by John Warley
I caught a cab back, bypassing the orphanage and heading straight to the offices of Dr. Lee, who treated our wards. He ran a high-volume clinic, but always managed to find a way to move me to the head of a long line. As I lingered at his shoulder, he unwrapped layers of rough, cheap cloth until she lay naked on the table, a crude incision of the umbilical cord just beginning to heal.
“About three weeks old, I think,” he said, bending over her. “A bit premature.”
My eye caught the small rectangular paper pinned to the cloth. “The child has a name,” I said, examining the Hangol. “Soo Yun.” Dr. Lee took no notice, repositioning his stethoscope on her inflamed chest.
“I’ll give you something for the fever,” he said. “If she isn’t better in a day or two, bring her back.”
After slipping the paper on which her name was printed into the same pocket holding the mirror, I discarded her wraps and swaddled her in a surgical gown I promised Dr. Lee I’d return. Then I stuffed her into my coat for the walk to the orphanage, two blocks away. Looking back, I feel sure something changed in those two blocks. Most of the abandoned children came without names. The staff took turns naming them. As it was a task I disliked, I pulled rank as supervisor of Ward 3E and skipped my turn in the naming rotation. Some came without even clothes. This one had not only a name but a mirror, and I couldn’t remember any of our foundlings arriving with a possession. From my brief examination of the mirror, it was hardly of the best quality, but if this child came from the impoverishment signaled by her crude clothes, her mother gave something up in sending it. Sending them.
A sucker for children, I told friends who asked that I took the job at Open Arms Orphanage eight years ago because I had always wanted fifty children and this seemed like the only practical way to have them. They were my life, as anyone who came to my pathetic apartment and met my needy cat, Bo-cat, knew. I was rarely at home, and not for the reasons most women twenty-nine were away. I hadn’t had a date in over a year. Physically, I was what you would call “plain.” I knew this and had reconciled myself to it. I blamed my parents for my boxy build, my flat chest, my rugby calves, and uninspired features. We can’t all be movie stars. But if I was honest enough to admit my shortcomings, I stated with equal sincerity that I was one damn fine nurse. I could tell you the name of every child on my ward and their birthdays, whether those birthdays were real or the ones we guessed at. I knew their histories. I knew their fears and their favorite foods. I rejoiced when they left and I cried when they left. I also cried when they stayed, as so many did, until they aged into the next grouping, where their chances for placement diminished each year. It broke my heart to see a child without a family. But while they were in my care, they knew love and compassion and support. I couldn’t give them everything, but I could give them that.
That little peanut inside my coat weighed barely two kilograms. Her lungs sought air by the thimbleful. Tiny Soo Yun with the mirror, whose fevered pulse I felt pumping up against me. What would become of her? I asked myself that question about each of my children, but I had not been at the home long enough to test my instincts against results. When I started on Ward 3E, the oldest children, now fourteen, were six. I projected wonderful futures for them, the way you do when you are young and idealistic and lack experience. With my help, each would become a ballerina, a tennis champion, a teacher, a doctor, a mother. Soo Yun was too young to forecast any such future. First, she had to breathe. Next, she must be adopted. Lastly, she must be inspired. Soil, water, light; the elements of survival, and without all three she may find herself, years from now, the drug-crazed landlady of a large-appliance box in the armpit of a sweltering city. Or perhaps a life spent shuffling home from a corner market in an afternoon drizzle of mediocrity, where the umbrellas will be all black, the faces yellow, the packages beige, where she will wonder if others are able to perceive color in a universe that for her holds no interesting contrast, and where the first arresting sound she heard was also the last, that of her mother’s retreating footsteps. No. No. No. Not for Soo Yun with her mirror. I realize now that in that walk of two blocks, I reached an unknown and perhaps unknowable resolve that her fate would be different. She was special, but in what ways I did not yet know.
