Make Your Life Prime Time by María Celeste Arrarás

Author:María Celeste Arrarás
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2009-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

When Manny, my second husband, and I decided to adopt a child, I made my intentions very clear.

“We’re not going shopping,” I told him.

The adoption agency said they would send us photos of children via the Internet. They would send one at a time, and if we didn’t get the right feeling about a child, we could ask them to send another. But I had made up my mind before the first photo popped up on my computer at work.

“The first one we see, we’re going to take,” I told Manny. “Whoever it is, it’s meant to be.”

When I was a little girl, I vowed to adopt a child. The thought of an infant—a little boy, a little girl—set adrift by apathy or circumstance left an empty place in my heart. The desire to adopt stayed with me for years: after my first marriage; after meeting Manny; after my oldest, my son Julian, was born. The feeling stayed with me, always.

And then one day I introduced a story on television about a particular orphanage in Central America run by nuns for the children of an indigenous people. I watched the segment live for the first time, and when it ended, I composed myself enough to go to commercial. But I knew something had reawakened in me. And I was ready to fulfill my childhood promise.

Manny and I spent the next few months looking to adopt, even as I became pregnant with my daughter, Lara. We encountered many challenges in Latin America, the Caribbean, and Asia. Our best hope came from an orphanage in a little town called Stupino, two hours from Moscow. They requested pictures of us so they could try to match us with a child who looked like us, so that as he grew he would feel more connected, they said. Some of my friends asked whether we wouldn’t feel more comfortable with a child from a Latin American country. But we didn’t care what country he came from. A child in need has no nationality.

The boy in the first picture I opened on my computer had a vacant stare. His cheeks were gaunt. And by just looking at him lying in his threadbare pink pajamas, I could tell his body was weak. Malnourished. And yet I knew he was the one.

His name was Vadim. He was thirteen months old.

Manny and I flew halfway around the world to Moscow, me carrying a belly five months pregnant with a child we had just learned would be a girl. We arrived late and tired, and spent the night in a hotel where I fell into a deep sleep, exhausted, dreaming of my little boy.

The next morning, we drove for two hours under an overcast sky until we reached Stupino, the small town where Vadim lived. We bought him a toy at a small store before heading to the orphanage, which was just a short drive away.

The building was humble, squat, paint peeling from the walls. But rows of flowers adorned the garden.

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