Kasien
We sit on our bunk beds, my sister rocking on the spring mattress from side to side. She can’t stay in place for a moment. She’s excited.
I sit still, scanning the white door to our room, patiently waiting to hear the signature click of our caregiver’s heels.
We’ve been here for exactly twenty-two days, and I can already recognize the gait of all four caregivers who take turns.
The main lady, old and blonde, has slow, soft steps, usually wearing black low heels. She’s the nicest. Natalya likes her too.
Everyone likes Natalya, because she’s so hyperactive. They apparently like that here.
But this old lady likes me too. She always appreciates it when I sort all the toys in the game room by color and by height.
I finally hear her footsteps, and I look at the clock. It’s noon. They should be here by now. The white door creaks open, and the lady smiles immediately when she spots us sitting on the bed, all our stuff packed and ready by the door.
“My little ravens, look at you. You packed so nicely!”
Her old raspy voice is so gentle it sounds like it could break at any moment. She sounds like a grandma. Natalya says that’s how a grandma should sound. I guess she’s right.
Natalya squeals and jumps off the bed, running to the door, eager. I remain still, watching my younger sister be hyperactive again and make the old lady smile.
“I see you’re excited,” the lady says, smiling at us, and takes one of Natalya’s black braids, her eyebrows raising toward her hairline as her wrinkled face forms a funny smile while she checks the braid.
Natalya made me braid her hair, but I don’t know how to do that. I guess not like this. I don’t really care.
“Your new family is almost here. They can’t wait to see you again.”
Natalya squeals and mumbles something, as the old lady continues.
“Let me just have a quick chat with them, and then they’re all yours, my little ravens.” She winks at us and leaves.
Natalya runs to her suitcase and opens it.
“Don’t open it. I already packed it,” I tell her as she rolls her eyes.
“I just need to check if we didn’t forget something,” she mumbles as she runs her little fingers through all the clothes and some of her diaries.
None of it is actually ours. We came here with empty hands. The lady said that the soldier who sent us here took one of Natalya’s stuffed toys, but Natalya said it wasn’t hers. I know it actually is, but I didn’t insist on it. She probably doesn’t want it anymore.
She closes the suitcase and runs to the window.
“They’re here. I remember their car from the last time they visited,” she yells at me while she jumps in front of it.
She’s really clever for a seven-year-old. Also pretty annoying.
“Stay here,” I tell her as I get up and slip into the other room connected to ours, where other kids used to be until someone adopted them last week.
I close the door behind me and sit on the floor behind the main door.
They lead right into the main living room, and I can hear all the conversations with the parents who come in.
I learned a lot about the kids here, because I always listen to everything.
I finally hear muffled voices coming from the entrance of the house, and then they all sit in the living room right behind the door I pressed my ear to.
“Mrs. Varner, Mr. Varner, it’s so nice to see you again,” the old lady says in her warm, raspy voice.
“Our pleasure,” Mr. Varner answers, his voice deep and steady.
“Please, sit down. I prepared the children’s files for you. We’ll just go through everything one more time before the final signing.”
I can hear them settle on the old squeaky couch as she continues, papers shuffling softly.
“So, Kasien’s file is right here. We need to review his medical notes and his educational recommendations.
As you can see in the report from our child psychologist, he shows clear symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder.
It’s nothing unmanageable. He follows routines, likes order, and responds very well to structure. He’s a sweet, quiet boy.”
My stomach twists. I don’t understand what it is that I do, but I keep listening anyway.
“Unfortunately, he also shows signs of post-traumatic stress. The exact origin isn’t entirely clear, but let’s just say it’s obvious.
” Her voice softens. “In this folder is everything we were able to gather about the parents and their situation in the war zone. The father died years ago on the battlefield, and the mother, well, you can read the file yourselves. Unfortunately, Kasien witnessed it.”
The voices blur for a moment as I squeeze my eyes shut.
Mom.
I force myself to listen again.
“And Natalya,” the old lady’s voice brightens. “She’s a very social girl, playful, energetic. Perhaps a little hyperactive, but in the sweetest way.”
My chest warms. Of course she is.
“She doesn’t remember anything except her brother. The psychologist assessed it as dissociative amnesia with selective memory loss, which is very typical at her age in cases like this.”
I hear the rustle of papers.
“Are those the educational requirements?” Mrs. Varner asks. Her voice is young, but cold.
“Yes. No special requirement for the girl, but for the boy, monthly sessions with a child psychologist are recommended. Depending on how his symptoms develop as he grows older, you may eventually consult a child psychiatrist as well. But truly, he’s very bright. He just needs stability and routine.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Varner says gently.
“He’ll get the best support possible.” Mr. Varner’s deep voice adds something reassuring I can’t quite catch.
Their voices blend for a moment into soft, calm murmurs. Then the chairs move and the couch squeaks—they’re standing up.
I hurry back to our room and quickly sit on the bed next to Natalya just as the door creaks open, and our new parents step inside, smiling at us.
Natalya surprisingly keeps her ass on the bed, not jumping around as usual, but her legs are kicking so wildly she could fly away any second. I take her hand and lace our fingers together as I stand up and lead us toward them, forcing a smile.
I like them. They look so clean and they smell nice. But I’m going to miss that old lady. I hope we’ll have grandparents like her.
Mrs. Varner gets to her knees, spreading her hands, waiting for us to hug her. Natalya jumps in her arms immediately. I’m hesitating for a moment before doing the same.
Her touch feels weird. Her hands are cold but she smells like some fruit. It’s not bad.
Mr. Varner runs his fingers through my hair, ruffling it.
“We couldn’t wait to see you again, kids. Let’s get going, shall we?”
