Page 6 of Ruthless Salvation

You can do this, Stormy girl. You can do anything you set your mind to.My father’s voice filtered into my head. He always called me his stormy girl because it was storming the night they found out the adoption had been approved.

My chest tightened, but I didn’t allow the emotion to take hold. I couldn’t. It was too crippling. The three of us had been a team—we used to do everything together. Rather than scheming about going to college out of state, I’d been the kid who put a strict hundred-mile radius cap on schools I’d consider. Mama said I needed to go outside of Savannah to be more independent. I never understood why I couldn’t do that from across town and still have Taco Tuesdays with them.

Sure, I’d been spoiled as an only child, but in the very best way. My parents had been understanding yet firm and unconditional in their love for me. Life without them felt meaningless. Colorless and cruel. I’d spent two months clutching at the hole in my chest, wondering if I’d ever be able to breathe again.

When the third month rolled around, the idea of this trip had taken root, and I saw the tiniest hint of a silver lining. The grief was still present, but it was manageable. I still had moments when I felt like nothing but a puddle of sorrow. I didn’t have time for that right now. I needed to be clear-headed and confident to navigate this foreign landscape. And if I was honest, having a reason to force away the grief was a significant part of why I’d decided to launch into this journey. I could have waited—I could have planned and taken my time—but I preferred to have the distraction. And boy, had it worked like a charm.

Between planning and packing and the actual journey, I’d hardly had room for thoughts about my parents. Navigating my way to the hotel was no different. Three exhausting hours after landing in Moscow, I fell back onto the bed in my hotel room and thanked the good Lord that I’d made it.

I felt like I’d been awake for days. It was only four o’clock local time, but I didn’t care. My burning eyes demanded it was time to sleep. I didn’t even change out of the leggings I’d worn on the trip before crawling under the covers and passing out. My search would begin tomorrow, but for now, peaceful oblivion.

* * *

I’d never givenmuch thought to the Russian language until I was surrounded by it. Compared to the gentle embrace of the Southern drawl, everyone here sounded remarkably hostile. They even looked a little scary.

Then again, maybe that was simply the way city people looked and sounded. How was I to know? I’d spent most of my life in the suburbs of Savannah. Now, if I had to live in this ungodly cold all the time, I’d probably be cranky, so I couldn’t blame them. Not even halfway into October, and even the sun struggled to permeate the thickly blanketed clouds and bone-chilling cold. I shuddered to think what February might bring to a place like this.

Despite the inhospitable environment, I managed to arrive at the location I’d obsessed over for weeks—the address for the orphanage I’d been left at as a baby. I’d found the adoption papers when going through Mama’s and Daddy’s things about a month after the accident. They’d always been up front about the fact I was adopted. They were such amazing parents, I’d never felt much need to dwell on my origins. Not that I hadn’t thought about my Russian heritage. I’d spent loads of time wondering about my past, but I hadn’t felt compelled to actually seek out any answers.

That all changed when my world cratered in around me. My parents were my world. Without them, I was adrift in a meaningless void. Hunting down my birth family gave me a distraction and a purpose. It gave me hope that the endless gnawing grief that weighed each of my steps might one day be manageable.

At first, I’d only pulled up the address on Google Maps to look at the building and see if it still existed. It was only curiosity, I’d told myself. Once I laid eyes on the image of the large brick building, it was impossible not to wonder what more I could find out from the people inside.

The story I’d told myself growing up was that my struggling mother had dropped me off in hopes of a better life. That she was kind and selfless for making such a sacrifice, and even more importantly, she was out there somewhere thinking of me.

It was a romantic perspective, and I was okay with that. Why let yourself think the worst when you can choose to believe the best? According to my imaginings, I could possibly have a whole other family out there waiting for me to return. I’d never had any brothers or sisters. I hadn’t thought I’d wanted any until I truly entertained the possibility of their existence.

Once the questions buzzed in my head, they were worse than flies at a cookout. I’d had to at least try to find some answers. If my search led to a dead end, then so be it. At least I’d know I tried.

The first thing I did was place a phone call to the number listed online. I couldn’t understand the recorded message that played on the other end, but the angry tone that pulsed in the background gave me the impression that the number was no longer in service. Not to be deterred, I emailed the facility. No response. Had the email been sent to junk? Had they been unwilling to do a quick translation or find someone who could read English? Was the email sitting in someone’s inbox who no longer worked for the agency? I had no way to know what had happened, but I continued my efforts.

I called three other orphanages I found listed online. All three were answered … by someone who didn’t speak English. After several pointless back-and-forth exchanges, the calls each ended in futility.

The one avenue in which I found some success was via an email direct to the Ministry of Labor and Social Protection. I was told in no uncertain terms that I had a better chance of dying from heatstroke in Siberia than I did of getting information unless I presented original documents to them, live and in living color. And even then, I might need a miracle.

I decided to take the leap. My alternative was to remain mired in grief, and that was losing its appeal. My shoulders ached from the weight of my sorrow. I was ready to shed that burdensome cloak and rediscover the many reasons life was worth living.

The exhausting emotional journey had led me to this moment, standing out front of that brick building I’d first googled. I should have known something was wrong when the phone number didn’t work. In my haste for an escape, I’d clung to optimism. I’d assured myself that the number had been misprinted or changed. But now, an unexpected wariness anchored my feet to the concrete sidewalk.

The building before me looked as abandoned as the children who’d once called it home. I could tell it was the building shown on the satellite imagery, but the harshness of many unforgiving years had passed. It hadn’t occurred to me that the grainy photo had been outdated. Even more disconcerting was the absence of the orphanage sign affixed to the dirty brick facade. If it weren’t for someone moving about inside, I would have assumed the building was soon to be condemned.

Several window panes were cracked, a film of dirt made it hard to see any details within, and a section of gutter along the roofline hung from the building haphazardly. Compared to the well-kept storefronts on either side of it, the crumbling building looked forgotten. The desolation must have been contagious because I could feel it settle heavily on my shoulders.

This isn’t the end. Maybe whoever’s inside knows what happened to the orphanage.

Even if it was closed, the records had to have been stored somewhere. Surely, even in Russia, records of such importance were archived in more than one location. I hadn’t come all this way to quit now. Maybe whoever was inside could direct me to a central office or the orphanage’s new location. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to ask.

I sucked up my courage and approached the front door. Lifting my fist, I paused to assure myself the area was adequately populated to limit my chances of being outright murdered, then I knocked and waited.

No answer.

I was certain I’d seen at least one person moving about inside, so I checked the handle. Unlocked. I hesitantly pushed the door open enough to poke my head inside. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Again, no reply.

My view into a front sitting area to the right of the entry piqued my curiosity. The dusty lounge contained furniture from an era long forgotten, along with peeling wallpaper draped with cobwebs. The scuffed wood floors were likely original to the building, but they’d been decent enough quality to have survived the years intact.

I ventured a hesitant step inside when I saw what looked like a group photo of past residents hung on the wall. Wondering how long ago the portrait had been taken, I was two steps inside before my gaze drifted left to where a circle of four men stood watching me.

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