We stopped in front of a door marked with her nameplate and a gold cross. Inside, the office was sparsely furnished with a desk, a few battered easy chairs, and an end table. At one side of the room was a bookcase filled with theological works.
Sister Michael Mary gestured for me to sit down in one of the easy chairs and slipped behind her desk. “Young Paul is a very lucky baby boy,” she said, sorting through the files on her desk. “Ah, here is his file. There are very few people who would make this effort to bring him home.”
“It’s what Paul would have wanted,” I said.
There was a knock on the door, and a young nun poked her head in. “Sister, there is a young woman here to see you.”
“Please have her wait in the waiting room, Sister. This is Paul Pak’s – I mean Armstrong’s – adoptive mother, Kay Armstrong. She’s come to take him home today. Tell the young woman gently, but firmly, that I am with a client, and I will be with her as soon as possible.”
“She’s very insistent on seeing you now, Sister.” The young nun sounded flustered. Behind her, a woman’s voice pleaded tearfully in Hangul.
A small Korean woman, in a pink pullover sweater and black pants, pushed past the nun and into Sister Michael Mary’s office. Her hair was cut short just below her ears, and she wore tiny, gold earrings. Her eyes were red from crying.
“I must see woman who being new mother to my baby!” she cried in English, bowing and wiping tears from her eyes.
This was the woman who had slept with my husband, who had carried his child and tried to raise him on her own, and who had sent that handful of money to Paul, hoping against hope that he was going to buy her a house for the three of them to live together in America.
We stared at each other across the room, fascinated at finally seeing each other.
She wasn’t one of the Osan whores who worked the bars preying on lonely servicemen, as I had thought for so many years. She looked intelligent and well dressed. She looked nice.
“Kyung-Wha? What are you doing here?” Sister Michael Mary’s tone was suddenly soft and gentle.
The Korean woman bowed again, then pointed at me. “I need to see woman who being new mother to my baby.”
“How did you know I was here?” I asked.
“Please forgive. You show fortuneteller in Shinjang Mall my baby’s picture. She live in my building. She know my story. She tell me.” Kyung-Wha said, simply. “I had to see you.”
I stepped forward and took her hands in mine. “I’m glad you did. I have wanted to meet you for several years.”
Sister Michael Mary nodded to the young nun who backed out the door, closing it behind her.
“Kyung-Wha, you have given up your rights to this baby,” Sister Michael Mary said gently. “You really shouldn’t be here.”
“Yes, yes. I know,” she replied. “I can not stay away. Please, Miss!” she clasped my hand tighter, her black almond-shaped eyes boring into mine. “Let me tell you why I have baby.”
We both sat down in the easy chairs and Sister Michael Mary returned to her desk.
“I want to ask you forgive,” Kyung-Wha said. “I want you know my story.”
She reached across to my chair and took my hands again. What Kyung-Wha was really reaching across was a divide bigger than an ocean or a continent; she was reaching across two hearts, hers and mine. As I met her gaze, I saw a sadness there that was oddly familiar. We had both loved the same man, she and I; we had given birth to his children, and we had learned of his seemingly congenital unfaithfulness in deeply painful ways. Then finally, we had both lost him.
“What can I say, as mother full of guilt?” she began. “I am mother, without right to be mother. Sending little Paul away is hard, harder than anything I do, ever. But I know you love him. I know he will have life full of love and care and he accepted. He not get that here, because his green eyes and yellow hair mark him outsider here. You know that.”
I nodded, still holding her tiny hands in mine.
“How did you meet Paul?” I asked.
Kyung-Wha smiled briefly. “My parents run small souvenir shop in Shinjang Market, and I worked there. Nice souvenirs, celadon pottery, carved mahogany. It almost four years ago.“
Mentally, I did the math. We had been stationed here then, when Andrew was just a baby. I had agreed to come to Korea for a two-year tour, thinking that if I went with Paul I could keep an eye on him. Stupid me. There had been another woman who worked in the wing, a young lieutenant who was enthralled that a senior pilot would pay attention to her.
“Paul come to shop to buy pottery. I wait on him and think how handsome he is. Tall. Masculine. I very attracted to him and he to me. He asked we meet for coffee later. He never said he had wife and children. For that I am so sorry to you.”
“It’s okay. You weren’t the first.”
“We sit in café, drinking coffee and making sweet talk. I fall in love with him, and that wrong. We see each other when we could. I had to help my parents, who were old, and not like that I see Caucasian. They want me to marry Korean boy they choose for me. He is nice, educated, and could give me good life, but he not Paul. Each time we could, we slip away. I give myself to him willingly, because he promise many things. He bring me back to the United States, where we live together and I go to university. Like a fool, I believe those promises. It is in my weak nature that I do these things. Soon, though, his tour is over, and he going back to the States. He say, ‘I send for you.’ He promise.”
She stopped and wiped her eyes.
“After Paul go, I pregnant. He send me many letters, so I have address and write him about being pregnant. He say he happy I have baby, that he come back and get baby and me and bring us to United States. We get married, he said. I save money, for many months. My parents let me stay with them, even though I pregnant and embarrassment. I stay in the house. I not work in shop anymore, but I save money best way I can. Then, when baby come, I name him Paul. By then, I have much money.“ She made a fist, to signify how much. “I not hear from Paul for several months, so I send picture of little Paul and all my money to him.”
