The Yellow Sock: An Adoption Story

by Angela Hunt

  In July, Megan was checking her makeup in the lady’s room at church when a pregnant friend came in to wash her hands. “We felt the baby kick yesterday,” she said, catching Megan’s eye in the mirror. “Michael ran over to get the video camera, and we could actually see the little guy kicking.”

  Megan nodded. “That’s nice.”

  The woman’s gaze dropped to Megan’s flat stomach, then her mouth wobbled in a poor imitation of a smile.

  “So—have you adopted that baby yet?”

  As if babies grew on trees! Megan bit back a caustic answer and shook her head. “No,” she said, forcing a smile. “It takes a long time. We’ve been waiting nearly a year, and we might have to wait many months more.”

  The friend lifted her brow in surprise. “Really? Gosh, with all the people who don’t want babies and abuse them, you’d think it’d be easy to get one.”

  The corner of Megan’s mouth twisted. “It’s not.” Excusing herself, she left the ladies’ room.

  On July 13, Megan marked the one year anniversary of their “we will have no babies day” with a glass of orange juice in her kitchen. She sat alone at the breakfast table, the newspaper at her left hand, a breakfast pastry at her right.

  Another year of waiting lay beyond the horizon, and she steeled herself to face it. She had recently read a quote from Samuel Johnson. He called sorrow “a kind of rust of the soul,” that could be “remedied by exercise and motion.”

  She knew exactly what he meant. The home study experience had been difficult, but she’d found pleasure in it, for she was doing something to bring her child home. Now she could do nothing but wait, and inactivity chafed at her rusty, sorrowful soul . . . as did guilt. She was a Christian, she was supposed to have joy and faith, but both seemed as elusive as quicksilver.

  What did God want of her? Did he want her to quit her job to demonstrate faith that she’d soon be a mother? She’d quit in a minute, but it seemed foolish to sit home doing nothing when she could be earning money they’d need when they became a one-income family. And God was not the author of foolishness.

  Sighing, she picked up her newspaper and shook it open. Nothing to do but wait.

  Chapter Seven

  The high-pitched warble of the bedside telephone shattered the predawn stillness. Megan sat up, as awake as if she’d been slapped from sleep by an invisible hand. She peered at the digital clock and read the glowing numerals: 5:45.

  No one ever called with good news at this hour.

  The room shifted dizzily as she reached for the phone. “Hello?”

  She had expected to hear her mother’s voice, instead a man spoke her name over a weak connection.

  “Yes,” she said, strengthening her voice. “This is Megan Wingfield.” Beside her, Dave stirred, then lifted his head.

  “Megan, this is Joe Hogan.”

  Megan pushed a hank of hair out of her face and struggled to place the name. She had known a Joe Hogan in high school—they’d attended the same church, then he’d gone off to college and seminary. The last bit of news about Joe Hogan had him going overseas to be a missionary somewhere . . .

  “Joe Hogan--from my church?” She tried to keep the disbelief from her voice.

  Joe laughed. “Bet you didn’t think you’ve be hearing from me in the middle of the night, did you?”

  Dave tugged on her arm. “Who’s Joe?”

  She gestured toward the lamp, feeling that somehow things might make sense if she weren’t having this conversation in the dark. Light flooded the room as she asked, “Joe, why are you calling me?”

  He laughed again. “This may sound crazy, Megan, but I’ll come right to the point. You probably know my wife and I are missionaries in South Korea—“

  She hadn’t known, but she let him continue.

  “—and yesterday someone left a baby on our doorstep. This happens fairly often, you know, but it’s never happened to us. Some of the nationals here think all Americans are rich, therefore, life with a rich American has to be good. Anyway, Susan and I were praying about it, and your name popped into my head. I’m pretty sure the Lord put it there.”

  “You thought of me? For a baby?”

  Megan stared at Dave. She needed a minute to orient herself—no, she needed an hour. This was too sudden, too unreal. There was no earthly reason why Joe Hogan, a man she hadn’t spoken to or thought of in years, should wake her in the middle of the night with news of a baby.

