Noah Greenberg is cooler than you, Lorelei Dupont? A-list celeb, Ember Enchantress, and former kid detective w/a cult following?
Yeah, he is. Trust me. I have been around a lot of so-called cool people. None of them hold a candle to that guy.
…
Three dots again.
You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit, Lorelei.
I met Cody, by the way. What a tool, Kenna. I’m so sorry…
My fingers hover over the send button, and then I delete the message.
Have fun in Disneyland. Wear a big hat or something. You guys should be fine.
I will. Please don’t do anything I wouldn’t do while I am away?
Praying hands.
Fine.
I throw my phone down and lean back into the plaid sofa. I’m still exhausted and tempted to take a nap. There’s a certain reassuring quality about Kenna’s uncles’ living room. It’s like time has stood still in this room. It’s a very Y2K aesthetic with the television being the central focus of the room.
Once upon a time, this TV was probably a “big screen,” but now, it seems old and small, crammed into the middle of a dark-wood console. There’s also a DVD player, a stereo with a CD carousel, and a very dusty, old Nintendo Wii unit, which clearly has not been touched in years.What, no TiVo?
The bookshelves on either side are littered with framed photos and stacked albums. Curious, I stand to check them out. I lift a framed school photo of Kenna, probably age ten or so, and let out a slow whistle. She really did look a lot like my Moxie character. A little sweeter, more innocent, but damn.
There are several goofy photos of Nick and Stavros in the albums at assorted holiday and dinner parties, as well as numerous pictures taken in the diner. A particularly poignant framed photo of Kenna, and what I assume is her uncle Nick and her mom, graces the front of a combo album and frame. Nick and Kenna’s mom both look a lot younger, and so excited. Kenna is just a little blob, wrapped up in way too much clothing for what looks like a warm day in Siberia.
The metal plate on the album reads 6/6. I do a double take. Today’s date. Is it possible that Kenna and I have the same gotcha day? How?
I carry the album over to the couch and flip through the faded photos. It’s clear that this album has been poured over plenty. Some of the plastic sleeves are cracked, and the individual photos are bent. Particularly the ones of Kenna’s mom.
Kenna’s mother and uncle took so many photos. The absolute opposite of my momager, who treated the journey to come get me more like a covert op than a core memory. I pore over the photos, sucking up the details like a sponge. There’s the laundry lines and the feeding tables, a sort of group highchair with six seats. Indoor details include a high shelf with three dolls that appear to be on a prison break from the Island of Misfit Toys. Toothless caretakers in long aprons are posing, holding stacks of threadbare, folded blankets.
It all gives me goose bumps.
Everything looks vaguely familiar, which is probably because I’ve googled so many albums like this one over the years. Other people’s memories. There’s a certain sameness to them. Same institutional, cement-block buildings. Same pathetic, rusty, metal slide in the overgrown lot outside. Same sad-eyed babies in bare-bones cribs that resemble cages. And don’t get me started on the toddlers. They look even more tragic.
I pause, seeing a photo of one such toddler in one of the shots from Kenna’s album. Not all the shots are of Kenna and her new family. There are bits and pieces of other families in the photos. I can only assume that her mom and uncle traveled in a group like my mom did. An organized sort of group adoption tour that the agencies used to arrange to organize the court dates and logistics of becoming a family. It made sense to send people in batches.
This particular tiny, tufted-haired toddler is trying to climb into the stroller with a sleeping Kenna. It’s hard to tell how old she is from behind. I’m just assuming she’s a girl because she has a ridiculously fluffy, tulle tutu on over her lumpy orphanage clothes. It’s just like something the momager would have put me in. I flip back a page to confirm it’s Uncle Nick’s arm on the stroller. Kenna’s mom must have thought it was funny. Itiskind of cute how she’s trying to climb in there with her.
I turn the page. There’s another photo of the same toddler and Kenna, but in this one, the stroller’s been pushed aside. The serious toddler is sitting on Kenna’s mom’s lap, with a flailing Kenna sprawled on top of her. The toddler is cradling Kenna tightly, like she’s her precious baby doll. You can see the toddler’s face better in this one. Her head is tilted down over the baby, like she’s sniffing its head. But her giant eyes are turned toward the camera, gazing intensely at the photographer. She looks like the solemn children from long ago eras when people didn’t smile for the camera. And she appears malnourished. Her hair isn’t just tufty. She has a bald patch and a really bad rash. There’s someone sitting next to them—a woman, I think—but I can only see one leg and boot.
Kenna’s mom looks so nice in these photos. It makes my heart break. I notice that there are a few more shots in the plastic sleeve that have been shoved behind this one. Carefully, I slide them out.
Outtakes. There’s a blurry shot of Kenna in the stroller. Another one of Kenna’s mom holding just her on the same bench but shot mid-blink, so it’s not a flattering photo. And the last one is a curled and creased candid photo of Uncle Nick sitting on the same bench, talking to a woman who is seated next to him on the bench. The toddler is resting on his lap in this photo, and the tutu is gone. She appears to be eating a small box of cereal.
I’m so busy studying the details of Nick and the toddler that, at first, I don’t register the woman he’s talking with. She blends into the dark background in her all-black boots, tights, and a simple but chic sheath dress. Turned toward Nick, and leaning in, she’s waving a hand, as if she was caught midsentence, trying to make a point. Her long, dark hair is hanging in a curtain, half-hiding her profile. All you can really see are her red lips and the tip of her nose.
A nose I’d know anywhere.
Carefully, I smooth out the photo. This is a photo of my mother in Russia. Adopting me.
The toddler holding Kenna is me.
The roaring in my ears is so loud, I’m afraid I’m going to pass out.
