Scrapping Plans

by Rebeca Seitz

  “She barely told him anything.” Tandy finished her layout and slipped it into protective covers. “I still say we give her some leeway and hope she finds whatever it is she’s looking for over there.”

  “I agree.”

  Kendra kept her eyes on the blade of the Cricut as it sliced through the paper.

  Twenty-Eight

  Did the woman who gave me life walk through these courtyards upon which my feet now tired? The Forbidden City is a sensory delight. Courtyard after courtyard, room after room, all designed and appointed with the idea of majesty at the forefront. The hotel clerks were right—my feet ache. And though I know this courtyard is every bit as beautiful as the first, my senses have been dulled with each new discovery of vibrant plants and architecture.

  It’s shameful to grow tired of such an enormous display of human effort. If I were a true Chinese citizen, would I still be ready to reach the end of this unending stretch of courtyard? Or would I gaze upon each one with worshipful awe and soul-stirring respect?

  I hear a sigh behind me and turn to see who shares in my thoughts.

  A Chinese girl stands a few paces from what I assume to be her mother. Her hair is drawn back in barrettes, and she occupies herself with the buttons on her sweater. Her mother’s gaze upon the wall of flowers before us bears the holy awareness I’d thought to have in this place. Does she know something I do not?

  The girl looks up from her button and sees me watching.

  She smiles, inclines her head toward her mother, and rolls her eyes.

  Disdain for parental display of affection evidently crosses cultural lines.

  Relieved of the need to experience an awe I cannot manufacture, I offer a conspirator’s grin, wink, and walk on to the next courtyard with a lighter step.

  * * *

  TOMORROW MORNING WE will meet the parents-to-be. Scott arranged for us to ride along with several U.S. couples who have spent nearly two years completing the process of adopting a Chinese child.

  I think this is a good idea. Though I dread it in many ways.

  I am the girl these parents have come to save. Twenty-eight years ago, I sat in a crib—did we have cribs?—in an orphanage, in desperate need of a couple who would adopt me as their own. Do these parents know the inexplicable gift they will bestow upon a child tomorrow? Did they have any idea the ramifications of this one loving act on the life of another human being?

  Could they?

  Do I even fully grasp how much different my life would have been had Jack and Marian Sinclair not decided they needed me?

  I would not know Stars Hill.

  I would not know the bliss of sisterhood.

  I would not have the strength of family.

  I would not live the surety of faith.

  I would not yearn to continue the cycle.

  That thought is new. Do I truly long to produce a child? To hold in my arms a little one and shape his or her little world? Introduce new ideas? Teach new concepts? Answer millions of questions?

  The parents we’ll meet tomorrow—for they are already, in practice, parents because they have traveled thousands of miles and filled out mountains of paperwork and made untold financial sacrifices to receive their children—have answered yes to those questions.

  They desire so strongly to build their families that they’ve overcome odds bigger than the Great Wall of China. They overcame. They answered the call of family that was placed on their hearts, even though they had to journey a path they may not at first have considered. I wonder how many of them had tried to get pregnant? And then to get pregnant with medical help? And then, perhaps, to adopt in the United States? How many different plans did they write? How many different steps did they check off before not attaining their goal?

  How often did frustration make them yell at each other? Did they worry if they should just quit? Did they feel the concern that maybe they weren’t meant to be parents after all? How many times did they erase their steps and rewrite them? Does it make the goal less worthy if you find another way to reach it?

  I have much to discuss with Scott tonight at dinner.

  For now, I must rest.

  * * *

  “WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD.”

  Scott’s soft voice lulls me from dreams of bougainvillea and jade carvings.

  “Mmm?”

  “Dinner is in half an hour. Time to wake up.”

  I open my eyes and see his sweet face. “Hi.”

  “Hi. Feel better?”

  I take stock of my body. It’s tired, but the nap has done me good. “I do, yes. Did the group of parents arrive?”