I arrived back at Ward 3E just before the evening shift, which consisted of … me. I often pulled double shifts, both because we had trouble staffing a facility like that and because I loved the work. Orphanage policy required a minimum of two adults during the day, but during the evening and at night, we could make do with one. And if another ward, stretched thin by vacations or illness, needed relief, I could work both. I know. I was obsessed.
I handed Soo Yun to my aide to be bathed, powdered and fed, then placed in the crib prepared by my aide in my absence. Preparation consisted of moving the other two infants occupying the same crib. The nursery had never been this crowded. If we got another call from Jongam, I would have had to take her home to sleep with Bo-cat. My office, otherwise known as the supply closet, was just off the ward. I slipped in long enough to put the mirror and name tag into a drawer. By the time I left at midnight, Soo Yun’s fever had dropped and she appeared to be sleeping restfully.
Open Arms is an international adoption agency headquartered in the United States. My boss, Faith Stockdale, was in charge here. The next morning, a woman on Faith’s staff photographed Soo Yun and interviewed me regarding anything I knew about her abandonment. Meager as it was, my account was placed in a new file along with the photograph, to be used as the basis for a temporary custody proceeding by the orphanage. Faith also compiled dossiers to be sent to prospective parents in the U.S., where most of our children were placed. I made a mental note to speak to Faith about Soo Yun, but with Winter Open House just days away, I forgot.
We held Open House quarterly. It reminded the local patrons and churches that we appreciated their financial support and, frankly, that we needed more. Spring Open House, held before chang-ma, the rainy season, drew the largest crowds. Large turnouts reassured the children they had not been forgotten. Winter Open House generated the fewest visitors, but the work and preparation that went into it was the same. Our entire staff reported early. We stripped the beds and substituted clean sheets smelling of warm bleach. We draped the freshly made beds in the navy blue-and-white spreads reserved for special occasions. We used ammonia by the bucketfuls, giving the floors an antiseptic scrubbing. A local flower shop donated fresh flowers; carnations, gladiolus, and lilac brightened the room in festive contrast to the beige of the walls.
Since the oldest child on 3E was six, any Open House can and usually did degenerate into something close to a kiddie flash mob. Children ran up and down aisles, between and under beds, around corners at full throttle. Squeals of terror—usually happy terror—echoed as tag and “gotcha” erupted. We did our best to keep things from getting too chaotic, but kids will be kids and when they are being scrutinized for adoption, that is exactly what prospective parents want to see. I have visited orphanages where the children are made to appear rigid and lifeless. They feel to me like dog pounds where the animals have been drugged. The girls tend to be less rambunctious. With some exceptions, they spent their mornings outfitting their dolls in holiday garb and propping them prominently on pillows for the best view.
The nursery was separated from the beds of the toddlers by a windowed wall. For that Open House, our generous florist sent an arrangement of fresh-cut orchids in a vase bedecked with yellow ribbons spangled with glitter. I placed this by the nurses’ station guarding the door. The nursery itself looked like it did on any other day.
At nine-thirty, the administrator of the home, Yong Tae Shin, inspected my ward. A retired military officer with a ramrod, dignified gait, a dark complexion, and a full head of silver hair, he gave my kids his standard speech.
“Our guests will be here shortly. Remember your manners. Those of you who have ‘Projections’ will kindly display them in the proper fashion. Be friendly to our guests. They
are like family to us.”
Yes, a family of sorts. Not like mine, of course. Not the kind that taped your school drawings to the refrigerator and made certain you got on the same soccer team as your friends and attended recitals when you barely knew the scales. But family in its own unique and desperate way.
As the administrator moved to the next ward, my children opened their lockers and removed papers, pictures and crafts, spreading them on their beds for maximum exposure. At ten o’clock, the elevator doors opened to deliver the first arrivals. Most of the guests came from Christian churches in and around Seoul. The overwhelming majority were Koreans, older people who mirrored the aging populations of churches generally, and with no link to or relationship with the children beyond this outreach program. Many were grandparents.
