I tried to pull myself together. I could sense that Gregory was angry. We promised to see each other early the next morning. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Gregory turned violently to me.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing, Emma?”
“Listen, I have nothing against your parents, but I think it’s a little early for the boys—they’re not ready to meet the family.”
“It’s your fault if they don’t know how to socialize. Look at what you’ve become. You need to get help, Emma, because this will not do.”
I waved a hand to let him know I didn’t feel like fighting. The wine had gone to my head, and I decided to go to bed as well.
As soon as his parents left Toronto, I knew Gregory would pick up the debate right where he’d left off. Nonetheless, the remainder of their visit went well. My in-laws made the return trip between their hotel and our house each day, and we were able to stroll around the neighbourhood with them. The boys were generally good with their grandparents, but I got the feeling Monique and André left disappointed.
I resented their small-mindedness. Our children were different, but every day I saw more indications of exceptional personalities. It was with this mindset that I agreed to meet with a support group, thinking that if my children were to reach their full potential, I might need a hand, just as Gregory thought.
During the adoption process, we'd been given a number of pamphlets, among which was one for the APAR, the Association of Parents Adopting in Russia. The irony of the acronym made me laugh. The building in which APAR held their meetings was in the very heart of Trinity Bellwoods Park. It was very close to the house, so I could walk there. I planned to play in the park with the children after the meeting.
A long ramp provided access downstairs to the main room for wheelchairs and strollers. The incline was steep and the weight of the Phil & Teds stroller dragged me perilously forward.
“Let me help you!” offered a blond woman approaching at a run.
As she held the stroller, the woman introduced herself, welcomed me, and complimented me on my beautiful boys. I released the twins and parked the Phil & Teds in a corner with the others. Feeling out of place, I kept my distance for a moment.
Some effort had gone into livening up the room with craft tables and coloured rugs, but the space was no less dour. Vanya and Daniil right away spotted a wading pool filled with plastic balls and made their way clamorously to it.
A number of mothers stood next to the coffee table, chatting. I moved discreetly into the group, clutching my polystyrene cup. Snippets of conversation drifted out, juxtaposing maternal stories. I glanced over and saw that the boys had moved on to the drawing table.
The family models were interchangeable. Shauna had adopted a deaf boy from Moscow, who was now in therapy. Yannick had a boy, also from Moscow, with serious attachment issues. Marie’s boy was autistic and often violent with her biological daughter. I was surprised how happy I was to hear stories worse than my own.
When my turn came, the mothers were so excited at my luck of adopting twins that the story of their withdrawal went unnoticed. In the eyes of these women, my problems were minor.
I was interrupted by a cry. We turned to see that a little girl had stolen Daniil’s drawings. What happened next took only a second, and I watched helplessly as the whole scene unfolded in what felt like a slow-motion scene from a bad movie. Daniil brandished a pencil, held it up in the air, and brought it right down into the little girl’s hand. The blunt tip only penetrated her flesh by a few millimetres, but Daniil held his grip fast. We all shrieked and rushed to our children. I had to wrench the pencil from Daniil’s hands.
I briskly pulled the boys away, gripping them both firmly by the shoulder so they didn’t escape. I forced them to stay seated beside me.
“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” My voice was weak and raspy.
One of the mothers took off her silk scarf and wrapped it around the girl’s hand.
“I wonder if the nerve is severed.”
“Can she still move her fingers?”
The women shot judgmental looks at me as they spoke. I had a sour taste in my mouth and my tongue stuck to my palate. I let out a loud burp, but no one heard. Hot saliva pooled in my mouth. I was going to throw up. I closed my eyes, trying to contain my nausea.
The mother of the little girl didn’t want to call emergency services, but she called her husband and asked him to come. I wanted to run away. I had to stay, however, until the issue was resolved. I had not let go of the boys’ hands; I had to show that I had them under control. Furthermore, they made no effort to break away. Vanya played with the Velcro on his shoes and Daniil sucked his thumb. I released their hands for a moment to fix their hair. They looked like savage children with their unruly mops. We had just been to the barber a few weeks earlier, but their hair was growing out at an unreasonable rate.
The father arrived in a panic, letting the door slam behind him. He wore a blue suit with a loud tie. He had clearly come from work. He went straight to his little girl to examine the wound. I couldn’t see how she was doing from the distance where we sat, but she started crying twice as hard at her father’s approach.
“Who did this?” he roared, scanning the room.
All eyes turned toward us, secluded in our corner. I wrapped an arm protectively around the boys and brought them closer.
“It was an accident. He’s not even two
