Scrapping Plans

by Rebeca Seitz

  At the end of the day, I must accept that I will never know. And that not knowing doesn’t have a bearing on my identity. I choose to believe my blue eyes directed the story of my life to merge with Jack and Marian Sinclair’s story.

  My mother could have given me up because I was born right at the beginning of the One Child Policy here in China, which is still enforced in some areas of the country. When families learned they could only have one child, they naturally wanted a male. Chinese males are expected to care for the elderly in their families, not females. Females are only for marrying off.

  It’s a modern country in many ways. Cars everywhere. High rises littering the landscape like trees in Montana. But the culture, oh the culture. So much of it hangs on tightly to the past.

  I too had an idea of how life should work. Make a plan, follow the steps, reach the goal. But I’m learning that there are other ways to look at life. And that new doesn’t necessarily mean bad.

  These are heavy thoughts for so early a morning. I must shower quickly, awaken Scott, and meet the parents downstairs.

  I’m anxious to see their faces when they’re handed small children and given parental authority. I know I’ll see in their eyes the emotions Daddy and Momma felt when they were given me to parent. I don’t remember anything about that day. I have stories that Daddy and Momma shared with me, of course. Those are wonderful tales.

  But today I’ll see firsthand how a human being feels when she reaches the end of a journey she didn’t know she would have to walk.

  * * *

  I APPROACH THE group, hesitant, Scott’s hand firmly grasped in my own, aware that I am an outsider here. This group has traveled thousands of miles together and no doubt formed a bond along the way.

  “Hi, you must be Joy.” A woman in her forties turns from the group and reaches out her hand. “I’m Claudine, and this is Richard.”

  I shake Claudine’s hand, letting her Southern accent fall comfortingly on my ear. “Yes, I’m Joy. This is Scott.”

  Scott shakes Richard’s hand. “I think we met in the lobby yesterday.”

  “I can’t imagine how excited you must be,” I tell Claudine. “How long has it been since you started this journey?”

  Claudine begins telling me their story of twenty-nine months of paperwork—the weight made more emotionally wrenching by the earthquake that devastated the region last year—obtaining notary signatures, sending in fees, talking to consulates, and praying through the silent weeks. Momma and Daddy’s journey didn’t take as long as it does today, but I imagine them filling out paperwork all the same.

  Claudine’s story draws comments from other parents in the crowd, who share their tales as well. They’ve come from all over the U.S.—Washington, West Virginia, Texas, Idaho, Florida, South Carolina. All of them for the sole purpose of being given a child.

  The awe I could not find in the Forbidden City finds me here. It shines through the eyes of these men and women, so intent on a call to parenting that they traversed the globe. I receive their stories deep into my soul, knowing they are the stories of my own mother and father as well as thousands upon thousands of other parents who walked this path.

  I am overwhelmed.

  I listen and I feel the strong, sure presence of my husband at my side. In two days we will board a plane and head back to our lives to continue our own journey toward parenthood. Perhaps we’ll end up here. Perhaps the IVF will work and our story will be completed in a hospital delivery ward.

  One thing, however, resonates in my being. No matter the story God writes in our lives, I choose to follow His plan.

  Thirty-One

  The cold of winter is beginning to lift. We have days of seventy degrees and sunshine now. Late March in Tennessee can change on a dime though, so seventy degrees on Monday may mean forty degrees on Tuesday.

  Still, the ground is no longer frozen. I’d planned to plant yellow tulips along the front bed. The green stalks with their yellow flower cups would have been a wonderful harbinger of the new life to come. But between the trip and all that came before, I still haven’t planted them and now it might be too late.

  I think I’ll still plant them. Nothing else to do with the bulbs but throw them out, and the thought of tossing anything aside these days seems callous and cruel.

  I walk through the kitchen and into the utility room. The sign that my sisters hung on the front door is folded up on the counter. The sight of it was so welcoming when we pulled into the driveway in the middle of the morning. Much better than having them all gathered there, waiting. This way, I get to settle back into my Stars Hill life.

