First published in DACUNHA

 

 

Someone softly taps my eyelids. Very small fingers. Probably Godiva or Levis (we pronounce it “le Ves”). I open my eyes and, sure enough, Godiva’s pouty face is the first thing I see. She’s mouthing something. I lift my head off the pillow to use my one good ear and immediately take in all the commotion around me.

“Wake up, Tiffany. You’ll miss breakfast.” She mutters and staggers off, holding onto my mattress for support.

I sit up and notice Sephora and Zara already by the window. “Did I miss it?” I jump off my narrow, springy bed and hurry towards the only window we have in the girls’ room.

“No, not entirely. It’s still there.” Sephora makes space for me to squeeze in between them.

For the remaining nine minutes before they serve our breakfast, we stand on the rooftop of Timisoara Center to watch the almost-perfect moon slowly dissolve from the night sky, its shiny body barely visible through the dark clouds. It’ll be back tonight. And it’ll be even closer to a perfect circle then.

We’re in line for morning checkup. Girls on one side: Sephora, Zara, Godiva, Betsey Johnson, and me. Boys on the other: Levis, Celio, Marlboro, Steve Madden, AmEx, Apple, and Audi. Hands up, fingers spread—no lines from markers, no troublemakers. Feet neatly together, shoelaces properly tied. Hair combed and pulled back. Faces washed, teeth brushed. Everyone deserves a morning meal!

“Where’s the baby?” I ask while working my way around the porridge on my plate, careful not to disturb the orange jelly island in the middle, saving it for last.

“Was up early. The tall one took her for a feeding.” Zara answers, still gazing out the window.

“Won’t be long now. Someone will take her. Maybe even today.”

“She doesn’t even have a name yet.” Sephora points out.

“She doesn’t need one. She won’t stay long enough to learn how to speak and use it.”

“Mmm.” Sadly, I agree. Babies whose ages are still measured in months, especially little girls, never stay long. They have parents lined up waiting for them, even before they’re born. For those like me who are older than ten—meet Tiffany, she’s one hundred and fifty-five months old—terms and conditions for a new family are slightly more complicated, as Jacqueline would put it.

“You’ll get there, too, Tiffany.” Zara caresses my hair. She’s eight and Sephora’s only six and a half. Both black-haired and brown-eyed, a bit too thin but cute and innocent looking on the outside. And even on the inside, they’re only slightly bruised by the cruelty of our situation. Their chances are much higher than mine, especially because they’re not deaf in one ear. Jacqueline says it makes me a very special girl, but I know what she really means is that I am a special case and nobody wants to adopt a special case child. I’ve overheard her talking to various social workers about me, and between their hushed voices and grim facesI’m trying not to get my hopes up. I just pray She doesn’t come back for me again.

“Today’s Thursday.” Sephora’s face widens with a smile.

“I know.” I nod.

♦

Thursday is always a happy day because we have chicken for dinner and Jacqueline comes to see us. Sometimes she has good news. She keeps insisting that we watch for the moon to become a complete circle because when it’s perfectly round, it’s called a “full moon” and that means it’s a magical time when Anything can happen. And one of these times the Anything could happen to one of us.

At exactly eight thirty, we’re lined up again, this time for the learning session. Usually, we’re separated into two groups: those of us under seven and those of us over seven. But today, nearly half of us are in bed due to a spreading virus, so we sit around the same table. Mr. Balan has given us assignments and we’re to complete them in absolute silence, raising a hand only in the case of an emergency question, which is not encouraged.

 

Mr. Balan is short and sturdy with a thick beard that I think makes him look old and grumpy, but he says it’s a trademark feature that gives him a memorable hipster quality. Personally, I don’t know how someone could ever forget a man with a stare so fierce and intimidating, but I also know that as long as I don’t make any noise or ask stupid questions, he’ll be kind and polite and I will not need to sit an extra hour to translate boring texts from Latin as a form of punishment.

We used to get out more. Those of us older than seven attended a regular school, though I can hardly remember what it looked like. But then something happened that we’re not supposed to talk about. Something tragic that took a thirteen-year-old boy’s life and placed us all at the center of attention. But that was before Jacqueline and before the international adoptions. Also before she came back for me the second time. And before I lost the hearing in my left ear.

