Heirlooms, page 17
“They’re . . . well, you know. Abnormal. Don’t have feelings and such. I’ve heard they don’t feel pain like normal babies.”
Helen flinched but said nothing more so she could complete her investigation without being asked to leave. Some of the babies did, in fact, sleep. Others moaned, and a few outright cried.
“Will someone come and tend to those who cry?” she asked. “Is there a nurse for their care?”
“The nurse is in the other room, with other babies. She’ll come by soon,” he said. “There are thousands of people here. We can’t be in all places at the same time.”
The room smelled of ammonia, urine, and dirty diapers. It took everything within Helen not to rush over and pick up one of the crying babies or insist on a diaper change.
“Say. Where did you say you were from?” The orderly looked at her, face pinched and peering.
“Whidbey Island Naval Air Base.”
He took out a notebook and a broken pencil from his breast pocket and wrote that down.
“I must be going now.” Helen was thankful that she had tucked away her name badge. “Can you please lead me out?”
He pushed the notebook back into his shirt pocket. A sullen silence had replaced his open demeanor. On the way down the hall, they passed a nurse—Helen recognized her by her cap and locked eyes with her. Perhaps because she knew these were appalling conditions and against every standard of care they had learned in nursing school, the woman turned away in embarrassment. Had she attended the same nursing school as Helen? What could she be thinking, and how had she buried her heart?
And yet would those children be better off without her? Was this all a civilized world had to offer their fellow citizens and those most in need of compassionate care?
Helen walked briskly to her car before she could be asked, again, for her credentials. She drove back down the long drive and then, once out of view, pulled the car over and cried for the babies left behind, for the people who had been forgotten, and for the mothers who had been urged to forget them, knowing there was no possible way that could ever happen. Had the doctors recommending institutionalization ever visited one?
Mi-Ja must not be left there under any circumstance. She would die of neglect.
Mi-Ja still needed medical care, though, medical care which was not available on the island—if it was available anywhere. Helen drove up the highway and past the university, where she’d proudly studied. It had a world-class medical system.
It had a world-class medical system!
She exited at the next ramp, drove toward the nursing school, and parked. It was still early afternoon. Certainly Mrs. Pattison would be at her desk or in the lab. If it was the latter, Helen would wait.
Her heels clicked across the polished stone floor. She walked toward the department and instantly felt at ease. The familiar hallways embraced and reassured her, and the intent faces in each classroom she peered into brought her back to her school days. She’d hoped to bury the pain of her widowhood in books and clinicals.
“Helen!” Mrs. Pattison nodded for her to come in. “Don’t you look smart in your uniform. My, how proud we are of you, the only civilian nurse on the base.”
Helen kept her face impassive. She did not want to let down her mentor—who was like a mother, a supervisor, and a hero all in one—by admitting she’d lost her job. Yes, it was for a good cause. But a better woman might have been able to figure a way to negotiate out of that. “I have a nursing question I hoped you might be able to answer.”
She explained Mi-Ja’s situation, how they were looking for caretaking resources and medical assistance with people who might be experienced in such matters.
“That is unfortunate,” Mrs. Pattison said. “Has your friend considered institutionalization for the child? That’s where most of those children are cared for. I am not aware of individual caretakers, though one could perhaps be found, likely at a high cost.”
Where those children were cared for. Even her beloved Mrs. Pattison spoke as though Mi-Ja were not a baby like any other. And yet before she’d known the baby and fallen in love with her, would Helen’s reaction have been so different? “Have you ever visited one of the institutions?” Helen asked.
“No, I haven’t. I’ve not been involved in many cases. There is very little we can do for young children, especially where the heart is involved, and when we do, of course, resources are scarce. Decisions must be made about who is worthy of those limited resources. However, as to your query about medical assistance, I will make some inquiries and phone you with what I learn.” She smiled warmly.
“Thank you.” Helen reached over and embraced her mentor, but perhaps not as affectionately as she might have before. “I await your call.”
Dusk and rain fell as one as Helen headed north toward the bridge to home. She’d promised they’d forage the pine needles over which they’d steam the cakes for tomorrow’s celebration.
She pulled into the driveway and then went into the house.
Eunhee looked at her with anxiety.
“Do you still want to go into the forest and get the pine needles for the songpyeon?”
“Oh yes,” Eunhee said. “This is the most important part. Their name means pine cake. We must have pine.” Eunhee bundled Mi-Ja up and strapped her to her chest with the long cloth she used for just that purpose. The baby’s skin looked pink, but not healthy pink. Working-hard-to-breathe pink. It was raining harder now.
Helen quickly changed, and then the two of them slipped on loafers and headed toward the back property. Helen had brought two flashlights, and they walked slowly so they didn’t trip on the way to the wooded area at the back of the acreage. She knew the way well, having traveled it many times while Bob was away and then after he was gone. The peace and quiet of the mixed evergreen-, pine-, and fir-forested acres were her favorite place on all her land. Her life-giving place of safety.
