by John Warley
“No lie,” said Vernon. “When?”
“Soon, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Well, it’s not your straight adoption. I mean, we’re looking at international adoptions. There’s a lot of paperwork and then a child has to become available.”
“What kind of child?”
“A girl. Korean, we think.”
Vernon stopped and looked at me, expressionless. “You’re going to adopt a gook?”
I had to laugh. “Gooks are Vietnamese. Don’t you know your ethnic slurs?”
“My error,” said Vernon, returning the laugh. “That’s awfully brave of you. What do Josh and Steven think?”
“It’s okay with them. Elizabeth is ecstatic. It was her idea.”
“I can’t believe she hasn’t said anything to Carol. But you sound less than ecstatic.”
“Frankly, I think it’s dumb.”
“Then why—”
“Don’t ask. Anyway, we’re doing it and I hope it makes Elizabeth happy, because I know two senior citizens in Charleston, South Carolina who are going to go ballistic.”
“Your folks?”
I nodded. “My dad’s been sick and this could push him over. I mean it. And mother still talks about my cousin who got a divorce, of all things, like she turned tricks on the church steps. Telling them won’t be pretty.”
“Sounds like trouble,” Vernon agreed. “And Elizabeth expects this reaction?”
“I have no idea. We haven’t discussed it. I doubt she has given it much thought from their standpoint.”
“They don’t get along?”
“They do, but it’s a delicate truce easily broken by importing alien children into the family.” I felt the tightening in my throat. I had said more than I intended. Still unsaid, but very much on my mind as I walked the fairway, now hidden in the murky stillness of dusk, was the impending pressure to love a total stranger like I loved those boys. I didn’t see how that was possible. I just didn’t.
5
Jong Sim
The trip back to my village was the longest of my life. Your cries followed me down the street until I stopped my ears. When I stepped onto the bus, the driver stared at me because I was looking at him, just standing there like a tree. He took the fare from some money I held, then pushed me toward the back. The people I passed must have known I had done a terrible thing because they looked at me like a criminal. All the seats were filled, but a kind auntie made a space for me. I tried not to think about you but instead about the cane machete with the rusty blade I put under my sleeping mat yesterday. It was not very sharp, but it was sharp enough.
You looked so helpless lying on those steps. I could still hear you crying though the bus had been many miles. I told myself they had found you by now, that you were inside the police station being changed and fed and smiled upon. You were on your way to America, I whispered, but too softly for the auntie beside me to hear. I did the best I could for you by giving you away. You would rather be with me than on a doorstep, but you were helpless. I was just as helpless in a world controlled by men and tradition. I gave away my child. I murdered you. I will murder myself, I had decided.
The temperature dropped. You would be cold, but it was warm in the station, where you surely were by now, being cradled by someone who had seen the mirror and knew that you were special. The auntie beside me was most kind, patting my hand like she understood, but she could not because I myself did not understand. At the sign of the green dragon I got off. The temperature had dropped more and the air was very cold so I shivered as I waited. The bus to the village was not crowded, and the few passengers did not notice me weeping in the back. If they heard me, they did not turn around.
That night I took the machete from under my sleeping mat with only the slightest scraping of its rusty blade against the floor. I did not want my mother to hear. I crept into the kitchen and crawled into the large tub used to render meat. There I curled up with my hands locked around my knees. My breasts throbbed, swollen with milk. They will give you milk but it will not be my milk and you will not like it. I sat in the tub a long time, holding the machete between my legs and waiting for the courage to force it into the very place where I felt your restless stretch at sunrise. My heart beat with love for you and hatred for myself, for my parents, for my grandfather, for Hyun Su, for Uncle Jae, for Korea. Why must I, who had nothing, give up something so precious? If I must give up what I love, so must they. I would enter the next life so they would know I loved you more than life itself. When they found me in the morning, stiff and cold in my own blood, they would suffer loss and know the depth of mine.
I turned the rusty blade toward my stomach and gripped the handle with both hands. I knew I must do it quickly, with one thrust, at the very moment when my courage surged and before I could change my mind. I waited for that courage. The house was silent and I wondered if I would break that silence by crying out at the moment the blade entered me. I placed the point against my belly below the navel. The point was sharper than I thought, and a trickle of blood came down between my legs. To get the courage I needed I thought back to grandfather’s order to “get rid of it,” as if my perfect Soo Yun was some foul smelling garbage, and to Hyun Su’s fists when he accused me of counting the days wrong, but the courage would not come. My hate was not as strong as my love for you, and love is not a reason for suicide. Near dawn, I rose from the tub, my legs like jelly and the machete so heavy I could not lift it but only drag it along the floor. I returned to my sleeping mat, slid the machete under it, and slept, exhausted.
The first week of separation from you seemed endless. I forced myself into the fields where I worked to forget. I ate little, slept little, and spent myself harrowing fields that were nearly frozen. After a time I could not feel my feet or hands. If only my heart could be numb also. That week dragged into the next. Lying on my back at night, I memorized a mildew pattern on the ceiling, but I avoided a view of the tub through the kitchen door. The mildew pattern formed a map, with crooked roads leading to anyplace but where I was. I walked them until exhaustion brought sleep.