  The bulbs are in a drawer in here. I pull them out and slip on my gardening shoes, sitting at rest on their mat beside the back door.

  Today I’ll plant these bulbs.

  The air outside is pleasant. It smells of turned earth, a sign that others have had thoughts of planting, of cultivating new life. The grass has just begun to grow again, tiny shoots of green bursting through the dark earth.

  The bed along the front part of our circular driveway is in need of attention. I thought of calling a gardener, but putting my hands in the soil is more appealing right now than it seemed a couple of weeks ago.

  Birds are singing. I find comfort in that. In knowing, regardless of what attacks my life, the birds will still sing. The sun will still rise. The earth will still bring forth life.

  I still don’t understand completely why all this has happened, why our life’s story was written in this manner, but I’ve mostly made my peace with that. It doesn’t seem a wise use of time to emotionally resist things I cannot change.

  And if I’ve learned anything this past month, it is that I do not have control over when and how I will have a family with Scott.

  That’s terrifying and gratifying at the same time. If I’m not in control, then I can’t be held accountable for the outcome. But if I’m not in control, then I can’t create the outcome. It’s a paradox I’m still working through.

  Having a miscarriage seems a cruel way to teach a lesson though. And, despite all this, I don’t think He’s a cruel God. I think we live in a cruel world, but I don’t think He’s a cruel God.

  Peace does not equal understanding. Actually I found a passage in Scripture that says it perfectly: “peace that passes all understanding.” Isn’t that a lovely notion? At first I thought it must be a fairy tale. But no, I’m experiencing that peace on an hourly and daily basis. I have a peace that defies my own understanding.

  I reach the flower bed and kneel down. The dirt will have to be worked first. It’s become a solid mass over the hard, cold months of winter. I dig a cultivator into it, turning the tines and working until the soil loosens.

  I can’t help but see a picture here of my life. I’m a person who sees the world in pictures and allegories—in paintings and music and works of art that I cannot create myself but in which I find explanation and exploration of this world in which I live. It’s the bond that Kendra and I share. And as I watch the dirt break apart, I realize that it wouldn’t be ready for planting unless I stabbed it with sharp-ended instruments and twisted. Unless I pain the soil, it won’t reap the harvest it could.

  My womb has certainly been pained. Is it ready now to receive the seed that Dr. Murray will place there this Friday? Has my inner soil been turned and made ripe to grow a harvest? Or am I seeing hope when none exists?

  I went to a few message boards online and read of experiences other couples have had. I know enough now to realize that Scott and I were very fortunate to have conceived at all. That doesn’t make it any less painful that I couldn’t carry our child to term. But it helps me feel less alone in all this.

  I dig a shallow hole and drop a bulb inside. In a few short weeks, a yellow flower should spring up. It will herald the dawn of a new season. It will shout to us that winter is finally over and spring has sprung.

  I cannot wait.

  * * *

  “SCOTT, HURRY, HONEY! We don’t
want to be late!” Three days have flown by since our plane touched down on U.S. soil, and now we’re going to be late for our very first IVF treatment. I’m not looking forward to this procedure at all.

  Dr. Murray has explained it in depth. I would share the details, but I cannot imagine a way to give them without shedding my status as a lady. Suffice to say Scott will provide them, ahem, the necessary material. They’ll analyze the material, extract the appropriate components, and insert them into me.

  And that is as graphic as a Southern lady can get.

  I’m not concerned about the procedure or about Dr. Murray’s performing it. I’m not even worried that it will fail.

  I’m halfway worried it will succeed.

  Because haven’t we proven that getting pregnant is only half the battle? Then you have to make it to that magical second trimester, when miscarrying is a distant worry and the mom- and dad-to-be can go purchase baby clothes, bottles, bibs, burp cloths, a crib, booties, and all kinds of baby stuff with nary a worry that their child won’t come to fruition.