A barred owl cried, “Who?”
Eunhee and me. Helen glimpsed the majestic creature, wrapped in barred shades of mink and beige drawn tight around its head and down the body, like a Russian noblewoman dressed protectively against the coming winter. A few minutes later, under the canopy of the tree boughs where they sheltered from the rain, Helen spoke. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Eunhee stopped still, bracing herself.
“The institution is not a place for Mi-Ja. There was not good care there, nothing that could help us, I’m afraid. I do not think you would be comfortable leaving her there for any amount of time. They don’t truly have medical facilities, and the babies seemed overlooked.” Left to die, she thought but did not say aloud.
“Although I want her to have the very best care, I am thankful she will not have to leave me,” Eunhee said.
Helen exhaled. “She still needs medical help.”
Eunhee nodded and then bent and picked up some dry needles from the forest floor. “I know.”
“I’ve asked a friend to help us,” Helen cautiously offered. “She was my mentor at the nursing school. She’ll ask the doctors if there is someone who might know what to do next.” Helen picked up some needles too. “I’m hopeful that we can find a doctor to tell us what you must do next to help Mi-Ja. But—”
“I am hopeful, too,” Eunhee interrupted, something Helen had never known her to do. “Let us go make the food for the festival and celebrate.”
That night, the house smelled freshly of pine and soft sweets as the pretty rice cakes in green, white, and purple steamed over the branches, ready for a celebration.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Spent, the garden yawned, ready for hibernation. In mid-October, most plants had withered and decayed, slumping toward the ground to complete their transformation into mulch, except for the places Helen had cleared and composted. A few of the roses of Sharon held on—to please Eunhee, Helen thought. The two of them had harvested everything and collected seeds from the Korean plants and folded them into brown paper envelopes. Eunhee wrote on one, in English, To plant next year and all the years after. I will make my new home my true home. Then they tucked the seeds into the drawers in the potting shed. “We’ll plant them together here next year?” Helen asked.
“Perhaps,” Eunhee answered.
It had taken a month for Mrs. Pattison to find the right pediatrician and for an appointment to have come available. Finally the day arrived, and Eunhee and Helen bundled Mi-Ja for the trip.
“Do you want to drive?” Helen asked. “You’re so good now and did fine the last time you drove over the bridge when we went to buy your ingredients.”
Eunhee fixed a hat to her hair, then took it off and fixed it again. “No. I am too nervous. I will hold Mi-Ja.”
Helen was nervous, too, but someone had to drive. She’d made a hearty breakfast for them of creamed eggs on buttered toast and hot tea and coffee. The eggs were delicious! She jotted a note next to the recipe. Much better when cheese is added to the white sauce. Also, grind pepper on top, or it will seem like baby food.
Eunhee picked at the toast and had two cups of tea at Helen’s insistence.
“You not eating isn’t a vote for my cooking skills,” she teased.
Eunhee smiled wanly, and they bundled up themselves and the baby and drove to Seattle.
The doctor’s waiting room was filled with low-slung chairs, piles of alphabet blocks scattered like the rubble of demolished brick buildings, and worn copies of Highlights for Children. Mothers shushed crying children. If only Mi-Ja could cry powerfully without choking herself blue.
Soon the nurse came to show them to the examining room. The doctor’s demeanor upon entering the room was warm and welcoming. He sat down in a chair across from Eunhee and spoke to her directly. “What a lovely baby girl.” He rubbed his hands together to warm them and then asked, “May I hold her?”
Eunhee struggled to hold her face impassive, and Helen knew why. It was the first time a doctor had noted Mi-Ja’s loveliness as the first reference to her. “Of course.” She handed the baby to him, and he unswaddled and undressed her, leaving on her little undershirt and diaper. He examined her body, listening to her heart and taking her toes—which were slightly more rounded than those of typically developed babies—in his hand. He looked at her skin tone. “Does she always have this purple cast to her skin?”
Eunhee nodded. “More so lately. When she is tired.” The baby had been doing nothing but resting, so it went without saying that there had been nothing that should have unduly tired her.
He opened the baby’s fist. “Do you see that?” He gently traced the line across Mi-Ja’s palm. “Most palms have lines which are diagonal in some sense. Not like this single transverse crease. It’s very commonly found in people who have Down syndrome. I would say that due to all of the elements she presents, she most certainly has Down syndrome.”
Eunhee nodded. “The other doctor—the doctor at the hospital where she was born—he said maybe it was my fault somehow, that Mi-Ja is different. That I have done something wrong, something shameful, or something is wrong with me, and that’s why Mi-Ja is unwell. That the best thing is to let her die and forget about her.”
Oh, she’d heard that. Helen wanted to weep.
