A Southern Girl: A Novel

by John Warley

  My monster carries me to the door. I am just about to congratulate him on our restraint when he grasps the knob and violently slams it behind us as, for the second time in an hour, I shatter glass.

  35

  We leave today at 1:41 P.M. My morning is spent at Natalie’s office, niched in a drab walk-up on King Street north of Calhoun. In the reception area, a framed print of Matisse’s Joy hangs above a small, efficient couch, and beyond this cubicle is her office, furnished in an essentials-only austerity befitting the limited budgets of both the attorney and her clients.

  “I want you to sue them for me,” I tell her before relating the events of the night before. She sits behind her desk, her head propped against her hand, scribbling notes on a legal pad. Her strokes in ballpoint are abbreviated, not shorthand but a personal hieroglyphic that concentrates a paragraph of my speech to a line or two on her page. Twice she raises her head to ask a detail, a clarification. When I reach the meltdown with Adelle, I watch for signs that she is celebrating the demise of her rival but she is unflinching. “And don’t,” I conclude, “tell me I told you so.”

  She looks up, unsmiling. “I can’t possibly draft this before you leave. It will require at least a couple of days for research, maybe more.”

  “I assumed so. Do you think we have time to do this?”

  “There are two ways to view it. One is to automatically assume time limits us and the other is to hand that liability off to them.”

  “How?”

  “By waiting until the last possible moment to file and putting all our chips on the District Court judge. We ask for an injunction against them barring her from attending the Ball. The Society will have to hire counsel and they will have to bring themselves up to speed, which as you know takes time. They won’t have much. If we get a favorable ruling, the burden of appeal shifts to them and we just might sneak in before they get organized. But if we lose locally, clearly the time liability hurts us. I’ll have Susan research all this and draft a brief in advance so that if that happens we can shoot it to the Fourth Circuit without delay.”

  “I’ll come straight here as soon as we get back,” I assure. “If you draft it, I’ll sign it.”

  “What does Allie say about this?”

  “That newspaper coverage a few weeks back gave her a taste of what is now to come and she didn’t care for it. But she says she’ll go through with it. I think you’ve been a strong influence on her.”

  “I’m flattered, but I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

  “I feel at peace with all but one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “That first evening at your apartment, you mentioned legal ethics. Now that I’m your client, will it prevent us from sleeping together?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Me too.” She stares in mock reproach. “We have some time to decide.”

  “Are you going to get Susan to research that as well?” I grin at her.

  “I think I’ll handle that one myself.”

  I lean over the desk and kiss her. “I wish you were going,” I say.

  “I wish you weren’t.”

  I leave her still seated at her desk, her pen in hand and a legal pad full of notes before her. At the house, Allie is pacing, her luggage assembled on the side piazza next to the driveway.

  “You’re going to change, right?” she asks as I step from the car.

  “I’ll be down and ready in ten minutes,” I say, breezing by her.

  “Dad, don’t forget to wipe the lipstick off.”

  Our flight from Charleston to Chicago is packed but smooth. Mr. Quan, already waiting at the Charleston Airport when Allie and I arrived, is glued to the window as we approach O’Hare. He has never been here, he tells us. Our collective mood is the brightly lit spirit of friends on holiday. Allie has brought along a new novel but is too excited to focus. We change planes, then head for Hawaii, a refueling stop. The sun has chased us all day, finally overtaking us in the Pacific, so that as we make our final approach in Honolulu, my watch indicates midnight in the east but the sun’s fireball is just extinguishing itself in the luxuriant isles of Polynesia and beyond.

  I glance at Allie, asleep now against her pillow and the edge of her blanket tucked child-like beneath her chin. I am reminded of her when she was young, perhaps five. Although we had disclosed her adoption from her earliest cognition, for a while she had no more grasp of its import than she would our telling her she was an Episcopalian or a Virgo. The mirror gradually informed her of what needed to be learned.

  It was in those days that she advanced her first theory about how she came to be with us. She had had a dream, she said, in which a mother held her hand as they walked through a busy market, her mother pointing to things she could never afford to buy. At each stall in this fabricated and impossible image, the toddler would point to some object that drew her interest and the mother would shake her head. At the last stall, the child eyed a large doll. She turned to her mother hopefully, but the mother had released her hand and was gone.

  Allie understood this dream as chronologically impossible, yet she clung to the imagery. As a reason to give her up, poverty proved the necessity of choice, the easiest to rationalize and accept. If she dwelled on the darker motivations, she didn’t mention them to us. What she did mention later—and this surprised us—was the need to earn money to send her birth parents. In that she had never expressed interest in finding them, we puzzled at her logic: sending support to people she had no interest in meeting, and who conceivably may have forgotten she existed. She proposed this only once, but it did not strike me as whimsical, and her work ethic, always strong, seemed to find fuel from a source beyond my vision.

  Beneath the goose-bumped exhilaration of returning to the land of her birth lies jeopardy to her infant image. Her mother holding her hand, walking through that market, their poverty-driven sacrifice—all of these are bedrock for her indisputable stability. She will handle whatever she finds here; of that I am convinced. But that does not lessen her peril. She has grown into womanhood convinced that she was at birth a valuable, God-kissed child whose abandonment could have been inspired only by the darkest necessity.

