by John Warley
“That’s true,” said Coach Clemmons. “You run more like Helen Hayes.” By my senior year, the coaching staff had accepted the reality that my flat-footed lope was as much ingrained as my height and the green of my eyes.
I accepted it on the day I saw Josh’s lope across a soccer field, followed two years later by Steven’s. Seeing myself in my sons became a hobby. Little things intrigued me: a distinctive downward glance at being scolded; an early love of music without the faintest accompanying proclivity for carrying a tune; the wry anticipation of a smile when they told their first jokes; an incipient vertical furrow between the eyebrows when puzzled. I noted all of these shared variegations in the fabric of my being, and more.
But having noted them, what was I to make of them as I sat at the table in the company my irate grandfather? I sensed a connection, an intertwining of these ancestral threads. Had my father loped? My grandfather? Were these variegations which so fascinated me mere brush strokes on a larger portrait I had yet to examine? For each dye and tincture visible to casual, even studied observation, how much more lay indelibly below the surface, shading the essence of character and judgment and courage and compassion?
I reached for the paper and held it at eye level. When I backed away from the detail, when I held out the paper so that I took in the whole of my grandfather’s scowl, the indignant contortion of facial muscles marshaled against a politician he had never met, and never would, I saw a face I had seen before. I saw my father, sitting in the car, with his hand on the door handle ready to escape from his brief but fiery confrontation over the impending adoption.
And I sensed, for the first time, a reflection of that same look, and the defiance it captured. Had Elizabeth photographed me in our recent deliberations over this Asian child, I knew I would be wearing that look, that identical fear of the unknown, that same vehement denial in the face of inexorable forces, the nature and strength of which I only dimly perceived. I pondered it over dinner with Mother that evening, and on the flight home the next afternoon.
Elizabeth met me at the airport. She had left the boys with a sitter. “They missed you,” she told me.
“How about you? Did you miss me?” I asked.
She merely winked, as she did when things were on her mind. For the moment, I omitted any mention of my lunch with Barron Morris.
Elizabeth, turning onto the highway from the airport approach road, said, “Hey, how about taking me to dinner?”
“Deal. What sounds good to you?”
“How about … Chinese?”
“You never give up, do you?”
A waitress, who might have been Puerto Rican, possibly Mexican, but clearly not Chinese, took our order. As we sipped tea and spooned hot and sour soup, the discordant plunks and twangs of Far Eastern music fluttered in the background. I waited for a lull in chit-chat about how these places rarely gave out chopsticks anymore.
“Elizabeth, how would you feel about moving to Charleston?”
“As in, permanently?”
“As in, for good.”
She dabbed her mouth with the bright red napkin. “What brought that on?”
“A lawyer named Barron Morris.” I related my lunch with Morris and subsequent visit to the firm.
“And he offered you a job, just like that?”
“A partnership. And a big sweetener called ‘more money.’”
Dinner arrived. Teriyaki vegetables for her and something called General Chan chicken, very spicy, for me. “What does it say about a general’s combat record when they name a chicken after him?” I asked, and she laughed.
“I must say I’m surprised,” she said as she swirled a broccoli spear in the dark, briny sauce. “I’ve never heard you express any interest in returning.”
“I’m a little surprised myself.”
“Speaking of surprises,” she said, “and not to change the subject, but we owe Open Arms a decision.”
I stopped a forkful of chicken halfway to my mouth. “What does that have to do with surprises?”
“Well … I’m confident Open Arms is surprised it hasn’t heard from us already.”
“Weak. Very weak.” But I could not suppress a grin.
“I can’t help it. I’m afraid someone else will get her.”
“You’ve bonded to a photograph; you need counseling.”
“Don’t make fun of me. You can tell a lot from a picture.”
“You certainly can,” I agreed, with a confidence that seemed to surprise her.
“I just feel she’s right for us.”
I looked at her evenly. “Perhaps she is.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I think so. Hey, don’t do that. We’re in a restaurant.”
