The Yellow Sock: An Adoption Story (8 page)

She listened with her heart as well as her ears, but heard no answers in the soft gray twilight.

Belinda had no answers, either. “I mentioned before that we don’t do international adoptions,” she said when Megan called from work. “But I’m pretty sure you can use the home study we’ve prepared. In most international adoptions, you work with two agencies—one in the child’s country of origin and one licensed in the United States. You’ll have to find out which area agency works with Korea, and you’ll have to be sure the child is registered with a Korean agency who will work with the American agency. I can offer the home study I’ve written—which might save you time and money—and they may allow me to do the follow-up visits. But I can’t handle any of the actual arrangements for this Korean child. It’s not my jurisdiction.”

More confused than ever, Megan hung up, then called her mother, who responded to the story with more enthusiasm than Megan felt. “God is working,” her mother said, her voice filled with hope and a note of awe. “I knew He would. And He will take care of everything until that little baby is home with you.”

“I’m just not sure, Mom.” Megan stared at the veterinary office clock as she wrapped the phone cord around her wrist. “How do I know this is from the Lord? It could all fall apart tomorrow—“

“Ask Joe to send you pictures,” her mother interrupted. “And start thinking of a name. This is a
real
little girl, Meg, and she’s waiting. Stop looking at the obstacles, and think of the child. She’s alive. She’s in Joe’s house. And she needs a home.”

Buoyed by her mother’s confidence, Megan disconnected the call. A thrill shivered through her senses. Could this be the child they’d been waiting for?

Ignoring Laurie’s curious glance, Megan picked up the phone book, then scribbled down the number for the church office. After speaking to the receptionist, she was transferred to the missions pastor, who gave her the Hogans’ phone number in Korea.

“You should probably wait until early evening to call,” the pastor reminded her. “The time difference, you know.”

She laughed. “I know. And thanks.”

The day dragged by with remarkable slowness. At four o’clock, Megan grabbed her purse and ran out the door. At five, with Dave sitting beside her, she placed the long distance call to Korea.

“Susan?” she asked when a woman answered. “This is Megan Wingfield.”

“Megan!” Susan’s voice was warm and compassionate. “I’ve been thinking about you.” In the background, Megan could hear the sound of children laughing. Not
the
baby—she’d be too young. Susan and Joe must have other children.

“We’re going to do whatever we must to make this adoption work,” Megan said, smiling at Dave. “And we appreciate you taking care of the baby while we wait.”

“We’ll do whatever we can,” Susan answered, a smile in her voice. “My boys love her. She’s a little angel.”

The sound of a baby’s gurgle echoed over the phone line, and Megan’s heart clenched at the sound of it. “Is that—“

“Yes,” Susan answered softly. “She’s right here, on my shoulder.”

Megan thought she might burst from the sudden swell of happiness that rose in her chest. “Will you,” she pushed the words out, “will you call her Danielle Li? And will you send pictures? I’ll reimburse you for the postage and film—“

“There’s no need for that,” Susan interrupted. “Just do whatever you have to, and we’ll do the same on this end. I have a feeling she’ll be home very soon.”

“Thank you.” A hot, exultant tear trickled down Megan’s cheek. “You’ll never know what you’ve done for us.”

Four days later, after a series of frantic calls, Megan and Dave sat in the lounge of the Washington, D.C. office of Welcome Home, an international adoption agency with official ties to South Korea. Though the office was nearly a five hour drive from their house, the agency served Virginia, Maryland, and the District of Columbia.

Megan clutched the folder on her lap—it contained a letter from Belinda Bishop, a sealed copy of their home study report, their birth certificates, and a copy of their marriage license. In her purse, safely tucked away, she carried an application for a second mortgage on their home—a logical, practical answer to their financial dilemma. As soon as they knew how much the adoption would cost, they planned to apply for a loan.

Megan felt edgy after the four-hour drive from Alta Vista. The last thing she wanted to do was sit in a waiting room, but from this point every day counted. She was no longer waiting on a nebulous, chimerical child—she was working for a little girl living temporarily with the Hogans in Seoul, South Korea.

Megan ached to work the rust off her soul.

