I had been told to be patient when I was trying to get pregnant. I had been told to be patient when I was on the fertility drugs, when we were on the adoption list, when we were on the course, when we were waiting for the Home Study approval and now while we were waiting to be matched. I was sick and tired of being told to be patient.

  I couldn’t sleep because I was so wound up about the baby, so I decided to paint the smaller spare bedroom – which was going to be the nursery. I thought a neutral green would be nice, but then I decided yellow would be better. Then I thought maybe lilac, but lilac was a bit girly and we didn’t know what sex the baby would be. I went back to the paint shop five times. The owner thought I was on some very strange drugs. James spent a lot of time avoiding me and occasionally tried to talk to me and calm me down. One night at four in the morning he woke up to a crash and a shriek. I had been on the step ladder, painting the top half of the wall yellow – I had finally settled on yellow – when I’d lost my balance, possibly due to exhaustion and sleep deprivation. I had fallen down bringing the paint pot with me and when James opened the door I was lying on the ground covered in yellow paint.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Do I look all right?’

  James pulled me up and helped me out of my paint-sodden clothes. He then led me to the shower and went to make tea and toast while I tried to scrub the paint out of my hair. When I came out of the shower, he was sitting on the bed with a tray on his lap. He handed me a hot cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast.

  ‘Darling, you have to calm down. You need to get some rest. The painting can wait.’

  ‘I can’t sleep. I tried, but I can’t. Every time I close my eyes I see disfigured children or filthy orphanages with babies covered in sores. I’m terrified of being matched with a sick child and not being able to say no, because they’ve got no one else.’

  ‘Emma,’ said James sternly, ‘you don’t have to worry about that, because I will say no. We agreed not to take on a sick child and we are not going to change our minds on that – no matter what.’

  ‘But what if it’s the sweetest little girl you ever saw who has Aids. We could help her. I just want the waiting to be over, it’s killing me.’

  ‘Emma, we are not knowingly going to take on a child with Aids. We’re first-time adopters, with no real idea what the experience is going to be like. It’s our first experience of parenthood and we need to keep it as straightforward as possible for the child’s sake as much as for ours. I understand that the waiting is frustrating, I’m finding it difficult too, but we just have to keep busy and try to distract ourselves.’

  ‘That’s what I was trying to do tonight.’

  ‘Not at four in the morning. You need to get some sleep. You’ll be no use to anyone, least of all a baby, if you’re exhausted. Now come on, into bed. The painting can wait until tomorrow,’ he said, putting down the tray and tucking me in.

  ‘James?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think I should have gone with the green?’

  ‘No. The yellow is perfect.’

  ‘Would you have liked a yellow bedroom?’

  ‘I would have loved it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then how come your bedroom in your parents’ house is blue?’ ‘Emma!’

  ‘Shut up?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  With Lucy’s wedding looming, I met up with her and Jess for a catch up and full analysis of dresses, shoes, menus, etc. I arrived looking like I’d been dragged through a bush backwards. I hadn’t slept properly in three weeks, I felt sick all the time, I was too distracted to care about my appearance and, at thirty-six, it shows.

  ‘Hi,’ said Lucy, hugging me. ‘How are you? How’s it all going?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, attempting a smile. ‘Still waiting by the phone, still no news.’

  ‘You look a bit worn out, are you OK?’ asked Jess.

  ‘Not sleeping very well. I’m lucky if I get three hours on the trot,’ I sighed.

  ‘Well, it’s good training for when the baby comes,’ said Jess.

  ‘Good point,’ I said, smiling. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. No wonder they say the ideal age to have children physically is sixteen. You don’t need eight hours’ sleep at sixteen. At our age you bloody well do. Look at the state of me. One look at me and the baby will refuse to be matched with us.’

  ‘Hey, you look fine. Nothing a day at a spa won’t cure,’ said Lucy. ‘Which, it so happens, is exactly what I have planned for us next week. I don’t want any mention of any hen party. If I see one of those wind up, back-flipping willies I’ll scream. So I’ve booked us all a day’s pampering at the Blue Lagoon Spa in Wicklow. Facials, mass
ages, reflexology – the works.’

  ‘Oh God, Lucy, that sounds amazing,’ I said, thinking the masseuse would have her work cut out trying to get the knots out of my back. ‘Now, on to more important things, have you sorted out your dress?’