“I don’t care,” she said, grinning and wiping her eyes with the red napkin. “I just don’t care. And now, Mr. Carter, please take me home. I intend to be physically exhausted when I call Open Arms tomorrow morning.”
11
Hana
I thought back to grammar school; to the day of the shot. At age eight, I lingered near the back of a long line, reluctant to undergo a smallpox vaccination. Ahead, my classmates surrendered themselves one by one to the inevitability of the needle while I unconsciously clapped my right hand over the spot on my upper arm just below my bare shoulder. Friends closest to me shuffled their weight from leg to leg, the way you do when you are nervous. I watched each one as they approached the medic with the needle. Some looked away as they felt the alcohol swab their arm, knowing that seconds later they would feel the stick. Teachers stayed at the rear, making sure no one left the line, as I admit I had thought of doing. There were three in front of me, then two, then only a girl who was shaking as she walked toward the white coat. She cried out in pain when injected, then sobbed as the band aid was applied. When she turned toward me to leave the line I saw such pain in her face that I feared I would start crying before I was hurt. I fought against it, but then it was my turn. I shuffled forward, but evidently not close enough because the medic reached for my arm and pulled me toward him. Then I did something I didn’t expect. When he applied the gauze with the alcohol, I looked directly at him, and when he pinched the skin of my slender triceps to form a ridge of sorts, I continued to stare, and when he raised the syringe and brought the needle close, I shifted my attention from him to it. I watched the point of the needle disappear into my skin, do its work, then withdraw. I watched it all, and I didn’t cry out or moan or even flinch.
Today, twenty years later, I sat in my tiny office at the home. A metal desk, flush against the wall in my windowless office, permitted the opening and closing of my door virtually without tolerance. Overhead, a florescent light hummed. Eyeing a thick stack of portfolios piled in front of me, I sensed movement toward something harmful, a dread not unlike that produced by the needle; less defined, perhaps not as acute, but identifiably fear. The green portfolios contained “matches,” adoptive parents matched to a child on my ward. Faith Stockdale had dropped them off that morning. Soo Yun’s portfolio, almost certainly within the stack, threatened the ethical dilemma I had foreseen from my first glimpse of the scars.
Inside the folders, copies of the biographical data on the adoptive family, the home study, and the family’s correspondence with Open Arms proclaimed the future for those fortunate enough to match that family’s specified criteria. Faith Stockdale had collected these materials, then prepared a summary which she translated into Korean. These she forwarded to me to enable me both to inform the child of the match and to educate the child about the family of which he or she would soon be a member. Obviously, for infants matched, this synopsis served only to enlighten me as to the child’s destiny. As often as I reminded myself that every pairing represented a triumph for the home in its mission to place as many children as possible, and thus a vicarious triumph for me, I nevertheless opened each portfolio with bittersweet resignation. A departing child meant more than an empty cot for the days, sometimes hours, needed to fill it
. A funny business, this: striving for an inseparable closeness to a child who, in my fondest hope, would soon be taken away.
I picked up each green folder, perused them one by one, until my hand fell to a folder labeled “Soo Yun.” I thought back to my meeting with Faith Stockdale on the day of Jong Sim’s visit. I had intended to bring Faith into my confidence. The words formed on my lips: “The child has a horrible incision but is in perfect health.” But I had been unable to utter those words, then or since.
At home on the night of that meeting, I rationalized my silence. To inform Faith of Soo Yun’s biopsy was to transfer to her the very decision I made by remaining mute. Viewed that way, I felt a bit like a martyr. Thanks to my bravado, Soo Yun would receive the unimpeded chance she deserved to be adopted, and I, Hana, would take the consequences. If the biopsy triggered an inquiry, Faith would be shielded by her ignorance.