That morning’s group appeared typical. Women predominated, with graying heads and wrinkled faces, clutching plastic bags of candy and fruit to be distributed over the course of their one-hour stay. They dressed in western clothes, frequently with crosses suspended on gold chains from their necks or pinned to lapels. A number were paired, arm in arm, as they fanned out. The children waited with an awkward, reluctant fidget, the way they might receive a distant relative determined to hug them.
I spotted the Parks, an elderly couple who had attended every open house since I’d been employed at the home. Mr. Park, a stooping, grandfatherly man with an easy smile, wore a dark business suit while his wife dressed in colorful traditional silks. Mr. Park held the post of senior warden of the largest Presbyterian church in Seoul and was among the orphanage’s most generous benefactors. He rarely spoke on these visits, yielding to his quite talkative wife, but he tousled the hair of every child within his reach. I’ve been told the Parks have thirty-one grandchildren.
From the back of the elevator came two couples who drew my immediate interest. A man of medium height, slender build and rigid posture wore a military uniform, the silver bars of a first lieutenant shining on his epaulets. His wife, roughly of equal height in her heels, wore a pale blue wool suit with a vivid scarf and a broach of circled pearls over the breast. The other couple was older, perhaps late thirties or early forties. They held hands as they walked and murmured to each other. Both couples were Americans.
The visitors began to mingle among the children, who remained standing by their beds. Visitors initiated introductions. The children old enough to attend preschool practiced their responses for a week preceding each open house. They extended their hands, made their best effort at eye contact, then bowed slightly at the waist. Visitors had been instructed to return the handshake and bow as reinforcement to the child’s training but to avoid hugging or other manifestations of intimacy on first contact. These opening moments always produced strain. Five and six-year-olds, particularly those experiencing their first open house, tensed with the approach of strangers and remained so for several minutes, as if their performance was being graded by unseen jurors.
Questions were tricky in this setting. Clearly, the child’s background was latent with potential embarrassment. To combat the shoe-shuffling silence after introductions, the administration instituted a practice called “projections.”
Projections allowed each child to express, by means of a creation, a symbol or an artifact placed at the foot of the navy blue-and-white bedspread, a measure of talent, ability, or interest. The beds displayed an eclectic collection of drawings in pencil, paintings in watercolor, baseball bats, sheet music, basketball sneakers, ballet slippers, library books, dolls, a flute, even a calculator exhibited by one of our six-year-olds who was precocious in math. We discouraged stuffed animals among the older children but permitted them to the toddlers.
After introductions, adults asked about the child’s projections to further break the ice and to avoid questions that might lead to hard answers; life-claiming auto accidents, parents-consuming house fires, or careless abandonments. As a source of questions for visitors and pride for the children, projections eased and enriched open house. But, as I well knew, there was a darker rationale for this practice.
I made it a habit to greet visitors with polite efficiency, resisting my natural urge to be overly outgoing. There was nothing worse in this setting than appearing like a salesperson on commission. I teased the children, reacted when they teased back, and always tried to pan the room for a child who lacked a visitor.
As I approached the older of the two American couples, I signaled the interpreter on duty. After an exchange of names, the woman introduced as Mrs. Jennings related their reason for visiting. I recognized only the words “Korean” and “Pittsburgh.”
My interpreter translated. “They have two adopted children, both from our country. They wish to adopt another. They are visiting from Pittsburgh and wish to select a child while they are here. She is most concerned that the child be compatible with the two at home.”
I nodded, asking the interpreter, “What are the ages and sex of the two at home?” Mrs. Jennings, a plump woman with stiffly coiffed hair and an ample bosom, smiled pleasantly as I got my answer.
“She says they have boys, ages three and seven.”
“And are they looking for a particular child?”
“They would like a girl, age four or five.”
“Very well,” I said. “We have many here. Let’s take a stroll through the ward.”
I steered the group to a cot on which a girl sat fingering her pillow case. A pair of old women had just departed. I approached the girl, reached down for her hand, and grasped it gently in my own.