  ‘Well, you know the way I was in New York recently with work?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jess and I in unison.

  ‘I popped my head into Vera Wang. Just for a look you understand, and, sure, while I was there it would have been rude not to try some of the dresses on, so I did. And the fourth one I tried on was it – the perfect dress. So I bought it and it’s stunning, if I say so myself,’ she said, beaming.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘you’re going to look fabulous.’

  ‘How’s your mother?’ asked Jess.

  Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Usual nightmare. She’s now bought three outfits for the wedding – each more over the top than the next. And then she called me last night to tell me that it still wasn’t too late to back out and there were plenty more “suitable fish in the sea”. When I told her I was going ahead with the wedding, she told me the invitations looked cheap, the wine we’ve chosen is second class and we have to change the menu because she doesn’t like smoked salmon.’

  ‘Oh God, Lucy, I thought mine was bad. What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing. I just said I’d look into it and I hung up. I’ll just avoid her calls and hope she doesn’t cause a scene on the day.’

  ‘Speaking of weddings, what’s Sean planning?’ asked Jess.

  ‘If he’s any sense he’ll go to Las Vegas and get married there without any family or fuss. Between her family and ours, they’re never going to win. He’s really happy though and she’s a lovely girl.’

  ‘How’s Babs’s nose?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘Small. I think it looks weird, but she’s delighted with it.’

  ‘She was very funny on the show,’ said Jess.

  ‘Don’t tell her that. She’s been offered an audition to do some presenting job on some satellite channel in England. I think it’s a shopping channel or one of those crappy ones, but needless to say she thinks she’s a TV star now. If she gets it, she’ll be insufferable. Sean –’

  My mobile rang. I dove into my bag to answer it. It was Alexander, he sounded very pleased with himself. I held my breath – he had a match. I burst into tears as the girls joined in and hugged me. Then I raced down to the training ground to find James. I drove like a maniac; my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t change the gear stick, so I drove at fifty miles an hour in first gear. James heard the car screeching into the car park and looked out his office window. He saw me staggering out of the car, half crying, half laughing. He ran down to meet me.

  ‘What happened?’

  I had managed to keep some small semblance of control until I saw James and then I fell apart completely. I sobbed into his shoulder.

  ‘Alexander called. They’ve matched us up,’ I wailed.

  ‘But that’s wonderful’ said James, wiping my tears.

  ‘It’s a little boy, James. He’s ten months old and his name is … uh uh uh,’ I sobbed. ‘His name is Yuri, like in Doctor Zhivago. It’s fate, James. It’s fate.’

  32

  Alexander said he was Fed-Exing us a video and medical summary of Yuri the next morning. I paraded up and down the road two days later looking for the postman and when I caught sight of him, strolling along, I charged over to him and started rifling through his bag. The poor man nearly died of fright. Granted, he probably thought he was being attacked by a recent lunatic asylum escapee. I had a mad glint in my eye, was wearing yellow paint-splattered pyjamas and my hair was standing in independent wiry tufts. When Postman Pat eventually managed to explain to me that he didn’t deliver the couriered post, I helped him pick up the letters I had flung across the footpath in my eagerness to find my video. As I tried to explain to him that I was normally quite rational, but I was waiting on some very important documents, he just nodded and backed away from me slowly. I went home and sat by the window waiting for the Fed-Ex van.

  Alexander had said that Yuri was blond and brown-eyed and very healthy and very beautiful. James was a bit sceptical when I told him and was waiting to make up his own mind when he saw the video.

  ‘Now, Emma,’ he said to me when I came back from postman stalking. ‘Don’t get too excited until we see the video. This may not be the right match for us.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course it is. His name’s Yuri, it’s fate.’

  ‘Half the boys in the bloody country are probably called Yuri. It’s not fate, it’s just a coincidence. We need to wait and see the video and medical records before jumping in.’

  I nodded. There was no point arguing. He could call it coincidence, but I knew fate when I saw it. Yuri was going to be perfect. I could feel it in my bones. Five long hours and ten bitten nails later, the Fed-Ex van pulled up outside the house. I sprinted out to sign for the package. My hands were trembling as I put it down on the table. James, who was only marginally calmer that I was at this stage, opened it and put the video into the recorder.