But as I went about my duties on the ward the following day, my wishful thinking showed itself for what it was. Unless disclosed, the scars were certain to launch an inquiry, meaning loss of credibility for Open Arms, angry recriminations against Faith Stockdale, ignorant or not, and untold consequences for me, including loss of my job or worse. And so, as the day progressed and my hastily constructed, undernourished rationalization of the previous night crumbled, I knew I had to set the facts fully before Faith Stockdale at the first opportunity. But that had been weeks ago. I could no longer say whether fear, or guilt, most accounted for my failure to approach Faith; only that they competed within me, one gaining on the other in a circle of diminishing diameter until they lodged just behind my frontal lobe, causing headaches.
From Faith’s summary, the Carters of New Hampton, Virginia appeared to have been ordered from a catalog. Upper income, biological sons, stable marriage. I stared at the photo of them in their den, the boys seated on a sofa with the parents standing behind. I projected Soo Yun onto the sofa as a child of four or five, seated between her brothers, her hair in ribbons and her dress crisply ironed, with puffed sleeves at the shoulders. The terrible scars would have faded, and her health would be good, and neither boy flanking her and neither parent overlooking their three children would have given a thought to those inept invasions in years. Soo Yun would be lucky to call this home. I closed the folder, left my office, and walked toward the cafeteria. My recent headaches had cost me an appetite, but now I had to eat.
In a remote corner of the dining area, I tasted soft noodles from a white ceramic bowl. At least the uninspired concoction was hot. I almost dropped my chopsticks when I saw Faith striding toward me. She knows, I thought, diverting my eyes to the mass of noodles from which steam arose. Faith stood over me.
“Just the person I need to see,” she said. “Have you had a chance to look over the matches?”
“Yes. Seven leaving my ward on the March flight.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk with you about. May I sit down?”
“Of course. Forgive me.”
Faith pulled out a chair. “The problem is Open House. They’ve scheduled the March flight for the same day. I tried to get my people in the States to move it because it will create so much confusion, but they have already made arrangements with the airline and it will cost too much money to reschedule.”
“Perhaps the home can move Open House.” I breathed again.
“Tried that, too. No way. Too many churches have already made plans to visit. We’ll just have to make it work.”
“How many children leaving from the home?”
“Twenty-three. Quite a large group. You look worried.”
“I have reviewed the matches you left on my desk.”
“And?”
“I face a problem with one of my children; one selected for the March flight. I need your guidance.”
“I’ll help if I can. Is there a problem with the child?”
I hesitated. It was time for me to get that shot. Time to look the medic in the eye. Again, the words formed on my lips. “Yes,” I said. “Her mother came to see me. I think she wants the child back. Do you think it is right to send an infant still wanted by her mother?”
“Has the mother applied for custody?”
“No. The woman is poor and uneducated.”
A look of mild bewilderment formed on Faith’s face. “Then I think we have no choice. We have to honor the match.”
“I thought so, too.” I paused. “I remembered the form we must sign just before the children depart. We have to certify that we know of no reason the child does not qualify for adoption, and I worried that this knowledge might be such a reason. I feel much better.”
“Good,” said Faith, watching with curiosity as I stared into my bowl. “But you don’t look relieved.”
“I am tired. I do not sleep well these nights.”
“That’s a shame. Try to get more rest. This group of matches leaves in three weeks, and getting twenty-three of them on that plane will take all our energy.”
I returned to my ward, turning inward the contempt I felt for my indecision. I entered the nursery and walked to Soo Yun’s crib. The child slept, covered to the neck by a blanket with her head turned toward me. The edema of birth had completely subsided, deflating her eyelids, forehead and cheeks to permit her skin, soft and smooth, to adhere faithfully to her delicate facial structure. As a physically plain woman, I knew only too well the components of appeal. I had spent painful periods as a young girl in front of mirrors in a silent prayer that what I saw could be otherwise, that the box of my face would elongate with adolescence, that the cheekbones would assert themselves to assume some dominion over the jowls and that the chin would emerge to take its proper, classic proportion to a mouth which would surely, with any luck at all, widen with age. In Soo Yun, I saw or imagined the beauty I lacked, and as I stared I pictured the child as I had projected her into the photograph, blooming into my unanswered girlhood prayer.
