A Southern Girl by John Warley Page B

desk. Faith followed my eyes, and when she spoke her robust voice softened.
    “That is Sohn. A most unfortunate child who died shortly after placement. It happened just before you began here, I believe.”
    “I remember people discussing it. I have never seen her picture.”
    “I keep it here to remind myself of my duties to parents who rely upon me to be their eyes and ears in the home.”
    “Perhaps,” I countered, “you should put up pictures of those who are happily living with new families. That would require many frames and a larger desk.”
    The women laughed. “There are so many success stories,” Faith conceded. “Still, I can’t help thinking about Earl and Rebecca Saunders, in Nebraska. Those were Sohn’s parents. In just one month … well, no point in reliving that.”
    “You were about to say that in a very short time they came to love the child. I understand that feeling.”
    “I know you do.”
    “I must get back to my ward.” I stood, hoping that the love I expressed for children, all children, somehow compensated for my half-truth, and knowing that it did not.
    I had just returned to my ward when the reception desk called. I answered the phone with my right hand, the unlucky one. Into my right ear the receptionist spoke of a woman in the lobby who wished to see me. “She declined to say why.”
    I entered the reception area from a stairwell behind the reception desk. I spotted a young woman standing alone. Approaching, I realized at once that I did not know her.
    “I am Hana. You wish to speak to me?”
    “You are very kind to see me. I have come from outside the city to ask about my daughter.”
    “Your daughter is here, at the home?”
    “From what I have been told by others, yes. They say she is in your care.”
    “I have many in my care. Is there a name?”
    “Soo Yun.”
    “We have a child by that name, but she was abandoned.” My gaze was steady, and I did not blink.
    The woman’s head dropped and her eyes lowered to the level of my belt. “At Jongam. I am very sorry.” Her composure slipped.
    I took her arm and led her to a chair in a removed corner of the long room. “Sit down. You look very tired.”
    “Thank you.” She sat, then withdrew from the pocket of her coat a small rag, with which she dabbed her eyes. “You must forgive me. The child was my first born. I could not keep her, but neither can I forget her.”
    I appraised the peasant before me. “She is a sweet child. Very healthy, and much bigger than when you … last saw her.”
    “Mi Cha, who found her, said that she could be put in the care of a good family. To think that she is happy would mean everything.”
    “I can say only that this is possible.”
    The young woman nodded, then put to me the question I felt sure she had come to ask. “May I see her … just for an instant?”
    “The rules are very clear. We have her custody, and we cannot permit what you ask. I am very sorry. But perhaps it is better this way.”
    She looked doubtful in her silence, staring at her hands which twisted the rag. I eyed her evenly, fighting against being drawn into the pathos of her disappointment. After a time she said, still focusing on her hands, “But what if she remains here? Can I never see her again?”
    “If you chose to come when the public is invited, I cannot prevent it. Open House will next be held in March, on the last Saturday. But I would urge you strongly against coming because it will make your life without her more difficult and because she may by then be gone to her new life.”
    She managed a weak smile. “You are correct. I must think not only of myself but of her. I will decide later, when I am less tired. Thank you for your kindness. Now, if you will direct me out of the city, I must go.”
    From the window I watched as she crossed the street to the bus stop. Minutes later she was gone.

7
    Elizabeth
    On the morning after Christmas, we packed the station wagon for the eight hour trip to South