I lift my gaze to him. He’s wearing a black shirt, clean and unwrinkled, together with black pants and a shiny belt. I saw people dressed so nicely only in movies. All the men at home always wore dirty greenish uniforms or some sort of work clothes.
He also smells like cigarettes. I know that smell very well. I stare at him and finally realize my face is like a stone so I quickly force a smile.
They are nice. Natalya is really happy.
We get to the car—it’s huge and black. They sit us in the back, Mrs. Varner fastens our seatbelts and some other clips for Natalya’s seat, because she is still too small for a normal one.
The old lady comes to the car door to say goodbye to me. She tenderly runs the back of her fingers on my cheeks.
“You’re such a good kid, Kasien. Take care of your little sister, okay?” Her voice is so soft and brittle.
I just nod. Bile is in my throat, and I don’t feel like speaking. My eyes burn.
She shuts the car door, waving at us as the car starts moving away from the white old house. The car goes through the driveway gate and I turn my head once more to see the house we spent twenty-two days in.
I haven’t used my native language since we came here. The caretaker told us not to use that language even when we just want to chat together, because it looks like we want to keep secrets.
Mom also never spoke our native language back at home. She always said we are flying to another country soon and we don’t need it anymore. She told us to forget it.
I guess she was right.
But she was supposed to come with us.
I look at my sister—she’s smiling and running her fingers on the leather seat in front of her.
She hasn’t spoken about mom even once. She can apparently somehow erase her mind.
I don’t get it. I don’t want to do that. I think about mom all the time and I want to remember how she looked.
She had brown eyes, like chocolate, warm.
Mrs. Varner’s eyes are cold, the same as her hands. She kind of looks like a vampire. She’s so skinny and pale, but so are we, so I guess we also look like little vampires.
“Should we play a game?” Mrs. Varner turns in her front seat to face us, smiling at us.
“Let’s play word chain,” Natalya shouts.
Mrs. Varner starts with the first word, Natalya continues and looks at me. I think for a second and come up with a word, then the chain continues to Mr. Varner.
We play like this for so many rounds that I struggle to come up with words. My attention is always pulled away by something outside the window or a stream of thoughts running through my head. And then it’s my turn and everybody waits for me, staring at me as I try to find the right word.
I wish they would play without me but I don’t want to ruin it for Natalya.
I feel sweat breaking on my hands as I play with my fingers. Finally Mrs. Varner says something and we stop playing. She turns in her seat to face the road and chats with her husband.
A wave of relief hits me when I can look out the window and not play these stupid games.
?
We’ve already been on the road for so long that it’s getting dark. The back seat between me and Natalya is covered with fries and nuggets.
The moon is already visible in the sky when the road gets rocky and unsteady as we descend through some woods.
When the trees open, we end up on a driveway that leads to a huge mansion.
The car goes around a water fountain right in front of the building, stopping by the stone stairs, probably leading to the main entry.
It’s huge. Taller than any house I’ve ever seen, with a dark roof that bends and curves like the house is wearing a giant hat.
The walls are made of pale stone that glows in the moonlight, almost golden, like the building is warm even though the night is cold.
Big windows line the front, bright from the inside, each one shaped the same, like eyes watching us arrive.
Flowers grow everywhere—red ones, pink ones, little white ones—arranged in shapes I don’t understand, like someone drew paintings into the ground.
All the bushes are trimmed into sharp edges, no leaf out of place.
It looks strict. A long stone staircase leads up to the front door—a giant wooden door with black details curled into thin swirls.
A big man in black gets to the car and opens the trunk. Mr. Varner is already taking Natalya in his arms carefully so she doesn’t wake up. The other man takes all our stuff and Mrs. Varner takes my hand. My hand twitches in reflex but I let her hold me and guide me upstairs to the wooden door.
We stand in a round lobby. It’s brighter than outside, like we stepped into a different world.
The house smells like flowers and clean air.
Not like smoke and metal back home.
Everything is white, shiny, and clean. The ceiling is so high I feel like it’s going to fall on me if I look at it for too long.
A giant chandelier hangs there, bigger than any lamp I’ve ever seen, dripping with glass pieces that sparkle like stars.
It looks heavy. I keep thinking it might break off and crash down on my head.
Two staircases curve up on each side of the room like two arms trying to hug the whole space. Their carpets are dark green, soft-looking, and the railings twist like vines or snakes. There is a black piano in the corner, polished so well I can see a blurry reflection of myself—small, skinny, tired.
Mrs. Varner’s hand squeezes mine gently and I stiffen without meaning to.
Mr. Varner carries sleeping Natalya up the stairs like she weighs nothing. I follow them silently, my shoes making tiny sounds on the shiny floor.
Every step echoes.
This house feels too big.
We get upstairs, and two doors are ahead of us when Natalya wakes up in Mr. Varner’s arms and looks around, her jaw on the floor. Mrs. Varner gets on one knee to get to my height.
“These are your rooms. You can decorate them any way you want tomorrow. Now go clean your teeth and sleep. It’s late.”
She puts a soft kiss on my forehead and leads us inside.
My room is so big that I feel a little funny standing in the middle of it. There are so many drawers and furniture, windows taller than me and an empty library.
I don’t have anything to fill it with.
The bed on the left side of the room is so wide it could fit all my friends from home. I sit on it, nervously playing with the sheets, but I just can’t see myself falling asleep here—it’s so big and I’m so small.
After a while, I decide to sneak into Natalya’s room and get to her bed instead. It’s so huge she doesn’t even feel I got in. She’s deep asleep.
I scooch on the edge of the other side of the bed and lie down, feeling tired and finally closing my eyes.