One night I woke up trembling from a picture in my mind—you at the olive door, your oval face, your tiny hands, your nursing lips, those sad cries. What happened to you? Did they take you in? They must have taken you inside because it grew so cold in the afternoon. Will they send you to America? Do you cry for me? The pictures in Min Jung’s magazine were just pictures unless you went to America. You could not grow strong and wear a watch and drive a car and not farm unless you left Korea. It grew so cold that day. Did you freeze? I had to know. I could not spend years thinking about the better life I gave you unless I knew you were on your way to that life.
On a day of bitter temperatures, I again boarded the bus for Seoul. I wondered if they would arrest me at the police station for leaving my child. I did not care. Arrest and shame were nothing compared to uncertainty. I again found the high hedge. I walked up the steps where I left you and knocked on the olive green door. A light snow fell and I stood there a long time. I knocked again. Why did no one answer?
I turned and walked down the steps. As I reached the end of the sidewalk, two policemen came around the corner on Yulgong-No Street. I pointed back toward the door, but the patrolmen were in a rush and one of them made a motion with his arm like a circle. I went around the building and saw another door, newer with fresh paint. I knocked and heard, “It is open.”
Inside, I saw a long counter with a phone, a stack of greenish papers, and a box for mail. The desk person, in a uniform, looked up from a magazine as I bowed and came closer.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“I am Jong Sim. I have come to ask about a child, an infant.”
“Is the child missing?”
“Yes, the child is missing.”
“For how long?”
“Four weeks, about.”
“Four weeks? And you are only now reporting it?” He did not look friendl
y.
“Not exactly.” We were alone in the room. “My friend brought her baby here.”
The man smiled, but it was not a true smile. “Now I see. Your friend wants the child back.”
“Not the child, but only news of her safety. If I could bring her such news it would mean much.”
The telephone at the man’s elbow rang. It made me jump. The man told the caller, “No, no, yes, no.” Then he returned his attention to me.
“We often have babies left here. We call the home. Our records are sealed from the public. I can tell you nothing to tell your friend. I am sorry.”
“Can you say she went to this home? Even that would comfort my friend.”
“I can say that is what usually happens. But for a certain child, I cannot say.”
I felt my legs weakening and my heart thumped so loudly I thought he must hear it. “But I must take some word to her.”
The man turned in his chair and disappeared through the door behind the counter. A short time later, a fat man in a tight uniform came out. He said he was Captain Oh. He told me to follow him through a swinging gate to the rooms beyond. At the far end of the hall were boxes and large metal cabinets. Captain Oh pointed and said, “The old door.” I followed him into a room with a desk.
He sat behind the desk while I stood in front of it. The room was very warm and I saw sweat on the Captain’s yellow upper lip. He straightened some papers in front of him, already straight.
“So your friend brought us her child?”
“About one month ago.”
“A girl, I presume?”
I nodded.
The Captain said, “Yes, always girls. What is the name of your friend?”
I looked at the floor. My knees were shaking. “Must I say her name?”
The Captain shook his head. “It does not matter. We cannot give information, with or without her name. Tell me, did your friend use the door you came through … or the old door?”
“The old door, perhaps.”
Captain Oh frowned. “That is a problem. We no longer use that door. One month ago? No, that door was not in use at that time.”
“The man at the desk said she went to the home.”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“And others?”
“Others are the ones we never know about.”
My look told him I did not understand.
“Women leave their children at the door. We know this. They rely upon us to take them to the home. But we cannot be certain all the girls are found. Others may come along …” His voice grew softer. “Tell me, did your friend hide in the hedge to see the child taken in?”
“I … I do not know.”
“Some do. I am told that is why our door is popular. They can watch from the safety of the hedge. But that will all change now because there is no hedge by the new door.”
“My friend did not say.” I felt faint. The heat of the room felt like a giant hand pressing down on my head.
“But clearly the answer is ‘no,’” said the Captain. He looked very pleased with himself. “Or she would not have sent you to confirm such a thing. Am I right?” He smiled a true smile and folded his hands across his belt buckle.
“You are correct,” I said. “Are you certain there have been no children brought to you from the old door?”
The Captain rocked in his chair. “There was one.”
“One month ago?”
“I cannot remember. Time is elusive as you age.” He stood up suddenly. “But if I could remember, I could not say. There are strict regulations, and I am nearing retirement.”
I could think of nothing to say except, “I understand.”
“But Mi Cha might help. She found a child at the old door not long ago. What I am forbidden to discuss she may share freely. It is up to her. The sergeant can direct you to her home.”
“I thank you so much. My friend thanks you.”