The door to the inner office finally opened. A tall, slender woman stepped out and shook their hands, introducing herself as Helen Gresham, a senior social worker for Welcome Home.

Megan nearly collapsed in relief at the sight of Helen’s gentle demeanor and sparkling blue eyes. She hadn’t realized how nervous she was until she sat before Helen’s desk and the tension went out of her shoulders.

“I understand that you’ve done quite a bit of the work for us,” Helen said, lowering herself into the worn leather chair behind her cluttered desk. “This is an unusual situation, but everything seems in order. I don’t really foresee any problems, but I have to ask you a few questions.” She smiled as she caught Megan’s gaze. “You understand.”

Megan nodded. “Of course.” She felt as though she had been answering questions for the last year. She no longer had a private life, secrets, or untold confessions. She’d relay any detail of her past life if doing so would bring finally their baby home.

She reached for Dave’s hand and held it as they again answered questions about their families, their backgrounds, and their marriage. During the session, the door to Helen’s door opened and an Asian woman entered, dropped a pile of mail on the social worker’s desk, and slipped away.

Helen looked up and paused a moment to riffle through the mail. Her smile broadened as she picked up an envelope. “I had hoped this would come,” she said, opening the letter. “Would you like to see a picture?”

Megan held her breath as Helen pulled a photograph free of its paper clip and passed it across the desk. Dave reached for the picture first, but he leaned over and held it in front of Megan’s eyes.

The child was simply beautiful. Fair-skinned, with dark black hair that stood up like a Mohawk in the center of her head. Chubby and healthy-looking, her little belly strained at the seams of a sleeveless sun suit. Someone had propped up in a little painted chair, and a place card beside her leg read
Danielle Li Wingfield
.

Megan swallowed hard and bit back tears.

“Your friends,” Helen said, her eyes scanning the letter, “have listed the child with the Southern Child Welfare Agency, our partner in Seoul. They are serving as her foster parents, and the people at Southern are handling the child’s paperwork. Everything seems to be in order.”

Megan could scarcely tear her gaze from the picture. Never again would her imagination conjure up faceless images of infants; her child had a name and a beautiful, round-cheeked face!

She reached out and touched the photo. From across the miles, a little piece of her daughter had come home.

“If I were you,” Helen said, glancing at her watch, “I’d head straight down to the Immigration office. The lines there can be terribly long, and we can’t bring her over until you’ve done all the INS requires.”

Megan clutched her folder to her chest. “We’ll go now.”

Helen smiled and held out her hand. “I’m sorry, but I need the photo for the file. Would you like me to make you a copy?”

Megan would have nodded, but Dave returned the picture and stood. “Thank you, Ms. Gresham, but our friends in Korea are sending a packet of pictures. They’re probably waiting at home.”

After thanking Helen and taking one last look at her daughter, Megan hurried after him.

They reached the INS office at one o’clock. Megan took one glance at the crowd occupying every available chair and bench, then took a number from the dispenser on the wall. Their number was 409. The digital readout above the main desk told her they were assisting whoever held number 335.

“I think we have time to get lunch,” Dave said, his voice dry. “It’s going to be a while.”

Megan waved to catch the attention of a uniformed staffer walking by. “Is it always like this?”

The woman didn’t bat an eye. “Immigration? We’re the busiest office in the district.”

Reluctantly, Megan agreed lunch was a good idea, but she insisted they go someplace with quick food. After walking about two blocks, they found a little mom and pop joint and ordered hamburgers and fries. After wolfing down one of the biggest burgers Megan had ever seen in her life, she took Dave’s hand and dragged him back to the INS office. The clock said one-thirty; the digital counter had moved forward to number 350.

Torn between relief that they’d made it back in time and consternation at the slow pace, Megan settled into a worn wooden chair. If she’d known the afternoon would turn into a marathon waiting session, she’d have brought a magazine or book. Then again, she thought, studying the assorted people in the waiting area, she probably would be too distracted to concentrate.

Amazing, the number and variety of people that came to America. Waiting with her were women in Indian saris, men in suits, babies tied in slings around their mother’s necks. Like her, each of them clutched a folder of documents and the tiny rip-off number, a ticket to hope and the chance for a new life.