“And I got that letter. I opened it.” I said.
“Yes. Paul write me and tell me he lie to me, that he already have wife and two children. ‘But what am I to do?’ I write back. I never get answer."
Sister Michael Mary spoke up. “Kyung-Wha was like a number of the young women who come to us. She tried for almost a year to raise the child on her own, believing Major Armstrong would return. But in the end, she found it impossible. So when little Paul was how old, Kyung-Wha, about a year?”
Kyung-Wha nodded.
“Yes, just over a year old, she came to us and gave us her son. She knew that she could not raise the boy any longer and that a new family could adopt him and give him the love he deserved.”
“I give Paul to sisters and I go to Seoul to find job in factory. I work there almost a year. Then, my mother gets sick and dies. My father need help with shop, so I come back. The day before I come back, there is horrible plane crash. I learn from newspapers it is Paul.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I know you good woman. Paul say so in last letter, when he say he can no longer keep his promises. He say you good mother to his children and loving wife. I know you be good mother to my baby.” She covered her face, and sobs racked her small body. “When you show picture to fortuneteller, she know it like one I have in my apartment. She tell me you here, that you my son’s father’s wife. I have to see you, to ask you forgive.”
“There is no need for forgiveness. You did nothing wrong. You just loved someone, like I did,” I whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I promise I will be a good mother to your son, Kyung-Wha. For Paul and for you.”
There was a small knock on the door, and the elderly nun I’d seen in the photo Sister Michael Mary sent me, Sister Agnes, poked her head in. "Sister?" she asked.
Michael Mary gestured that she come in, and Agnes stepped into the office, a small boy i
n her arms, clinging desperately to the nun's neck.
"Here is your son," Sister Agnes turned, so we could see his face. Kyung-Wha and I gasped, simultaneously. His face was unmistakably Paul's, despite the yellow skin, the blonde-streaked hair, and almost-round eyes. He wore little jeans with an elastic waistband and a flannel shirt. I couldn't help but remember a similar outfit I dressed Andrew in at that age. P.J. had been in the orphanage so long he didn't recognize his real mother and was clearly unsure of me.
"You are so beautiful!" I cried. I stood up and reached for him then stopped suddenly. Turning back toward Kyung-Wha, I saw she had buried her face in her hands, trying to master her emotions.
I stepped away from the little boy and touched her shoulder. With tear-stained eyes, she looked up at me. "You first. You gave him to me. You should be able to hold him in your arms first."
Kyung-Wha shook her head. "That right not mine anymore. He your son now."
She stood and, with grace and strength, walked up to P.J.. She touched him lightly on his back.
"I wish for you beautiful life, my son. A beautiful life with love and happiness in America." And suddenly, clasping her hand over her mouth to control her emotions, she was gone.
* * *
It was a long flight back. I held my newest son close on my lap, stroking his soft hair as he slept, fingering the alternate strands of dark brown and blonde that marked him as an outcast in his old home.
The circle was now complete.
He was such a beautiful child. How could I have ever rejected this little boy? When he was awake, his green eyes were sharp, crackling with the same intensity and intelligence that had drawn me to his father, overlaid with that inscrutable Oriental calm.
Paul really was a hero after all. Saving this little toddler from the streets of Songtan was probably the most honorable thing Paul ever did. This son, too, would be a hero someday, just like Paul.
But, what about my hero? What about Marcus?
* * *
"P.J., in just a few minutes, we'll be at your new home!" It was early evening, and I began to gather our belongings together. "You're going to meet your big brother, Andy, and your big sister, Lillian. Won't that be exciting?"
Our flight seemed to never end. The legs from Seoul to Los Angeles then Los Angeles to Chicago seemed interminable. Now, on a commuter plane from Chicago to Jubilant Falls, it was ungodly. We were both exhausted, crowded into narrow seats. P.J. cried, from the moment the plane took off, and I could not comfort him. He knew very little English. Sister Michael Mary had taught him a few words like ‘Mommy’ and ‘I love you,’ but everything else was still in his native Hangul. Poor baby, he probably thought he was giving up the safety of the nuns and the orphanage to spend the rest of his life airborne.
"Now, now, now. It's going to be okay. No honey, you can't sit in Mommy's lap right now." Mommy. I stopped and shook my head. I made the leap; the bond was real. He was now my son. "We're landing, and you need to sit in your own seat and buckle in."
His green eyes, in stark contrast to his yellow skin, widened.
"We're almost home, honey."
With a thump, the airplane touched down, and within moments we were taxiing to the gate. Right on time. I slung my purse across one shoulder, lifted P.J. to the other, and joined the other passengers as they shuffled in lock step into the airport.
As I came down the jet port, I saw Marcus.
His tie was loosened to the middle of his chest, and Andrew and Lillian were clutching his hands excitedly. Squealing in delight, the children broke away from him and ran to me.