  We may soon know. I close my eyes to summon sleep.

  As we make our final approach into Kimp’o Airport, we get our first view of Seoul. Allie’s childhood image of a small town is replaced by a generous metropolis spreading on either side of the Han River to the surrounding mountains. In the four days we have set aside for this portion of the trip, we will be lucky to see a thumbnail of the giant hand below. The terminal is immaculate. The people, so small and thin, are also immaculate. As we clear customs, Mr. Quan breaks stride to reach his brother, waiting on the other side of a blue cordon rope and bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. His name is San, and while he is noticeably older than Mr. Quan, their smiles are identical.

  At baggage claim, a porter ignores Mr. Quan and me to direct rapid Korean at Allie. She shrugs her shoulders in futile bewilderment, a gesture she will master in the next 72 hours. San Quan intervenes, speaking and gesturing. The porter listens, nods, then grins at her.

  “What did you tell him?” she asks San.

  “That you are Irish and came here to learn the language.” He winks.

  Soon we are speeding down a modern interstate toward the Kahoedong area, where San lives. He has done well. No apartment above the store for him. The house is in the traditional style, L-shaped, with post and beam construction, ondol floors, sliding doors. His wife, Go, greets us, then disappears into the sunken kitchen, where she is preparing a light welcome. San slides a door that opens onto a wooden veranda. From it, we take a visual tour of landscaped gardens. Even through the fatigue bearing down us, we are awed by cherry trees in full blossom. We freshen up, unpack, and look longingly at the mats we will sleep on tonight. It is mid-afternoon. No sleep now, San cautions. Our reward for remaining awake will
be a memorable sleep tonight.

  Like me, Mr. Quan has never been to Korea. He expresses his desire to see the country, to take in museums and landmarks, to tour palaces and shrines, to attend performances and shop the markets. He has said he wants to do these things with us. But time is short, and the years of separation from his brother pull him in ways we are not pulled. I suggest a day or so for the three of us to get oriented, after which he should follow his own agenda. He seems relieved at being let off the tourist hook.

  Back in the car, we drive to Chong No, in the Old City, where San’s enterprise is located. On the way, we pass an old, six story brick building set back from the highway. “That is the orphanage,” San Quan says casually. Allie stares, but does not flinch. She has not committed herself to going, and I am prepared to make a separate effort if she opts out.

  San has arranged a guide. Within the first hour, we receive an Orient comeuppance of sorts. Because Charleston is home to so much colonial heritage, with buildings, art and antiques dating from the pre-Revolutionary era, we tend to think of it as old and venerable. But the Geumcheongyo Bridge here dates from 1411, eighty-one years before Columbus discovered the New World and one-hundred eight years before Cortez landed in Mexico. Seoul itself is two thousand years old, begun when parts of Charleston were still under the Atlantic. When we are informed that the Jongmyo shrine to kings and queens of the Joseon Dynasty, one of the Three Kingdoms, dates from 1394, I eat another slice of humble pie. Confucian rituals are performed here featuring dancers and scholars accompanied by music that is five centuries old.

  We attend a performance of Ganggangsullae, an ancient folk dance originally restricted to women due to Confucian restrictions on men. In it, performers in flowing robes dip and rise in pinwheels and conga lines, a full moon-inspired choreography representing various manual labors which women bore in Korea’s agrarian society. The all-important lead singer dictates the pace, which begins slowly (gin rhymes with been), picks up tempo (jung-jung) until it reaches its quickest movements (jajeun). As I watch, I picture Allie on stage with them. She would blend in perfectly, another pretty face in the crowd, another graceful presence in the show. But me? With my pale skin and western features, my height and build, I would look as out of place up there as an Eskimo at a luau. Is that how Allie would feel at the St. Simeon? Is that how she has felt all her life? In the span of this performance, the concept of foreign has taken on new dimensions, and my admiration for how she has adapted soars higher. How lonely it must have been for her. I glance over at her. She appears engrossed in the pageantry, but these same thoughts must have intruded. Or maybe she is so accustomed to the estrangement that it no longer registers as such.

  For the next two days, we absorb the fascination of the country and culture. I have never found Charleston’s equal in gracious civility, but sections of Seoul come close. With each new sight and sound, my daughter’s eyes and mind expand with the wonders of a heritage she begins not just to see but to feel. At a dance performance in the National Theater, she is swept away by the color, the elaboration of the costume design, the athleticism of dancers her age. At a palace of the Choson dynasty, she lingers for a full thirty minutes at delicately painted panels depicting a thousand years of history. In the markets, surrounded by vendors pitching her in Korean, she is reluctant, at San Quan’s elbow in the narrow aisles and passageways. His Korean may or may not be perfect, but he seems to be understood.

  We shop for clothes. As a clerk concentrates on credit card paperwork, Allie nudges me and silently mouths the words, “The eye operation.” I look closely. There is definition in the upper lids, but no more than Allie’s without surgery. “No,” I say flatly.

  I arise early on the third morning. Allie reports seeing the sunrise.

  “So …,” I say.