“This is Eun,” I said. “She has been with us for three years. She was five in November. Eun, this is Mr. and Mrs. Jennings from the United States.”
Eun rose and extended a tentative hand to Mr. Jennings, then to his wife. Mrs. Jennings smiled. “What a pretty girl you are.” The interpreter translated. “And what have we here?” She pointed to the jump-rope at the end of the bed.
The girl darted around the bed and seized the rope. “I’m the best. I can do one hundred without a miss.” She stepped away from the bed and began skipping. The rope hit the tile with a rapid-fire “thwap” and her blue-black hair in a pageboy cut lifted on the sides with each descent. The Jennings looked at each other, then applauded. Eun let the rope slack to the floor. Then, slightly winded, she resumed her seat on the bed.
Mrs. Jennings beamed with what I thought to be excessive broadness—a bad omen for Eun. “That was wonderful.” Then she paused. “What about the piano, dear? Do you have any interest in music? I just love music in the house.”
Eun listened to the interpretation, then looked toward me before shaking her head. “I like to be outside.”
Mrs. Jennings smiled again. “You’re so right. Practicing inside on a beautiful day is just no fun, is it?”
No, it wasn’t, Eun agreed as the Jennings again shook hands and moved on to the next bunk. More cots. More handshakes. More smiles. At the flute player, a girl with a narrow face and close-set, intense eyes, they lingered. For the first time, the Jennings raised the subject of their sons.
“And what would you think of having brothers?” Mrs. Jennings asked. The girl gave an imperceptible shrug and remained expressionless. The Jennings exchanged glances and moved on. At the next row, Mrs. Jennings saw a young girl hovering over the small electronic keyboard at the end of her bed. She studied the child, her head tilted slightly to the side, before turning to me. “What about that one? We missed her.”
I had to be honest. “She has a brother here. He is twelve. We attempt to keep brothers and sisters together. If you were interested in both …”
Mrs. Jennings laid her hand on my forearm. “You’re right. It would be tragic to separate them.”
As the Jennings finished their tour, the American lieutenant signaled me. For some time, he and his wife had been seated in chairs lining the wall that separated the nursery from the dormitory area. He glanced often at his watch. Evidently, he had been waiting for the interpreter, who joined us
.
“You’re in charge?” he asked me.
“I am. This is my ward. May I be of service?”
The lieutenant introduced his wife. He was stationed at Eighth Army Headquarters, he explained, and had just received orders to return to the States. His shoes glistened in the glare of the fluorescent lights overhead and two battle ribbons adorned his chest. “The wife and I thought we’d like to adopt one of these little tigers.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Don’t matter. Young and healthy, that’s all we care about.”
His wife added, “Aren’t they just the cutest little things you’ve ever seen?” The interpreter hesitated, unsure the remark was intended to be translated. Before she could decide, the lieutenant spoke.
“Where do you keep the little tykes?”
The interpreter stumbled over “tykes.”
“Behind that wall,” I said. “I am surprised you have not heard them.” I led them into the nursery. They stopped first at a crib with an infant just awakening from a late-morning nap. As the lieutenant and his wife bent over him, the child broke into a grin of infinite grace, and a gurgling coo that has no earthly equivalent escaped his rounded mouth. The couple beamed.
The lieutenant looked at me. “How old is this one?”
“This is Tong Soon. He is five months old and healthy.”
“He’s a pistol.”
The interpreter was familiar with this slang, but I was not. At the explanation, we all laughed.
“He’s just too sweet,” said the wife, her eyes fixed on the crib. She and the lieutenant had evidently talked of the need to remain objective, detached. But as she watched the infant’s hand come to his mouth and his head turn to follow her movement above, I felt sure she pictured that baby in the nursery she would decorate when they got home. Her hand went down to seize her husband’s.
The lieutenant remained businesslike. “Show us the youngest one you’ve got. We’ve read a lot about that bonding business.”