  ‘Wait,’ I shouted, as he was about to press play.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Unless he’s really badly damaged or sick I want to keep him.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll keep an open mind.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I love you,’ I said, gulping back tears.

  ‘I love you too,’ he said, squeezing my hand as he pressed play.

  A very small, pale boy with sandy-coloured hair and enormous brown eyes stared at us. He looked very young and very frail. He did nothing for a few seconds and then someone began to talk to him and he looked up. He frowned and then after a few more seconds, slowly began to smile. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless and in that instant I fell in love for the second time in my life. I was afraid to look at James. I knew he was wondering about how small Yuri seemed for a ten month old. We sat in silence as we watched Yuri playing with a little furry dog. He seemed a very serious child. Just as the video ended, someone began to play some music and his ears pricked up as he crawled over to listen, smiling to himself.

  We sat in silence. For once I didn’t know what to say and I was terrified of what James was going to say. I knew what I wanted, but I had to let James make up his own mind. I couldn’t try to sway his decision. Finally, after what seemed like for ever, he spoke.

  ‘Yuri Daniel Hamilton. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’

  ‘James! Really? Are you sure? Daniel after my Dad? Oh my God, James, we’re going to be parents,’ I squealed, as I threw my arms around him.

  ‘Well, we need the paediatrician to look at the video and to review the medical records, but he looks healthy enough to me,’ said James, looking shaken but very happy. ‘Christ, I need a drink. Come on, put your shoes on, we’re going to the pub.’

  The next day we were in Doctor Liz Costello’s surgery and she was reviewing the video. I listened closely as she talked us through the tape.

  ‘Ten fingers and toes … head circumference proportional to body … responds well when spoken to … seems very alert … good movement, good muscle mass … no signs of discomfort when he crawls … good response to music …’

  After she had looked over the medical records, she told us that as far as she was concerned he seemed like a healthy young boy. He was small for his age, but a lot of children who had been institutionalized were underweight. His senses seemed to be in good working order and he seemed very alert.

  ‘It’s impossible to say for definite from looking at a five-minute video if this child is perfectly healthy. As you know there is a leap of faith involved here. But from what I can see, this little boy seems in good health.’

  We left on a high. Yuri was going to be our son. We were going to be his parents. After three long years, we were going to have a baby. We rang Alexan
der and told him we were happy to travel to Russia to meet Yuri and then officially accept the referral. He said we needed to book flights to Moscow and he would sort out the transfer details, set up a visit to the children’s home and have a translator waiting to meet us. If everything went according to plan, he would then try to organize a court date for us as soon after our visit as possible, but it could take up to a month, he warned us. We should apply for a visa now, he said. It took two weeks to process the visas, so we should aim to be ready to travel in three weeks’ time.

  I called Mum next and she came straight over to see the video.

  ‘Oh, is that him?’ she asked, as she stared at the only child on the screen.

  ‘Yes, isn’t he beautiful?’ I answered dreamily. ‘I think he looks like James.’

  Mum looked at me as if I were mad. ‘He looks nothing like him, but he is a sweet little thing. Very small though? Is he sickly?’

  ‘No. The paediatrician said he’s fine.’

  ‘Looks very small to me.’

  ‘They’re all small for their age.’

  ‘Seems a sad little fellow.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect; he’s been locked up in an institution for the past nine and a half months after his mother abandoned him. He’s hardly going to be back-flipping across the orphanage singing “When Irish Eyes are Smiling”, now, is he?’

  ‘I suppose not. Still, the Russians can be a melancholy lot. You wouldn’t want a depressed little baby.’

  ‘He’s not depressed, look, he’s smiling.’

  ‘Ah yes, he looks better when he smiles, less wan.’

  ‘Everyone looks better when they smile.’

  ‘He’s definitely all right? No hidden diseases?’

  ‘Not that we know of, but you can never be one hundred per cent sure when you’re adopting. You just have to trust your instincts. He’s going to be your grandson, so you better be nice about him and you better smother him with love.’

  ‘I’ll love him more than if he was your own flesh and blood. Sure, he’s a little dote. I’m just being cautious for you. Oh, look, he likes music. Well, that’s a good sign. He might end up being a famous musician, or a ballet dancer like that Rudolph Nureven.’