I know we’re supposed to forget the events of that spring, but sometimes I wonder if Claudiu used to wait by the window as we do now. Was it really an accident, or did he take his own life because he wanted to stop waiting?

I go over all my exercises one last time, checking for anything that might set Mr. Balan off and keep me at this table longer than necessary. Not today. Today is Thursday and Jacqueline will arrive at exactly two in the afternoon. All looks good: math, Romanian essay, geography and even the tricky riddle he keeps giving me for good measure, as Mr. Balan puts it. Today he’s asked me to answer the question, “What lives in winter, dies in summer and grows downward?” I thought about it for a while, scared that he meant Claudiu because he was alive that winter, died in spring (which means he didn’t live in the summer), and when he was buried he was placed down into the earth. But I didn’t write that in the answer box. I left it blank for a long time and then finally wrote, “A snowman—because it lives in winter, is dead in summer, and when it melts it looks like it’s growing downward.”

After I hand my papers to Mr. Balan, I am to stand still and quiet right beside him until he gives me his approval for the day. He reads through everything carefully, his face scrutinizing every word in every sentence, frowning no doubt at my unsteady handwriting. He smiles tightly and looks up. “Snowman, eh?” he says. He shakes his head and pauses for a long time. I can already visualize the Latin text in front of my eyes. “I was thinking of icicles, but you’re right. A snowman is also a good answer. Well done, Elena. You can go now.”

I cringe when he calls me by my birth name, but I keep it together and quietly glide out of the common room. It’s only one thirty, so I decide to go for a walk. Passing the kitchen, I poke my head inside to see if the lunch plates are out already. Today it’s an apple with a nuts-and-raisins bar and a glass of milk. I gulp down the milk and slide the two remaining items in my pocket to go. Then I gather my brand new (by my standards, anyway) down jacket that was bought for someone else but ended up in my Christmas box, put it on, zip it up, fold the sleeves up a bit to fit my arms and step outside. The air feels cold as ice on my face, and the sky is still covered with clouds, only now they’re white and clean and feel somehow less heavy.

“How’d you do?” Marlboro asks me as soon as I reach the bottom of the steps and round the corner of the long building. I don’t have to tell you what he’s doing; his name speaks for itself.

“Good, I think. He let me off early.” Marlboro and I are the oldest ones here. Also, the only teenagers, though I guess technically I’m still a month short. Also, the only special cases—me with my one deaf ear and him with his tall, skinny body and asymmetrical love handles caused by some birth defect.

I look up as a flock of tumbler pigeons rush over our heads. Sometimes I forget how close to the city center we are. At this time of day, the cobblestone streets are probably full of them—puffing up their feathers against the harsh wind, visiting random windowsills, begging for breadcrumbs.

I can’t say Marlboro and I are friends. Mostly we try to avoid each other, me sticking with girls—especially Sephora and Zara—and him keeping to himself. I try to keep an eye on his whereabouts, though, because I remember how close he was to Claudiu, and I fear he might take similar steps. The women inside watch him, too, and even Mr. Balan. I think the cigarettes actually help keep him steady and calm, so no one objects much, as long as he keeps them out of sight.

“Okay, I’m off.” I wave and start walking down the gravel road, leaving thick rows of pine trees on each side of me.

“Want some company?” He asks, his voice earnest and humble.

“Er…okay.”

“Want one?” He offers me his pack but I shake my head. “Afraid it will alarm her?” He sneers.

“No,” I look away. “I just don’t like smoking.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” He falls into step beside me and we walk in silence for a while, letting the unspoken heaviness of our situation linger in the breeze. “Do you ever wonder if She’ll come back again?” He breaks the silence with the one question I was dreading. Marlboro is the only one who knows what happened that summer when She took me home the second time.

“I do,” I mutter. “I fear it every day.” Because if She does, it might end much worse than the last time. Much worse than waking up deaf in one ear. Much worse than translating Latin texts. Much worse than waiting by the window every morning. It might simply end.

“Me, too.” He says quietly, more to himself than me. Then he stops and turns to face me, “I want you to know that you can count on me. I don’t give a shit about what anyone says. If She comes back for you, you won’t go nowhere with her. Okay?”

I nod, numb from the electric shock of the certainty in his voice. The words you can count on me vibrate through my chest stronger than the wind, making me dizzy. He looks into my eyes with the intensity of a grown man, “All you have to do is stick it out for a few more years. Then we can run away together and get jobs in the city. Or better yet, go to Bucharest and never come back.”