  I sorely wish someone had told me about the magical second trimester that first time around. I might not have let the entire town know I was pregnant. Then I wouldn’t have had to endure their looks of pity when I walked in Darnell’s or Sara’s or sat down at a table in Clay’s. I know they mean well, but I’ve never been the Sinclair sister who failed.

  It isn’t a nice position in which to be.

  I know, I know. This is the path we’ve been given to walk. That doesn’t mean I have to love it every second, does it?

  “Scott!”

  “I’m here, honey.” Scott looks dapper in his black pants, white Oxford, and baby-blue golf sweater.

  “A sweater? It was seventy degrees yesterday.”

  “And fifty today. Didn’t you watch the news last night?”

  “I fell asleep before it came on.”

  “Grab a jacket. It might be a little nippy out there. Besides, I picked the color on purpose.”

  I pull my jacket from its hanger in the coat closet. “You’re gunning for a boy?”

  “Hey, you can’t blame a guy for wanting his namesake running around.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  We walk down the long hallway, through the kitchen, and out to the garage. China has brought us closer, healed those fissures that had been created.

  “Yours or mine?”

  Scott steers me toward his vehicle. “Mine. That way you can rest the whole way home.”

  I nod, hoping that all this preparation and energy will have been expended for good reason. We won’t know for two more weeks if today’s work will bear fruit.

  Two long, grueling weeks.

  I’ve grown to hate the calendar again.

  A little over an hour later, we’re walking into Dr. Murray’s office. It hasn’t changed much. New issues of the same magazines litter the tables. A little boy with blond hair and blue eyes is playing in the corner with a dump truck. He’s totally absorbed in his make-believe world and doesn’t look up when we walk in.

  For a brief moment I consider going to him and entering into his world, where the greatest concerns are what to load in the truck and where to dump it.

  Scott alerts the receptionist of our presence, and I settle into the couch to wait until we’re called. If all goes well, I’ll be designing make-believe worlds with my own child in a few months.

  Scott joins me and pats my knee before picking up a Golf Digest and thumbing through it. I wonder if he’s anywhere near as nervous as I find myself.

  No, probably not. He has no reason to be nervous. The only performance needed here is my own, my body’s. Before my nerves get the best of me, Marinda is at the door calling us back to an exam room. Except there will be no exam today. No, the test comes in two weeks.

  I take a deep breath, pray my womb is ripe for a harvest, and enter the door.

  * * *

  “TANDY?”

  Tandy held the cell phone closer to her ear to hear over the thump of country music and twang of a fiddle. Heartland was rocking this Friday night. “Hello? This is Tandy.”

  “It’s Zelda, dear. Can you hear me?”

  “Zelda?” Tandy threaded her way through the dancers. “Hang on a second. Let me get somewhere quieter.” She waved a hand at Clay, who was just turning back from the concession stand, and held up a finger. He nodded.

  “Okay, I’m outside. What’s going on? I thought you and Daddy were coming dancing tonight.”

  “We were, but we sat down with these bridal magazines and I’m about to pull my hair out.”

  “Help, honey girl!” Tandy heard Daddy’s voice in the background.

  Tandy grinned. “Overwhelmed?”

  “That’s the understatement of the century. I don’t remember my first wedding being this difficult to plan. Then again, I was twenty years old and had twenty times the energy back then.”

  “Well, this time you’ve got four soon-to-be-stepdaughters to help. Now, you’ll need to say the magic line.”

  “Magic line?”

  “Yep. You might as well learn it now. Being married to Daddy and step-momma to us, I’m guessing you’re going to use it a time or two. Ready for it?”

  “I’ve got a pen in hand.”

  “Just say, ‘I’m calling a scrapping night.’”

  “I’m calling a scrapping night.”

  “All right, then. I’ll call the girls. We’ll see you at Daddy’s house in about an hour.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to interrupt your dancing time. How about two hours?”

  “Sure you won’t self-combust and leave a pile of bridesmaid dress material and fake flower petals behind?”