As the afternoon wore on, Megan found herself feeling rusty and frustrated again. She frowned as she glanced at the clock. She had no reason to rush back to Alta Vista, but surely the INS office closed at four-thirty or five. What would she and Dave do if they didn’t see someone today? They had planned to drive home tonight, so they didn’t have a hotel room or even a change of clothes . . .

At three-thirty, a uniformed woman stood at the main desk and called, “Four-oh-nine?”

Megan leapt to her feet, half-pulling Dave with her. “That’s us,” she called, hurrying forward. The woman didn’t crack a smile, but pointed them toward another caseworker at a desk.

Megan and Dave walked over, introduced themselves to the stern-faced woman working there, then Megan slid the folder with their paperwork across the desk. She briefly explained their situation, told the woman about the baby, and assured her that the adoption was proceeding without a hitch. “Of course, we understand that we have to clear her coming to the United States,” Megan said, sinking slowly into the chair before the woman’s desk. She gestured toward the folder. “So you’ll find everything you need there. Our marriage license, birth certificates, copies of our drivers’ licenses—“

The woman peered into the folder, flipped through the pages, then snapped it shut. “I’m sorry, but you’ve missed the fingerprint office. Immigration law requires us to run your fingerprints through the FBI database before you can apply for permission to bring an alien into the United States.”

Megan felt her stomach drop. “We have to be
fingerprinted
? Before we can do any anything else?”

The woman’s mouth softened slightly. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch the guy across the street. He does fingerprints--for a fee.”

Dave didn’t hesitate. He was out of his chair before Megan could respond, so she stood and hurried after him, pausing only long enough to retrieve their precious paperwork from the caseworker’s hand.

The “guy across the street” turned out to be a gruff-voiced older fellow who listened to their frantic story with a gentle smile. Megan knew she was making little sense, but he seemed to listen intently as he pressed each of their fingers onto an inkpad, then expertly rolled them across a preprinted card.

When the cards were done, he pulled a stub of a cigar out of his mouth, then smiled and handed the forms to Megan. “Good luck,” he said, grinning at Dave. “Now hurry back over there so you can bring that baby home.”

Approaching the INS office, Megan felt her heart stop when she saw a rope stretched across the entrance to the INS waiting room. Had the office closed? As they hurried closer, however, she could see people in the reception area beyond. She could have fallen to her knees in gratitude when she realized they had merely stopped taking new arrivals in order to handle those who were still waiting.

The INS staffer at the main desk recognized them immediately. “You won’t have to wait again,” she promised, glancing toward the caseworker who had spoken to them earlier. “Marcy’s ready for you.”

With an air of accomplishment, Megan strode over and returned her folder, now complete with fingerprint cards. The caseworker glanced at the documents, stamped their application, then looked up and smiled. “Glad you made it back,” she said, standing. “Now if you will both raise your right hands and repeat after me.”

Megan had never felt more solemn than in that unexpected moment. Together she and Dave took an oath to protect the child they had petitioned to bring into the United States, then the caseworker handed Megan a sheet of paper. “Go home, fill this in, and return it with a check for the application fee,” she said, her tone cool and professional. But her eyes sparkled as she whispered, “And God bless you.”

Megan’s heart swelled with gratitude as she accepted the application. Everything was falling into place. Step by step, God was bringing them closer to their baby.

They found the first packet of photographs in the mailbox when they arrived home. Though she was dead tired from the trip to Washington, Megan tore open the envelope, then stared at the first picture with unabashed delight. The tiny black and white snapshot in Helen Gresham’s office hadn’t done Danielle justice—this baby was
adorable
.

Joe and Susan had taken and developed an entire roll of film—shots of the baby having a bath, wet-haired and big-eyed in the plastic tub, shots of her leaning out of a stroller, shots of her on Susan’s hip. In one picture, Danielle had been propped against pillows and was falling over, her mouth open in what Megan was certain must have been a belly laugh. A deep dimple adorned her left cheek, a glorious smile lit her face, and, Megan realized as she memorized the photos, the robust baby was no frail infant.