I blink, my eyelids working hard to fly up and down, keeping it together. I don’t want to run away. I want Anything to happen, just like Jacqueline promised.

“Tiffany,” he suddenly grins at me. “I like this name for you. What will it be today?”

“Tiffany.” I say with certainty because no matter what Jacqueline is wearing or brings with her today, I won’t take a new name. I don’t need another one in this place because I remember what she said last Thursday. She said not to get my hopes up yet, but she might have found something. Or someone, rather. The Anything that might be the right thing for me this time. But I keep it to myself for now.

“Good. Keep it. It suits you.”

I look back towards the mustard-colored building. One of the texts I translated from Latin for Mr Balan said the architecture was inspired by a man named Antoni Gaudi, who created “artistically individualized houses.” I wonder what’s so individual about a house that’s filled with unwanted children.

“It’s probably two already. I must get back now.” I nod slightly and turn to walk back. He doesn’t follow. He never sees Jacqueline anymore.

♦

The common room is now filled with toys and small wooden chairs. Blankets and stuffed animals are something our individualized house receives as gifts on a monthly if not weekly basis now. It seems ever since that spring people have decided that warm blankets and plush toys are the things necessary to keep us happy and alive. Everyone’s already gathered around the bubbly, black-haired woman whose eyes are forever filled with joy and hope. Her perfume, different this time, is notable even from where I stand.

“Yes, yes, you can use it. But just a little bit. It’s called Escada.” She winks at Betsey Johnson, who has already popped Jacqueline’s handbag open and is trying out the floral scent on herself.

“Escada.” She repeats. “I like that. Today my name is Escada.” She does a little dance around Jacqueline.

“Hello, Tiffany,” Jacqueline smiles at me and I quickly check her wrist. It’s still there. The small gold rim that lines a perfectly round white wristwatch, glittering with tiny diamonds on the inside. So that I can always count the minutes keeping us apart, she explained. Jacqueline has met a special man, not special like I’m special, but good special. She says he loves to spoil her with expensive gifts, something I will surely find one day, too. I nod and smile back, lost for words, wanting to ask the one question that I’m too scared to ask. She picks up on my anxiety quickly, as always. Her eyelids flicker. She nods. She looks hopeful? She whispers only to me, “We’ll talk later. In private. About anything.”

Don’t get your hopes up. Keep it together. I swallow hard and help Godiva sit up on a chair that’s still slightly too high for her.

“Someone took the baby girl,” Sephora says in my ear. I turn my head and meet the sadness and happiness that barely registers on her expression, her face already trained not to reveal any emotions. “Jacqueline says it’s a young family that already has a baby girl, so she’ll have a sister.” I hear her voice cracking, so I steer her out of the common room and into the nearest bathroom.

Before she got here, almost a year ago, sickly skinny and losing hair, looking like a wet tumbler pigeon, Sephora remembers having a sister her own age. We’re not allowed to ask questions and even if we did, no one would give us any explanations or answers about our lives prior to this individualized house, so the only thing she’s left with is a slowly dying hope to one day walk into a version of herself on a busy street in Timisoara or elsewhere.

I hold her shoulders while she sobs. I keep my own eyelids busy, unprepared for what’s coming later…in private…about my anything.

“Jacqueline has found someone for me,” she finally says. “It’s a woman who lives in a place called Paris.”

Paris. I slide my tongue over the interesting rrr in the French word. I remember translating a text about it. It talked about surrendering during World War II in order to save the city’s architecture and how it’s always been a place for young lovers and dreamers. “Sephora, Paris is a fantastic place to grow up.” I hold her tiny frame. “That’s wonderful news.” And it is. I love it for her. Obviously, it’s her turn this full moon. Ever since that spring when Claudiu drowned in the city canal, our individualized house has been gaining international attention in the form of  Jacqueline, who speaks three languages and travels all around to find us better homes and real families.

Jacqueline promised to make sure that She never, ever takes me back. Even if today her private Anything means only that, I will be happy forever. I can grow up here. I can even run away with Marlboro, though maybe he could take a better name when we do that. As long as I never need to go back to where She lives.

