Rescuing Julia Twice by Tina Traster

bearswanting to dole out advice. I didn’t get the key to the club, like my younger sister did, each time she’d announced she was pregnant.

    Shortly before the end of the ten-hour flight, Robert walks down the aisle and stops. Breakfast has just been served.
    He leans in and asks, “How are you guys doing?”
    â€œLong flight,” I say. “How are you guys doing?”
    â€œLaura slept most of the way. I got a little shut-eye.”
    â€œI can’t sleep on planes,” I say.
    â€œWell, maybe we’ll need to get used to not sleeping,” he says, chuckling, but I can see the fear in his eyes about the change that will soon occur. Robert is nearly fifty. He’s had a long time to become accustomed to living without children.
    As the plane makes its final descent, a group of Russian men sitting in front of us stand up and open the overhead storage bins to get their carry-ons. The flight attendant implores them to sit down, but they won’t listen. They are not terrorists—just arrogant and lawless.
    â€œTypical Russians,” my husband says.
    â€œThey’re crazy,” I say.
    â€œIt’s a reaction to living under communist rule for too long,” Ricky says. “They’re throwing off the chains of oppression.”
    This makes me wonder again about Julia and her genes. What are her birth parents like? Will she be genetically inclined to break rules, to flout authority? I’d never given too much thought to the nature/nurture argument. Would she necessarily be like me or Ricky if she carried our DNA? Come to think of it, we were both a bit antiestablishment. Maybe Julia’s deck is stacked. A future rebel.
    We are driven in a van to the Moscow Marriott and will be leaving for Siberia later this evening. Some of the adoptive parents who are traveling to closer cities will spend the night in Moscow. When we get to the hotel, there is a mixup. They don’t have a room for us to use for a few hours. I’m about to cry because I know how hard the journey gets fromhere—a harrowing six-hour flight to Siberia on a Soviet-era plane that makes the insides of your stomach fall like jet-fuel flotsam. I was counting on a respite before the next leg. “Moscow Olga” is trying to arrange something with the clerk at the desk, but it seems hopeless. The hotel is booked. Then a woman from our group steps forward.
    â€œWhy don’t you guys take our room for a few hours?” she says. “We’re not leaving until the morning.”
    Before Ricky could say something like, “We can’t possibly,” I squeal, “Oh, my God, thank you, thank you so much! That is so nice of you—are you sure?”
    â€œSure, here, take the key. You can leave it at the front desk. My husband and I are going to go out and sightsee for a few hours.”
    Moments like this make you wonder if angels are put in your path to help you believe you’re on the right road. Ricky doesn’t believe in angels. He believes in the kindness of strangers.
    We ride the elevator to our borrowed room. I shower. Ricky lies on the bed.
    When I come out he says, “Let’s order some porn. They’ll be pretty shocked when they get the bill.”
    I crack up because I know he’s kidding. To the outside world, Ricky appears so straight, but I know better. Life has blessed him with a very dark sense of humor.
    The flight to Novosibirsk is much like the first one. It’s snowing. The plane is creaky and old. The bathrooms are unusable, the food inedible. Knowing what to expect helps a bit. At least I’m not sick as a dog this time. But again I’m not sure I won’t end up a statistic of Russian aviation.
    My mind drifts. I can’t sleep. I’m eighteen, learning I’m pregnant after a summer at sleepaway camp. I was in love for the first time. My hippie boyfriend David and I had sex a few times. Once in a motel, where we stayed