  “They did. I was in the lobby when they came in, bedraggled, every single one of them. Evidently flying United Airlines isn’t the smartest way to get to Beijing. We had the lap of luxury compared to them.”

  I smile, thankful for the planning that led us to take China Airlines. “Let’s not rub it in.”

  “Oh, I didn’t. Just sent up a silent prayer of gratitude and came back here to wake you for dinner. They’re excited about meeting you in the morning. Some of them are under the mistaken impression you have memories from your own adoption.”

  “How would I remember something that occurred before I was even a year old?”

  “I think they’re so excited, they aren’t thinking very clearly.”

  “You’re probably right. Where are we going for dinner?”

  “I talked to the adoption group guide and he’s lined up dinner reservations. We don’t have to stay with the group, but if you want to go ahead and meet them tonight, we can join them for dinner.”

  I take a deep breath. “No time like the present, right?”

  “You sound like Kendra.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if that woman doesn’t have a good idea or two about approaching life.”

  Scott pulled back. “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

  I swat his shoulder with a good-natured whack. “Very funny. I’ve just been thinking a lot, is all.”

  “You know I’m here to listen whenever you’re ready to talk, right? I’m trying to give you space, but I’d love to know what thoughts are spinning through that beautiful head of yours.”

  “There’ve been too many to make sense of until this afternoon.” I’m proud of myself for speaking so bluntly. “But I think I may have a few things to discuss during dinner.”

  “Then let’s stick with each other tonight and join the rest of the group in the morning.”

  “I think that’d be best.”

  “All right. The restaurant downstairs is a lot like the one at the hotel in Hong Kong, so we should be able to find something to eat. Want to freshen up a bit before we go?”

  “Are you trying to hint that my look needs some attention?”

  He leans toward me and places a kiss on my forehead. “Your look always has my attention.”

  I love the way he loves me.

  “Okay, Mr. Smooth Lines. Let me go assess the damage in the bathroom mirror and I’ll be right out to join you for dinner.”

  Scott stands and offers me a hand. I put mine in his and let him pull me from the bed. “I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”

  I can’t help it. My eyes roll—so much like Kendra, it’s a tad shocking—before I make my way to the bathroom.

  Twenty-Nine

  I’ve selected steamed dumplings filled with pork and beef for dinner. Rather than the bok choy that we’ve seen offered at every single meal, we were offered green beans tonight. Steamed, of course, not boiled in tons of butter as we do at home, but still green beans.

  I’m drinking Coke as I’ve grown weary of the bottled water we tote everywhere. Water from the tap in China isn’t potable. I could not believe a society that calls itself modern cannot drink the water from its own tap. There are certainly cities in America where the taste of tap water sends me running for the bottled variety, but there is no city in which I would be concerned about the quality of the water running over my d
ishes and clothes and body.

  But these thoughts take a backseat when Scott joins me at the table, his own plate piled high with Western and Chinese foods alike.

  I smile and point at his plate. “It looks as if you found something to your liking.”

  “I thought I’d be a little adventurous tonight, try more of the Chinese stuff. We’re only in the country for a couple more days. When am I going to get the opportunity to eat Chinese food in China again?”

  “Probably never.”

  Scott sits down and spears a dumpling with his fork. “You don’t plan to come back?”

  “I think this is a one-time occurrence. I don’t mean to say I’m not enjoying learning about Chinese culture. Seeing the land where I was born has been a wonderful experience thus far. But so much of who I am comes from the people who raised me that I don’t feel any sort of longing to be back here. I’m a Southern girl at heart, I suppose.”

  Scott smiles. “That makes perfect sense.”

  It’s time.

  I’m unsure how to broach the subject. I toyed with several ideas while adjusting my makeup in our bathroom upstairs. I mentally rehearsed a few lines in the elevator on the way to this dining room. But I haven’t yet settled on one.

  So I simply blurt it out. “I think we should try IVF.”