I can still feel the belt cut through me, each slap lacing my skin with blood that stings and burns at the same time. His voice loud and slurry. His words jabbing my ears like knives, her sitting on the bed behind him, looking up only once to tell me I better get out now. How dare I pose such questions—imagine actually believing I was more important to her than an alcoholic who kept a heavy hand on us both. When She said those words, the letters that formed a direct order for a life without a mother, without a future, without certainty for survival even—it was like taking a bullet. People say that if someone shoots you in the heart, you die instantly. I died, but not instantly. The pain oozed and twisted and crusted over longer than it took for my skin to heal from his belt. Longer than it took to realize that my hearing isn’t coming back. Longer even than I’ve lived so far.

“Tiffany, are you in there?” Jacqueline’s voice comes from the other side of the door.

“Coming.” I hug Sephora tightly and let her wash her face because crying is something we’re not encouraged to do. I step back out into the common room when Jacqueline is explaining to Zara that while the handbag looks nice and the letters LV actually mean Louis Vuitton, it’s a fake. And she shouldn’t take the name of something fake. “How about this?” She pushes back her black hair and points to a pair of earrings with two letters C turned inwards to face each other. “These are Chanel. I’ve inherited them from my grandma.” She smiles kindly at the eight-year-old girl who I’m sure has never heard the word “inherited” before.

“Chanel.” Zara considers it. “Chanel…I like it. I want to be Chanel.” Her face lifts in a tiny smile for the first time today.

“Chanel you are,” Jacqueline repeats after her. “Wanna know something else? Chanel was a very smart and courageous woman.”

“What’s ‘courageous?’” the new Chanel asks.

“It means she believed in herself in spite of all the people who kept putting her down. She was a real fighter.” She locks the little girl’s eyes in mock seriousness. “Just like you are now.” Then she turns towards me and says, “Let’s take a walk.”

I’m scared to run into Marlboro outside and what he might say to her about me, so I suggest going to the girls’ room. She agrees and takes out a box of Godiva chocolates. “This is for lady Godiva to share with everyone else. OK, princess?” she pokes Godiva’s little nose. “One piece for everyone. Understood?”

Godiva nods eagerly and jumps off the chair, lurching forward. She took a bad fall out the first-floor window two months back while nobody was watching her, and I am beginning to realize that if she doesn’t recover soon, even being four years old and princessy-pretty, she might join the Tiffany-Marlboro pack of special cases here.

♦

“So, I have good news and interesting news.” Jacqueline’s voice is business-like but assuring. “First, the good news.” She takes my hands in hers when we sit down on my mattress. “You ready? Deep breath, look at me! You will never need to return to your biological mother again. I got the papers a few days ago. You’re legally free. She cannot claim you anymore, which also means that you are free for international adoption.”

I am free.

A special case maybe, but free.

“The interesting news is that I have found a family for you.” Her voice sounds less celebratory than before. “They’re…they’re special.” She bites her lip. “But they’re very good people. They love each other and want to start a family. I met them in California a few weeks ago. It’s in the United States of America. It’s a place that has beaches and many, many cars. And people drive everywhere and smile a lot and they have the best weather ever, always warm and sunny,” she looks at me excitedly. “They brought me to this small Italian restaurant with a garden and the desert there…Tiffany, you will love it. It’s a nice place. And they’re nice people. I told them that your name is Tiffany,” she looks at me knowingly. “Though seeing that every third girl there is named Tiffany, you might want to change it to something new.”

I stare into her radiant face. She could paint facades more beautiful than those of Gaudi with that enthusiasm and positivity.

“I brought you a picture to think about it.” She reaches in her back pocket. “Oh, I forgot to tell Levis that these are Diesel,” she says, referring to her jeans. “So he can change his name now.” She makes a funny face at me. “Tiffany, if you agree, these people want to be your new family. It will take some time and loads of paperwork but they’re ready to pay for everything, and I can make it happen.” She unfolds a small piece of paper and hands it to me.

There are two heads of similarly cropped short blond hair, faces nearly identical, mouths smiling wide with white teeth. They’re hugging each other’s shoulders and holding up a note between them, something in a foreign language that I cannot understand.

Later when I lay awake on my bed waiting for the moon to make its nightly rounds and finally appear right outside our window, I keep wondering if it’s ever really full. Have I ever seen a complete circle?