I left the station for the freezing air outside, glad to escape the heat and the uniforms. I carried a map drawn by the sergeant. It looked nothing like the mildewed ceiling at home. The wind and snow watered my eyes as I tried to shield the paper with my body. Near the bus stop not far from the old door I found a wall to flatten the map. Snow fell into my eyes and I had to clear them to see the map. The house I sought was not far, a short walk.
On the third knock the door opened and an old woman, an auntie, opened the door. She could not have known why I was there but it did not seem to matter. She told me to come in. I followed her to her kitchen, which smelled of cabbage and garlic. She said she had been chopping vegetables. I told her why I had come. She offered hot tea and took my coat. I liked her very much for her kindness.
“Oh, yes,” she said as we sipped tea at the kitchen table. “I remember well. It was the day I lost Mojo, my dog.” She paused, staring at me through tired eyes. “But the child belonged to you, not your friend.”
I said nothing. The tea warmed my hands.
“I will not press you, child. I am a mother also. And this morning I spent two hours in this weather looking for Mojo. I would not have gone out into this cold for a friend.”
I remained silent, but my eyes must have told the old woman what she knew.
“She was a quite beautiful baby, but fussy. Perhaps that was understandable.”
“You are certain it was the same child?” I asked. “One month ago?”
“Quite certain. A newborn wrapped in a gray blanket. May I ask why you are seeking her?”
I sipped my tea. “Only to satisfy myself as to her safety. To know she is well and cared for will allow me some peace.”
“You have not thought of regaining her?”
“No.”
“That is best. What is done is done. And she will thrive at the home. The nurse told me such babies are imported by wealthy Americans. She will have a good life.”
“You are wise,” I said.
She laughed softly. “No. Merely old. Have I told you all you wish to know?”
“Yes … I suppose.”
“You don’t wish the name of the nurse?”
Of course I did, as she knew.
“Hana, as I recall. A plain woman older than you. She had a knack with the child. It is well you came soon after. Another month or two and I would not have been able to recall the nurse’s name.”
I rose to leave. “You have been very kind. Could you give me one more piece of information? Directions to the home; I do not know the city.”
“I will direct you,” said Mi Cha. “It is easy to find, and you will ask another if I refuse. But my advice is to stay away. You have done well by your baby. Leave her there. This is only my advice.”
“I wish only to know she arrived safely at the home.”
Mi Cha smiled at me as a mother would. “Search your heart fully, child. You do not yet know it.”
I felt my face redden. “Thank you for tea. I hope you find your dog.”
“The dog is lost. This is certain. Still, I search. It is better than the reality.”
Outside, I walked head down against the wind. It was so strange to walk where no one knew my name or had ever seen me before. The buildings along the way got bigger with each block, but the home was not so big. I went inside and asked for the nurse by name.
6
Hana
Soo Yun’s condition was as I had feared: pneumonia. Her time outside the door in the cold had left her vulnerable to pneumocystis carinii, a strain of pneumonia common here in Asia. It is fatal if left untreated, and several of our children have died from it over the years. But caught in time, properly diagnosed, and treated with Bactrim, a full recovery usually results. When I visited her two days after she was admitted, she slept peacefully in a room with six other infants. I missed her on the ward, visiting her each week for the duration of her one month stay in the hospital, the time needed for Bactrim to do its work.
On the day she returned to 3E, part of me returned with her. I really cannot explain
why this was so. I have nursed and cared for hundreds of infants here over the years. I loved them all, but something about her left me hollow in her absence, and restored when she returned. When you see something that small fighting against odds so long, you cannot help but be inspired and to cheer for her. She nearly died outside the police station door. Had that old woman not come along, she would have. And then to be hit with a disease so commonly fatal seemed grossly unfair, like the gods ganging up on her. Some babies might seem doomed by such misfortune, but something told me these early tests would make her stronger. She needed to get stronger.
She was asleep in the crib when I reported for work that day. The hospital stay had added weight, put color in her cheeks, and eliminated any trace of her nagging croup. I picked her up and carried her to a changing table, where I stripped her soggy diaper. I had just positioned her on a clean one when I saw them—raw ugly scars. The larger was a wide scar beginning under the left breast and extending toward the back. I turned her over. The scar protruded with suture marks on either side, running almost to the center of her back. Where it passed under the arm, there was a second scar, about three centimeters long. I had never seen scars like this. Something far more serious than pneumonia must have been detected at the hospital. I sent for her medical record, fearing the worst.
To my relief, the record did not disclose the heart or lung surgery I was sure I would find. Only pneumonia, with a lung biopsy to confirm the strain. I called our infirmary. I asked Dr. Kim to come to 3E when he finished his work there.
“Butcher,” I said to Dr. Kim, handing him the record.
Dr. Kim was new to the home and youthful enough to pass for a high school student. He rubbed his chin, devoid of facial hair, and examined her. “The incisions are indeed quite large. The smaller one for the drainage tube would have been sufficient. I do not recognize the name on the surgery notes. Probably someone new.”
“And incompetent. The hospital will receive a very strong letter of protest.”
“But the child is healthy and the scars will fade in time. They are of no great importance.”