In days that followed, I suffered for my deceit. While not a perfect human being, I had managed to avoid many of the vices plaguing my siblings and friends. During a brief fling in my early twenties, I offered up my virginity to a boy who did not deserve the gift. But I did so honestly, as I hoped I had done all else since. Now, having passed up yet another opportunity to level with Faith Stockdale, I was trapped in an irrefutable deception, and for me to deny it, even to myself—especially to myself—would be to make worse a shame I could relieve only at the price of Soo Yun’s continued residence in the home.
To quiet my fears of exposure on restless nights, I pulled a pillow over my head and around my ears to insulate against impending disgrace. I imagined Soo Yun in America, as an educated young woman with a constant stream of glamorous boyfriends all competing against the demands of her career as a journalist, a doctor, a university professor, a clothing designer. When her job and the demands of men grew too great, she would slip home, to parents who loved her as their own and whose pride in her she held like a trophy. At some point during these dawnless nights, I must have slipped over an edge, no longer focused on risks to myself but instead making positive plans for this infant; plans which, with my help, could be realized. Leaving things up to fate was not enough, because the visit from her mother, Jong Sim, told me all I needed to know about her chances. I thought back to that woman’s peasant dress, her disorientation in Seoul, her teeth in need of dentistry not available in the countryside. That was Soo Yun’s birthright, her past and almost certainly her future. Had Jong Sim not given her up, she would have grown into not just her mother’s love but into some variation of her mother’s life as well, and her odds of shaping a destiny different from her mother’s were at least as great as those she now faced in leaving the home. In altering that destiny, I risked much, for how could I be certain that destiny was not the one for which the child was best suited? Suppose the child’s talents and temperament matched instead the very future from which I was now determined to divert her? Did I do such a child any favor by sending her to a foreign land, to be
raised in affluence but also with the pressure to bloom into the rose her new family expected? Merely transplanting a weed would make it no less a weed; was that what I was risking my career to do?
Possibly, but there were other things to be considered. First, Jong Sim’s decision to give up her daughter. A mother in love with her own fate does not put that fate beyond the path of those who follow her. Jong Sim would have had only the dimmest vision of what lay ahead for Soo Yun following her afternoon in the doorway, but she knew with murderous certainty what future she left behind in their squalid village. Perhaps Jong Sim herself possessed talents and a temperament ill suited to the prison in which she found herself, and had watched such talents, like parched barley, dry up and drift uselessly to earth.
Then, there was the infant. She had seemed to me from our first contact in the police station to be struggling toward something. I could not give a rational explanation for this impression, nor could I totally discard the notion that I myself had ennobled Soo Yun’s distemper as some kind of telepathic communication when objective evidence pointed to nothing more than the ranting of a tired, wet soul abandoned in a doorway. Still, the child had calmed immediately in my grasp, as though in approval of this step in the proper direction. At the home, in her crib, she took little interest in her surroundings, even for an infant, and this indifference I took as evidence of her determination to remain in this way station for the minimum time required to recover her health.
I suspected that my embroidered interpretations of habits and disposition projected onto the child ambitions purely of the my own creation. As a test, I challenged myself to answer whether, given the chance to walk into a nursery containing one hundred newborns, I could have singled this one out as possessing qualities lacking in the others. No, I could not, but neither did life play out in such sterile laboratories, stripped of the very scents and tracks which led to my divination. I responded to a call from Jongam for Soo Yun, not some other abandoned baby. I found the named pinned to this infant. The mother of another child could have arrived at the home seeking that child, but it was Soo Yun’s mother who actually made that trip. These incidentals and others, so benign in isolation, together formed in my mind a composite image of a child with a destiny calling from beyond the home; indeed, from beyond the borders of her own land. But, as a helpless presence not yet weighing five kilograms, she could answer that calling only by bending those around her to her will. In me, it seemed to be working. Events, not words, came to me as the monosyllabic uttering of a tongue too freshly formed to speak, but directed at me, as though I alone could translate this unspoken but loudly and insistently broadcast infant language.