  Why her? Why now? And why that baby?

  “Joe,” confusion clotted her voice, “I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

  The line hissed with silence, then, “Don’t you know?”

  Megan hesitated, blinking with bafflement. What was she supposed to do? She and Dave had investigated international adoption, but the expense had been prohibitive. They couldn’t afford to pursue international adoption last year, and they certainly couldn’t afford it now.

  “Don’t you want a baby?” Joe’s voice filled her ear, insistent and strong. “I’m sure you’re the one I was supposed to call.”

  “Yes.” She whispered the word. “Yes, but things are so complicated. We’re already on a waiting list here in Alta Vista.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Joe went on, as cheerfully as if he were discussing the weather, “but I’m going to see what I have to do from this end to have this little girl declared adoptable. You do what you have to from your end—and don’t worry about a thing in the mean time. Susan and I will take care of her until things work out. We think she’s about three months old, and she’s a real sweetheart.”

  Megan nodded numbly into the phone. “Okay, Joe. We’ll be in touch.”

  “What was that all about?” Dave asked as she hung up.

  Megan gave him a bewildered smile. “Joe Hogan, a guy I went to church with years ago, is a missionary in Korea. He and his wife found a three-month-old on their doorstep. They seem to think we are supposed to adopt her.”

  Dave snorted softly as he lay back down and punched his pillow. “Was our name pinned onto the kid’s diaper or something?”

  “Something like that,” Megan answered softly, reaching over him to switch off the lamp.

  She returned to her pillow, but her whirling thoughts wouldn’t let her sleep. Someone must have written the Hogans and mentioned that she and Dave were waiting to adopt. It was no secret—Megan had encouraged her friends to share the news, because you never knew when someone might hear of a frightened pregnant girl who could not mother a child. Obviously, the Hogans had heard the story, so when they found this baby they naturally thought of her and Dave.

  But she’d had her hopes dashed too many times to pin them on a baby half a world away. A few weeks before, a pregnant girl who called herself Jillian had wandered into a local maternity home and applied for free care. While church members scurried to find her a place to live and a job with which she could support herself, the girl made all sorts of references to kind of family she wanted to adopt her baby. She wanted Christian parents for her child, a couple who had been married at least three years, a family who loved animals and would let the child have a dog . . .

  A friend called Megan, of course, and she’d let her hopes rise, even arranging to take Jillian to lunch for a friendly let’s-get-to-know-each-other meeting. Two hours before the lunch, however, one of the girls from the church office called with devastating news. There would be no baby. Jillian’s pregnancy was nothing more than a sweater tucked under her dress. They might never have known if one of the other ladies hadn’t seen a cardigan fall onto the floor when Jillian entered a bathroom stall . . . and realized that Jillian hadn’t been wearing a sweater in the summer heat.

  Megan turned onto her side, pillowing her cheek on her hand. “Why now, God?” she whispered. “If this is from you, why today and not yesterday? Why is the baby in Korea and not Virginia? And why would you lead us away from a low-cost adoption to an expensive situation we can’t possibly afford?”

  She lis
tened with her heart as well as her ears, but heard no answers in the soft gray twilight.

  Belinda had no answers, either. “I mentioned before that we don’t do international adoptions,” she said when Megan called from work. “But I’m pretty sure you can use the home study we’ve prepared. In most international adoptions, you work with two agencies—one in the child’s country of origin and one licensed in the United States. You’ll have to find out which area agency works with Korea, and you’ll have to be sure the child is registered with a Korean agency who will work with the American agency. I can offer the home study I’ve written—which might save you time and money—and they may allow me to do the follow-up visits. But I can’t handle any of the actual arrangements for this Korean child. It’s not my jurisdiction.”

  More confused than ever, Megan hung up, then called her mother, who responded to the story with more enthusiasm than Megan felt. “God is working,” her mother said, her voice filled with hope and a note of awe. “I knew He would. And He will take care of everything until that little baby is home with you.”

