A Southern Girl by John Warley Page A

drafting conveying effusive reassurance, the news was always perceived as bad. No matter how detailed, they rarely answered all questions and concerns demanded by those alerted. Now infected by restless apprehensions, those alerted tended to resolve their doubts conservatively, invariably asking, in so many words and with a multiplicity of excuses, “Why take the risk?”
    Subtle ailments—a history of colic, poor sleep patterns, delayed development responses—could be, and were, glossed over by the home in its efforts to place as many children as possible. But scars were another matter. My silence could imperil my relationship with Faith and the agency’s reputation in Korea; my disclosure meant a dreaded “Alert,” probably dooming Soo Yun’s chances for early adoption, or any at all. In full knowledge of the poor choices available, I approached Faith Stockdale’s office at the appointed hour.
    Faith opened her door at the first knock, smiled in greeting, then motioned me inside. “How are you?” she asked, returning to her desk as I glanced down at her large feet.
    “Very well, thank you.”
    “And the children on your ward?”
    “Very well, also.” I found myself sitting rigidly, formally. My body was telling Faith what I myself had not yet to decided to share. The words “all but one” formed in my mouth, but I pulled them back and instead reported, “Last night one of the children saw a mouse. The boys took up sticks to hunt it down. Some of the girls were afraid of it but wanted me to prevent the boys from killing it.” I laid my elbow on the chair’s armrest to relax.
    “What did you do?”
    I shrugged my shoulders. “I told the boys I would give a prize for the safe capture of the mouse, but no prize for a dead mouse. They put down their sticks and began constructing a trap from a box.”
    Faith smiled. “And the girls?”
    “They, too, wish for the prize, so they are making a trap also.”
    “The mouse lives.”
    “We must all find a way,” I said. I wished to steer conversation away from the children but as my relationship with Faith was built entirely on the business of the home, conversation on other subjects did not flow naturally. “What is the news from America?”
    “Applications are up,” Faith said, pleased. “I just received profiles on thirty-two families. The economy there is good and more couples are coming to view adoption as acceptable.”
    “That is very good news,” I agreed, thinking of the sutures, ugly puncture wounds trailing out over the landscape of Soo Yun’s chest, side and back like the most primitive tractor marring a virgin hillside. In a few months or years, they will all but disappear, but the damage will be done. She will be consigned to the home beyond infancy, and possibly beyond that.
    On the desk before Faith rested a pile of folders. She moved them forward. “Take these with you,” she instructed. “I’ve looked through them. They are typical, except we have one family willing to accept a child as old as fifteen, either sex. That is rare, as you know. Also, we have an opportunity to place a boy between five and eight with a handicap of the arms or legs. Does anyone on your ward qualify?”
    “Possibly Chang Yong Ho,” I replied, mentally inventorying my ward. “He is six, the oldest in my care. He suffered a slight paralysis on the left side in an accident.”
    “Perfect,” Faith said. From a credenza behind her she picked up a slim manila folder. “And these are the children who have been matched to parents’ specifications. We are awaiting the parents’ decisions. Let’s see….” She read seven names, beginning with Suk Non Hee and ending with Soo Yun. “Any problems?”
    “Yes, the last one,” I heard myself say.
    “Health?”
    “Yes, but she has recovered. She is … fine.”
    “Good. Then perhaps the prospective parents will decide in time for the next flight.”
    I spied a small, framed photograph on the surface of the