"Mom! Mom! Is this P.J.? Hi, P.J.! Did you know that Marcus is really cool? Novella said he once saved his boss's life, and he’s done all sorts of cool things!" Andrew and Lillian's excited sentences ran so together, I couldn't tell them apart.
Marcus watched as I hugged the children in turn and introduced them to their new baby brother.
"Hello!" he said uncertainly.
I hiked P.J. further up my hip. "Hello."
"I called your mother's house."
"It's my house now, Marcus. Mother is still hospitalized."
"I know. Novella told me everything. I'm sorry.”
I shook my head. "It would have come out sooner or later. We just happened to be the ones who got the ball rolling. If anyone is to blame, though, it's Lovey."
Marcus hung his head and nodded, scuffing one shoe against the other. An uncomfortable silence surrounded us, as the other passengers rushed by.
"Marcus, aren't you gonna say hello to P.J.?" Andrew asked.
"So this is P.J., eh?" Marcus reached for the toddler, but I pulled back, unsure of his motives. This baby would not be a stepping-stone back to me, no matter how badly I wanted Marcus back in my life.
Marcus scuffed his shoes again. "Listen, Kay, these last few months have been very hard on me. I've been holed up at my folk's house, and, hell, I even thought I could fall in love with someone else. There's a very beautiful woman in a small town that hates my guts right about now. But it was all wrong, Kay, it was wrong for both of us. I’ve been trying to make sense of why none of it worked, but the only reason I can come up with for staying away is my own ignorance. I can't live without you. Part of you will always be the major's wife, and I've accepted that now. That includes P.J. here. Please, Kay, can we try again?"
"Yes, Mom! Say yes!" Andrew and Lillian bounced up and down.
Tears began to well in my eyes, and I smiled. He was back. The old fortuneteller was right. The circle was now complete.
Once again, mirae, a rendezvous with the decades to come. Marcus and these three children were my future. And it was all coming together, here and now.
"Yes, Marcus, yes."
We reached for each other this time, the five of us joining together in a group hug, knowing that we were beginning a new chapter as a new family. And this time, I knew we could make it.
Suddenly, a shout rang out from down the corridor:
"It's started! They're bombing Baghdad!"
Marcus and I stared at each other in disbelief and joined the throng of passengers running toward the television set, mounted high above the airport bar.
I was mesmerized, frozen in my tracks, staring at the televised map of Iraq, as the newscaster’s voice described the sights and sounds of the massive bombardment underway.
Someone in the crowd, a young man, filled with all the imperviousness of youth, called out. "All right! Let's kick some Arab ass!"
"I fly a thousand miles to smoke a camel!" another young man’s voice answered.
Passengers around him did not laugh.
Fear rose and fell like the tide in the pit of my stomach, as I recalled the thousands of training missions Paul had flown. The UEIs, the ORIs, the dangerous missions, the deadly night flying, the exercises upon exercises: this was why they did it. This was the real thing.
I turned to Marcus, hoping to find the same fear within his eyes.
"Fight's on," I whispered, using some of Paul's old cockpit slang.
"The major would have wanted to be there, no doubt." Marcus draped one arm around P.J. and me, the other arm around Andrew and Lillian.
"Yes, he would have."
"Something tells me this was what he lived for, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"It never leaves you, does it? The military life?"
"No, I guess not."
"Let's build on that then."
Acknowledgements
There are many people who made this work possible.
First and foremost, I would like to thank my family – husband Greg, son Scott, and daughter Rebecca, who endured cold meals, late nights, and insufferable flights of fancy, as this novel began to take shape in a small, concrete-block, base house at Eglin Air Force Base, Florida.
Four years later, at Langley Air Force Base, Virginia, I presented this story to the members of the Williamsburg Writer’s Block critique group,
who gave measured and valuable criticism as the novel continued to develop and weren’t afraid to tell me when I wrote crap; for that I am eternally grateful. Mary, Reba, Marlene, Carla, and Jane, you saw the early drafts of this work and inspired me to keep going when I thought I should give it all up and go to welding school.
To family and friends, who were never sure about this very different road I traveled down, but who loved me nonetheless, thanks.
And finally to Bob, the one who believed in me when everyone else said he was crazy.
About the author
Debra Gaskill is an award-winning journalist with more than 20 years experience in newspapers in Ohio. She has an associate’s degree in liberal arts from Thomas Nelson Community College in Hampton, Va., a bachelor’s degree in English and journalism from Wittenberg University and a master of fine arts degree in creative writing from Antioch University.
She and her husband Greg, a retired Air Force lieutenant colonel, reside in Enon, where they raise llamas and alpacas on their farm. They have two adult children and one grandson.
She is the author of three other Jubilant Falls novels, Barn Burner, Lethal Little Lies and Murder on the Lunatic Fringe, slated for release in 2014.
Connect with Debra on her website at www.debragaskillnovels.com or on her blog, http://debragaskill.wordpress.com. You can also connect with her on Twitter at @Debra Gaskill.
If you liked The Major’s Wife, please leave a review on Amazon.com or the website where you purchased the book. Your support is greatly appreciated!
The Major's Wife (Jubilant Falls series Book 2) Page 23