  “I’m just not sure, Mom.” Megan stared at the veterinary office clock as she wrapped the phone cord around her wrist. “How do I know this is from the Lord? It could all fall apart tomorrow—“

  “Ask Joe to send you pictures,” her mother interrupted. “And start thinking of a name. This is a real little girl, Meg, and she’s waiting. Stop looking at the obstacles, and think of the child. She’s alive. She’s in Joe’s house. And she needs a home.”

  Buoyed by her mother’s confidence, Megan disconnected the call. A thrill shivered through her senses. Could this be the child they’d been waiting for?

  Ignoring Laurie’s curious glance, Megan picked up the phone book, then scribbled down the number for the church office. After speaking to the receptionist, she was transferred to the missions pastor, who gave her the Hogans’ phone number in Korea.

  “You should probably wait until early evening to call,” the pastor reminded her. “The time difference, you know.”

  She laughed. “I know. And thanks.”

  The day dragged by with remarkable slowness. At four o’clock, Megan grabbed her purse and ran out the door. At five, with Dave sitting beside her, she placed the long distance call to Korea.

  “Susan?” she asked when a woman answered. “This is Megan Wingfield.”

  “Megan!” Susan’s voice was warm and compassionate. “I’ve been thinking about you.” In the background, Megan could hear the sound of children laughing. Not the baby—she’d be too young. Susan and Joe must have other children.

  “We’re going to do whatever we must to make this adoption work,” Megan said, smiling at Dave. “And we appreciate you taking care of the baby while we wait.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can,” Susan answered, a smile in her voice. “My boys love her. She’s a little angel.”

  The sound of a baby’s gurgle echoed over the phone line, and Megan’s heart clenched at the sound of it. “Is that—“

  “Yes,” Susan answered softly. “She’s right here, on my shoulder.”

  Megan thought she might burst from the sudden swell of happiness that rose in her chest. “Will you,” she pushed the words out, “will you call her Danielle Li? And will you send pictures? I’ll reimburse you for the postage and film—“

  “There’s no need for that,” Susan interrupted. “Just do whatever you have to, and we’ll do the same on this end. I have a feeling she’ll be home very soon.”

  “Thank you.” A hot, exultant tear trickled down Megan’s cheek. “You’ll never know what you’ve done for us.”

  Four days later, after a series of frantic calls, Megan and Dave sat in the lounge of the Washington, D.C. office of Welcome Home, an international adoption agency with official ties to South Korea. Though the office was nearly a five hour drive from their house, the agency served Virginia, Maryland, and the District of Columbia.

  Megan clutched the folder on her lap—it contained a letter from Belinda Bishop, a sealed copy of their home study report, their birth certificates, and a copy of their marriage license. In her purse, safely tucked away, she carried an application for a second mortgage on their home—a logical, practical answer to their financial dilemma. As soon as they knew how much the adoption would cost, they planned to apply for a loan.

  Megan felt edgy after the four-hour drive from Alta Vista. The last thing she wanted to do was sit in a waiting room, but from this point every day counted. She was no longer waiting on a nebulous, chimerical child—she was working for a little girl living temporarily with the Hogans in Seoul, South Korea.

  Megan ached to work the rust off her soul.

  The door to the inner office finally opened. A tall, slender woman stepped out and shook their hands, introducing herself as Helen Gresham, a senior social worker for Welcome Home.

  Megan nearly collapsed in relief at the sight of Helen’s gentle demeanor and sparkling blue eyes. She hadn’t realized how nervous she was until she sat before Helen’s desk and the tension went out of her shoulders.

  “I understand that you’ve done quite a bit of the work for us,” Helen said, lowering herself into the worn leather chair behind her cluttered desk. “This is an unusual situation, but everything seems in order. I don’t really foresee any problems, but I have to ask you a few questions.” She smiled as she caught Megan’s gaze. “You understand.”