  Scott sets his fork down and meets my gaze. He doesn’t say anything, which could either be a sign he’s upset with my desire or waiting to hear how I reached it. I go with the latter because I don’t know how to handle the former right now.

  “I was thinking about these families I’m going to meet in the morning. They’ve all walked a long path to get to this day when they’re given a child and allowed to experience parenthood. I doubt that any of them, when they first dreamt of parenting a child, thought this would be the route they’d follow, but it’s nonetheless the direction God sent them. I believe that just as much as I believe God brought Daddy and Momma here to adopt me.”

  I pause to think and take a sip of Coke. Scott waits. He’s such a patient man. “And so I got to thinking about how that applies to our situation. Neither of us knew what kind of roadblocks we’d encounter when we first started dreaming about a baby nearly two years ago. I’m sure we both thought, or at least I know I did, that we’d try for a few months, get pregnant, and have a baby. But that’s not the story God’s written for us. And for a while, Scott,” I reach across the table and take his hand, fearful of the honesty, “I was really mad at Him for that.”

  Scott’s thumb rubs across my hand as it did on the plane. “Me too.”

  His words embolden me. “I wanted God’s story to be the one I had written for us in my head. And I couldn’t get—I still don’t fully grasp—why we can’t have that story when we’ve followed all the steps for it. But I’m beginning to figure out that there may be steps we have to take that I don’t know enough to write into our story.”

  “And you think one of those steps is IVF?”

  “I’m not positive. And if you hate the idea, then let’s talk about it. But I’m looking at our path so far and I’m seeing what we’ve been advised and allowed to know, and I think that’s where we go next.”

  “Have you considered what we’ll do, how we’ll feel, if it doesn’t work? How many times do we try, Joy? Once? Twice? Ten times? Fifteen? Dr. Murray made no promises.”

  I squeeze his hand. “Like I said, if you hate the idea—”

  “I don’t hate the idea. I’m a lot like you in that I like having a plan. This taking life as it comes, which seems to be about the only option when trying for parenthood, is new for me. It’s hard. I don’t like not controlling the outcome. I especially don’t like that hard work and determination don’t matter so much.”

  “I’m with you completely on that. I’m beginning to realize though that life might not be so rich if we’re allowed to plan every step.”

  Scott’s eyes widen. “Come again?”

  I smile, liking this new ability to surprise him. Kendra’s right. There is something to be said for not being predictable. “Well, think about it for a second. If I could have planned my life entirely, I’d probably never have come to China. Actually, I’d never have come from China. I wouldn’t have the images of Hong Kong and Beijing and the Forbidden City that play on my eyelids as I sleep now. We wouldn’t have these few days, just the two of us, in a strange new world experiencing new foods, tastes, and smells. So much of what we have wouldn’t exist if we’d written our own stories.

  “I mean, let’s face it, Scott. We’re intelligent, yes, and even in some ways creative. But we’re not Kendra or Tandy. Put a paintbrush in my hand and without step-by-step directions I’m clueless and frustrated. I don’t even scrapbook without a sketchbook. And you leave the development to Darin and enjoy selling the real estate. We’re detail people and that’s okay.”

  Clarity comes with each new word and I cannot help the torrent as I keep talking, waiting for that final clear picture to emerge. “We’d write stories that were interesting but gray. By not knowing all the steps, we introduce a little color, a little life, into our existence. We live.”

  Those sentences make so much sense that I stop. Do I believe what I just said? Do I really value the unexpected turns God has thrown at us these past two years? Would I choose differently if given the option?

  I’m shocked to know I wouldn’t. If God has taken the time to order our stories, then I want to live the story He’s written. He’s been doing this for millennia upon millennia, so I know He’s better at it than I am.

  The thought is freeing—and petrifying.

  Scott is staring at me. I clear my throat.

  “Well?”

  “I’m not sure what to say. I hear you, I do. And I think I agree with you. I think I’ve even had some of the same thoughts since we got here. But hearing you say them, hearing those words come from your mouth, it’s just a shock to the system.”

