A Long Way from Home: Part 1 of 3
The true story of 2 year-old Anna, abandoned by her natural parents, left alone in a neglected orphanage.Elaine and Ian had travelled half way round the world to adopt little Anna. She couldn’t have been more wanted, loved and cherished. So why was she now in foster care and living with me? It didn’t make sense.Until I learned what had happened. …Dressed only in nappies and ragged T-shirts the children were incarcerated in their cots. Their large eyes stared out blankly from emaciated faces. Some were obviously disabled, others not, but all were badly undernourished. Flies circled around the broken ceiling fans and buzzed against the grids covering the windows. The only toys were a few balls and a handful of building bricks, but no child played with them. The silence was deafening and unnatural. Not one of the thirty or so infants cried, let alone spoke.
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Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.
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First published by HarperElement 2018
FIRST EDITION
© Cathy Glass 2018
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photograph © Elly De Vries/Arcangel (posed by model)
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008275891
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008275921
Version: 2018-09-13
A big thank you to my family; my editors, Carolyn and Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; my UK publishers HarperCollins, and my overseas publishers who are now too numerous to list by name. Last, but definitely not least, a big thank you to my readers for your unfailing support and kind words. They are much appreciated.
Some stories have to wait to be told to gain the full picture and a better understanding of what happened. Anna’s story is one of them.
Chapter One
Although the children weren’t babies, they appeared as helpless as the day they were born. Dressed only in nappies and ragged T-shirts, they were sitting or lying on the hard floors, or incarcerated in their cots. Their large eyes stared out blankly from emaciated faces. Some children were obviously disabled, others not, but all were badly undernourished and clearly developmentally delayed. The four rooms in the orphanage were hot and airless in the middle of summer. Flies circled around the broken ceiling fans and buzzed against the grids covering the windows. The only toys in any of the rooms were a few balls and a handful of building bricks, but no child played with them. And the silence was deafening and unnatural. Not one of the thirty or so infants cried, let alone spoke.
‘This nice one,’ the care worker said in broken English, pausing at a cot containing a Down’s syndrome boy. ‘He no give you trouble.’
Elaine looked with renewed horror at the child rocking back and forth in the cot. A few wisps of fair hair covered his otherwise bald head, open sores bled on his lips and his face was so pale it was doubtful he had ever felt the sunlight. He stared blankly into the distance. Elaine went to speak to him but the care worker was already moving briskly to the next cot. ‘Or this one,’ she said, tapping the metal bars of the cot and ignoring the fact that the child had been sick.
Elaine fought back tears and looked to her husband to say something.
Ian cleared his throat. The care worker – a large, brusque woman – seemed to be in charge. He didn’t know what role she played and didn’t want to upset her and risk their chance of a child. ‘I’m sorry, we don’t understand,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘We were supposed to adopt a particular child. She’s called Lana. We have a photograph of her here in our paperwork.’ He went to unclip his briefcase.
The care worker tapped his arm. ‘No. No. Lana, that baby dead. You choose another baby. We have plenty.’
Elaine’s hand shot to her mouth. ‘Dead? When?’ she cried.
‘We weren’t told,’ Ian said.
The care worker shrugged. ‘You on plane.’
‘She died yesterday?’ Elaine asked, horrified.
‘Maybe too late to tell you. You choose another baby. Plenty. Over here.’ She led the way to another cot on the far side of the room.
‘I want to go,’ Elaine said, taking Ian’s arm.
‘We are leaving,’ he said to the care worker, who was waiting for them by the cot.
‘You come here and see baby. Talk to it.’
‘No!’ Elaine cried.
‘You no want baby?’ the care worker asked, a mixture of incredulity and impatience.
‘Not like this,’ Ian said. ‘We came here for Lana and you tell us she is dead. We are very upset.’
‘But you can choose another baby,’ she said, as though they were in the wrong.
‘No,’ Ian said firmly. ‘We can’t.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said, clearly offended. Leaving the cot, she headed out of the room and towards the main door, a bunch of keys jangling at her hip. They followed. ‘Lots of other parents come here and take our babies,’ she snapped.