  Megan nodded. “Of course.” She felt as though she had been answering questions for the last year. She no longer had a private life, secrets, or untold confessions. She’d relay any detail of her past life if doing so would bring finally their baby home.

  She reached for Dave’s hand and held it as they again answered questions about their families, their backgrounds, and their marriage. During the session, the door to Helen’s door opened and an Asian woman entered, dropped a pile of mail on the social worker’s desk, and slipped away.

  Helen looked up and paused a moment to riffle through the mail. Her smile broadened as she picked up an envelope. “I had hoped this would come,” she said, opening the letter. “Would you like to see a picture?”

  Megan held her breath as Helen pulled a photograph free of its paper clip and passed it across the desk. Dave reached for the picture first, but he leaned over and held it in front of Megan’s eyes.

  The child was simply beautiful. Fair-skinned, with dark black hair that stood up like a Mohawk in the center of her head. Chubby and healthy-looking, her little belly strained at the seams of a sleeveless sun suit. Someone had propped up in a little painted chair, and a place card beside her leg read Danielle Li Wingfield.

  Megan swallowed hard and bit back tears.

  “Your friends,” Helen said, her eyes scanning the letter, “have listed the child with the Southern Child Welfare Agency, our partner in Seoul. They are serving as her foster parents, and the people at Southern are handling the child’s paperwork. Everything seems to be in order.”

  Megan could scarcely tear her gaze from the picture. Never again would her imagination conjure up faceless images of infants; her child had a name and a beautiful, round-cheeked face!

  She reached out and touched the photo. From across the miles, a little piece of her daughter had come home.

  “If I were you,” Helen said, glancing at her watch, “I’d head straight down to the Immigration office. The lines there can be terribly long, and we can’t bring her over until you’ve done all the INS requires.”

  Megan clutched her folder to her chest. “We’ll go now.”

  Helen smiled and held out her hand. “I’m sorry, but I need the photo for the file. Would you like me to make you a copy?”

  Megan would have nodded, but Dave returned the picture and stood. “Thank you, Ms. Gresham, but our friends in Korea are sending a packet of pictures. They’re probably waiting at home.”

  After thanking Helen and taking one last look at her daughter, Megan hurried after him.

  They reach
ed the INS office at one o’clock. Megan took one glance at the crowd occupying every available chair and bench, then took a number from the dispenser on the wall. Their number was 409. The digital readout above the main desk told her they were assisting whoever held number 335.

  “I think we have time to get lunch,” Dave said, his voice dry. “It’s going to be a while.”

  Megan waved to catch the attention of a uniformed staffer walking by. “Is it always like this?”

  The woman didn’t bat an eye. “Immigration? We’re the busiest office in the district.”

  Reluctantly, Megan agreed lunch was a good idea, but she insisted they go someplace with quick food. After walking about two blocks, they found a little mom and pop joint and ordered hamburgers and fries. After wolfing down one of the biggest burgers Megan had ever seen in her life, she took Dave’s hand and dragged him back to the INS office. The clock said one-thirty; the digital counter had moved forward to number 350.

  Torn between relief that they’d made it back in time and consternation at the slow pace, Megan settled into a worn wooden chair. If she’d known the afternoon would turn into a marathon waiting session, she’d have brought a magazine or book. Then again, she thought, studying the assorted people in the waiting area, she probably would be too distracted to concentrate.

  Amazing, the number and variety of people that came to America. Waiting with her were women in Indian saris, men in suits, babies tied in slings around their mother’s necks. Like her, each of them clutched a folder of documents and the tiny rip-off number, a ticket to hope and the chance for a new life.

  As the afternoon wore on, Megan found herself feeling rusty and frustrated again. She frowned as she glanced at the clock. She had no reason to rush back to Alta Vista, but surely the INS office closed at four-thirty or five. What would she and Dave do if they didn’t see someone today? They had planned to drive home tonight, so they didn’t have a hotel room or even a change of clothes . . .