  “I’m sure. I brought over Casablanca. Your daddy and I can forget we ever said the word ‘wedding’ and lose ourselves in Bogart for a bit.”

  “Good enough. See you in a couple of hours. Enjoy the movie.”

  “Thanks, Tandy.”

  “Anytime. You’re nearly a Sinclair. That comes with backup.”

  Tandy flipped the phone shut and stepped back into Heartland. A steel guitar whined its way into her heart, and she glanced around the room for Clay, Kendra, and Darin. All three sat at a tall, round table in the corner. The room was so full of people, it took Tandy twice as long to get back across as it had to exit earlier.

  “Whew, this place is more packed than a can of Spam.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Kendra wrinkled her nose.

  “Who was on the phone?” Clay used the toe of his boot to push a chair out for Tandy.

  “Zelda. She’s going into wedding overload and threw up a call for help. She called a scrapping night.”

  Kendra set her cup down. “Let’s go. Did you call Meg and Joy yet?”

  “Sit down, sit down. She’s watching Casablanca with Daddy first, so we’ve got a couple of hours.”

  Kendra sat. “She called a scrapping night and then said to wait?”

  “She hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet.”

  Kendra nodded, swirling her straw in her glass. “She’ll get there.”

  “I figure.”

  They sat and listened to the music for a second, watching the dancers swirl and twirl around the floor. Dusty cowboy boots glided and stomped in rhythm to the steel drum.

  Tandy felt Clay’s fingers on her shoulder and turned.

  “Feel like getting out there with them?”

  “You bet!” Tandy hopped off her stool and followed Clay out to the dance floor. She placed a hand in Clay’s offered one and smiled. The band broke into a country waltz, and she stepped in time with her husband. The noise lessened and it felt as if the entire room had taken a breath of fresh air. Only the sound of the keyboard could be heard. That, and the squeak of the door. Tandy turned to see who had come in and busted out laughing.

  “Oh my word. Look!”

  A giant momma sow made a beeline for the dance floor. Peals of laughter broke out around the room as everyone caught sight of t
he pig snuffling all the dancers’ boots.

  “Violet, get back here!” Edgar Smithfield came racing through the door a few steps behind the pig. His faded overalls vied with the John Deere cap for best placement of dirt and dust. “I said get back here!”

  “Mr. Smithfield, how are you tonight, sir?” Tandy couldn’t help asking.

  Edgar tipped his hat. “Mighty fine, Mrs. Kelner. Be a sight better soon as I grab holda that there pig.”

  “How’d she get here?”

  “Had her in the back of the truck. Didn’t figure it’d bother anybody any if I left her there while I enjoyed the dancin’ for a minute, but Violet had other plans.”

  “Violet?”

  “I bought her at auction today. Man I got her from says her name is Violet.”

  “But, Mr. Smithfield, you don’t name animals you’re going to slaughter and eat.”

  “Oh, I ain’t going to eat her. She’s Della’s birthday present.”

  “I see.” Tandy bit her lip to keep the laughter inside.

  “That child’s been pestering me for weeks. ‘Daddy, I want a pig like Charlotte. Daddy, Charlotte had an excellent pig. Can I have a pig for my birthday? An excellent pig?’ It’s dang near all I’ve heard about.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Cussed librarian giving that child Charlotte’s Web to read, and now I had to go and buy a pig named Violet that’s done run up in here among all these fine-dressed dancers.”

  Tandy looked around Mr. Smithfield to see Violet, who had made herself comfortable underneath a table, licking up spilled soda.

  Clay pinched Tandy’s arm and stepped forward. “How about I help you get Violet back to your truck?”

  “I’d be much obliged, Mr. Kelner, much obliged.”

  “All right. Do you have a rope or something we can tie around her neck?”

  “Got me a rope in the truck. I’ll be right back.”

  Edgar left and Tandy finally let go in gales of laughter. “Good grief, I thought my side would split!” She wiped at tears rolling down her cheeks. “There’s a pig in Heartland!”