A Southern Girl (9 page)

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 friendly.

“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.”

“You are most mistaken, doctor. They will prevent her from being adopted.”

Kim drew back in surprise. “Oh?”

“She is damaged. Prospective parents will be unwilling to take a risk.” “But she is fine.”

“It will not matter. You will see.”

I didn’t mean to take out my frustration on Dr. Kim. Soo Yun was not his patient. But I knew what this meant for me in my dealings with Faith Stockdale, the gatekeeper for every child who left or hoped to leave the home. If Soo Yun became labeled “damaged goods,” she was doomed to a youth within a kilometer of where she now lay.

I knew Faith as my boss. She was a cheerful woman in her mid-fifties, with closely cropped hair, broad shoulders and the largest feet I have ever seen on a woman. I liked and respected her, but we were not contemporaries nor did we socialize outside of work. The woman I replaced on 3E, my mentor here, had been her best friend and told me all about her. Faith spoke fluent Korean. She arrived in the country at age thirty-eight as the wife of an army lieutenant colonel. Winters here are harsh, and their marriage did not survive their first winter in Korea, as her wealthy parents had predicted. I was told her ex-husband, Anthony Stockdale, remained bitter over an evaluation from his commanding officer at Ft. Bragg. He drank too much and he blamed Faith because he said she did not love the military and did not do enough to help him become a general. It was not the military she did not love, but rather him. His tour ended at the officers’ club in an incident involving a captain’s wife and a scuffle in the parking lot. By then Faith had resolved to leave him, to stay in this strange country, and to learn its language. Her grandfather’s trust fund eased her transition to that of a single woman determined to prove to the people back in Connecticut that Choate and Vassar had been worth their investment.