  “I know.” I laugh. “I’m surprising myself tonight.” I break his gaze and release his hand, allowing him the gift of silence to process as he’s given to me on this trip. I just threw a lot of thoughts at him that I’d never have associated with myself two years ago, so I cannot expect him to simply swallow them in two seconds.

  I spear my green beans and taste the Chinese version. Not bad. Could use some seasoning. I try the pork dumpling. Its salty taste is layered with spices, and my taste buds receive it much better than the green beans. I wash it down with Coke, enjoying the fizzy burning in my throat.

  The words I’ve spoken aloud replay in my mind. While I didn’t know I thought all that, I’m pleased to find the ideas within me. I suspect the sisters have been spending some time in prayer on the other side of the globe, for those concepts couldn’t have sprung from my psyche without divine help.

  I’m finished with my pork dumplings and have begun on the two beef ones remaining on my plate when Scott’s “Joy?” draws my attention.

  “Hmm?” I look into eyes I love.

  “What time is it back home?”

  The question throws me. “Oh. I’m not sure. Why?”

  “Well, I’m still processing and I reserve the right to discuss this some more,” he winks at me, “but I think we better call Dr. Murray and make sure we have an appointment when we get back.”

  * * *

  “SHOULD WE PUT a sign up across Lindell?” Tandy held the phone between her shoulder and ear, her hands busy washing Cooper.

  Meg laughed. “For Joy? She’d never forgive us. I don’t think they hung signs for Martha when she came home.”

  “Yeah, but Joy’s more than a Martha Stewart lover. She’s a Sinclair. If I had to endure the ‘welcome back’ sign, I think she should too.” Tandy turned on the water and pointed the sprayer toward Cooper’s droopy ears.

  “That was different. You’d been living in Florida for three years. Joy’s only been gone two weeks.”

  “But I didn’t go across a gazillion time zones and a couple of oceans.�
�

  “Still, maybe we just put a sign across her door and call it done.”

  Tandy ran a hand down Cooper’s back, pushing suds out of his fur. “Okay. Let’s meet at Daddy’s tonight and get it made.”

  “Can we do it here instead? I’ve got the kiddos tonight. Jamison’s working late.”

  “Oh, sure. I’ll call Ken.”

  “Great. See ya tonight.”

  Tandy pushed the disconnect button with a soapy finger and set the phone down on the rug. “Why, Cooper, you look like a brand new dog!”

  Cooper woofed and wagged his tail, then shook his massive body. Water droplets sprayed in all directions.

  “Agh! Stop!” Tandy rushed to throw a towel over him. “Eww, now I smell like wet dog.”

  Cooper leaned his head out of the tub and licked her full in the face.

  “You know, dog, it’s a good thing you’re so cute.”

  As the dog panted and turned his big brown eyes her way, she would have sworn he was smiling.

  Thirty

  Having made our decision, a weight feels lifted from my shoulders when my eyes pop open the next morning. Today we will fly to Changsha with the parents, who will then meet their children from the Hengyang Social Welfare Institute. This is the institute that took over from the orphanage in which I lived the first few months of my life. Hengyang is a three-hour drive from Changsha.

  I’m no longer certain I need to visit the institute. I have learned so much, changed so greatly, in our few days here. I feel as if I’ve taken in the ideas that I needed to embrace. What good will seeing the institute do? I have no memory of it. It is not me.

  I am a Sinclair. I am a blessed woman with three wonderful sisters, all raised by two loving people in a tiny southern town in America. I look Chinese, I even enjoy some Chinese food. But I am a Sinclair. God knew I would be a Sinclair before my birth mother even knew of my existence.

  I wonder, of course, why she left me. Was it my blue eyes? Did they reveal a parentage of which she was ashamed? If my birth mother was Chinese, then my birth father could not have been. Blue eyes are not in the genetic code of Chinese people. Or was my father Chinese and my mother of some other genetic makeup?