  “I’m going,” she replies. “I can’t come this far and chicken out.”

  Go sends us off with fried eggs over rice. San Quan will accompany us to translate, while his brother remains.

  We make the trip to the home in silence. On the surface, her mood hovers between indifference and a what’s-next-on-the-itinerary resignation, but below I sense she is guarding herself against the unknown, not unlike her fear of the dark after the hurricane. Not nervousness of the kind she exhibits in the warm ups to horse shows or soccer games, but a deeper anxiety that is unlikely to evaporate with the first jump or the opening whistle. As we walk from the parking lot to the entrance, she seems to me to be making a conscious effort not to hang back.

  The administrative office is just to our left as we enter. A waifish woman with an alabaster complexion, a Mrs. Chou, greets us formally. She is not the woman I spoke with by phone, but her English is as limited, so San Quan’s presence is felt. She ushers us into her sparsely appointed office. When we are seated, she folds her hands as if in prayer and asks how she can help. Her eye contact with Allie is less than she shows for San and me.

  I explain, he translates. I mention the year of her arrival, the paucity of information arriving with her, and the curiosity natural to anyone in her place. Is it her curiosity, or mine?

  Mrs. Chou smiles, nods, and replies in what seems to my ear to be elaborate explanations but which, when translated, enlighten us less. The home is little changed from the time Allie would have been here, she tells us, but that was of course before her time so she is only repeating what she has been told. Are there records? She will check, and leaves for fifteen minutes, returning with empty hands.

  “I am very sorry,” she says in English. Then, in Korean, she tells San that an era of records has been lost to moisture damage and she fears Allie’s may be among that batch. She has checked with the senior nurse, who has been at the home for longer than anyone else. “Hana is the final authority,” she says. “That year and the year after, to the best of her recollection. Would you like to see the nursery?”

  Allie speaks for the first time. “Yes.”

  We are taken down a long, highly polished corridor to an elevator. At the third floor, it opens into a foyer from which we can see, for the first time, children.

  “This area is new,” she says, “but the nursery is old. It is our next project.” She leads us through a complex of doors and halls until we arrive at what I reckon to be a corner of the building. “Here,” she says.

  Through a glass panel we see perhaps twenty cribs, a few of which are empty. At the sight of a toddler who will soon outgrow her need for a crib, Allie smiles. The toddler pulls herself up so that she is standing at the crib’s head, looking at us.

  “These are waiting for homes,” Mrs. Chou says. “Not like the old days, when we had dozens. Again, I have been told this by others.”

  Allie is saying something about the light in the room when a nurse rounds the corner, an infant cradled in her arm.

  “This is Hana,” Mrs. Chou says. “I mentioned her.”

  The nurse looks at Allie. “Are you one of us?” she asks.

  Allie nods.

  “Ah,” says the nurse, in English. “The records. Mildew. Would you like to come with me?” It is understood that this invitation has been issued to Allie only. Hana leads her through the double doors into the nursery, deposits her infant in a crib, and appears to be conducting a tour of sorts, stopping at each child. Allie is speaking now, then smiling as she reaches into a crib to pat a child’s head or back. From what I can plainly observe through the glass, Allie seems quite relaxed and animated. Ten minutes later, they emerge.

  “Dad,” Allie says, “she asked how many came over on my flight. Do you remember?”

  “Over twenty, as I recall. Maybe twenty four or five?”

  The nurse nods, then stares at the floor. “That many?” she mutters, as if in disbelief. “And your age at that time?”

  “Four months,” I answer.

  The nurse raises her head. “I keep a journal in my office. If you will wait, I want to check it.” She disappears through a doorway down the hall.

  “She’s ve
ry nice,” says Allie, but I sense heightened nervousness.

  Mrs. Chou says something in Korean to San.

  “The director says she is the mother of all who come here. That is her reputation.”

  When Hana returns, she wears a look I can only characterize as studied. She is focused on my daughter to the exclusion of those around her. “Were you the youngest?” she asks.

  Allie looks to me as I think back to the Zarnells. “No, one younger,” I say. “A boy.”

  Hana asks, quite softly, “Was there a mirror?”

  In the instant before I can ask how she knows, the two women have come to some mutual insight that makes conversation impossible. Allie embraces her, the nurse returns that embrace, and San Quan and I stand there in awkward stupefaction.

  “Are you her mother?” I ask at length. Allie is sniffling and her grip on the nurse has not slackened.

  Hana smiles lamely. “No. But I took care of Soo Yun here, in her early months. Over there.” She points to a crib. “Against that wall.”

  Allie dabs her eyes, follows the nurse’s point, then says, “I love that mirror. How did you get it?”

  “It was with you when we met. Your mother sent it.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “No. I only met her. Twice. The last time was the day you left.”

  “Do you know her name?” Allie asks.

  The nurse shakes her head. “I’m sorry. So long ago. I knew it once, but I have forgotten. She lived outside of Seoul. I never asked her where. I remember she was very young. She came here, to the home, to take you back. She missed you too much, she said. The rules of the home did not permit this. When I showed her a picture of your new family, she was at peace with her decision. She wanted you to have a good life in your new country.”