The doctor’s voice was gentle. “We are not quite sure what makes a child susceptible to Down syndrome. My own belief is that it has nothing to do with the mother.”
“I believe God made my child,” Eunhee said. “The Bible tells us that he made her in his image.” Her tears flowed, and Helen drew near to her.
The doctor looked a bit surprised. “Are you a Christian?”
She nodded. “I am. As was her father.”
He thought for a moment before speaking again. “That doctor was wrong. I often see children who are sick and parents who worry they have harmed those children somehow. When they share my faith as you do, I remind them of what Jesus said about a man who was born blind. He said the man’s blindness was not due to the parents’ sin but rather to show the work of God in his life. It is hard to understand that, but I believe it to be true.”
“Not everyone believes that,” Eunhee said. “Some definitely blame the parents.”
“I’m sorry to agree with you. In fact, few believe that. Even people of faith. That is something for you to consider wisely and speak about her and of her with discretion.”
“What will happen to her?” Eunhee asked.
The room grew quiet. Helen pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and handed it to Eunhee.
“Her heart is in very bad shape, and it’s getting worse. She cannot live without heart surgery, and we cannot offer that to her. In my best medical opinion, I believe she is too weak to survive surgery even if we had it to offer. In a few years, yes, we maybe could. The field is growing. But we simply don’t have the ability now for a baby this small.”
Eunhee took the baby from his arm and drew her close to her heart. “If you had the ability, would you do it? Would you, yourself, do this surgery for a baby with Down syndrome? Right now?”
The doctor looked at her frankly. “Before you came to speak with me today, I am not sure. Common medical wisdom is that such children are not worthy of scarce resources because of their intellectual difficulties and likelihood to die young.”
Helen could barely keep herself from crying out in anger, but for Eunhee’s sake—the mother who showed such great dignity—she remained quiet.
The doctor continued, “But after today, yes. Yes, I would see that it would be done for her as for any other child. I will see to that when it’s readily available.”
Eunhee swaddled Mi-Ja and stood up. “Please remember that vow, and this child, when the time comes for you to make those decisions.” She tenderly kissed the baby’s head before pulling the cap back on Mi-Ja’s head. “She is seventy-seven days old. Will she live to one hundred days?”
He stood, too. “I am not certain. Her breathing . . .” He looked up and his face betrayed doubt. “Are you attending church?”
“There is no Korean church on Whidbey Island. I do not even know if there is another Korean person on Whidbey Island.”
The doctor pulled a card out of his pocket and scribbled on the back of it. “I have a Korean colleague here in Seattle who is also a Christian. He and some other Korean people meet for services in another church during open hours. This may be a time when you would like to attend a church and draw strength. He can tell you where they meet.”
Eunhee tucked the card into her purse. “Thank you, I will consider it. I appreciate your time, Doctor.”
As she turned to leave, the doctor caught Helen’s arm. “Take care of her while she takes care of the baby, and maybe the little one can make it twenty-three more days.”
Later that evening, Helen prepared a meal of dried beef on fried noodles. Not as good as creamed chipped beef, she wrote on the recipe, clipped from the newspaper and then glued onto a piece of paper and snapped into her cookbook. Also, add some fresh tarragon from the garden. When she stood straight after writing, she looked out the kitchen window and saw Eunhee bend down in the garden. She did not come back up again. Had she fallen? Was the baby on the ground, too?
Helen wiped her hands on her apron, ran toward the garden in her stocking feet, and pushed open the gate. Eunhee knelt by the mugunghwa, the shrub that represented beauty prevailing through difficulty and neglect. Helen went to her and knelt, too, the wet soil seeping through both of their dresses.
Eunhee sobbed, the baby wrapped to her chest with the long strip of fabric.
“Will he take everything from me?” she choked out between anguished cries. “My home, my country, my brother, my mother and father, my husband, my child? Is it not enough that I must relinquish one or two of those things while others enjoy them? He must demand them all?”
Helen held her close while she cried, Mi-Ja protectively sandwiched between them. Helen did not need to ask who “he” was.
Eunhee continued to sob, the rain and tears coursing down her face.
Helen cried, too. “I do not know. I do not understand.”
When Eunhee started to shiver, Helen helped her to her feet, and arms around one another, they made their way to the kitchen. Helen made some tea as Eunhee fed Mi-Ja, who had barely woken during her mother’s crisis.
“I think I would like to visit that meeting of people for a Korean church on Sunday,” Eunhee finally said, calm having returned to her voice. Her eyes brimmed with fatigue and hurt.
“Really? I thought you were angry with God.”
“Oh yes.” Eunhee looked into her cup. “I am. Remember Job? From the tea I drank after Mi-Ja’s birth? Job was a good man, and God took everything away from him. When he did, Job spoke to him in pain. In despair. In honesty. Love and honest talk make for friends. I am not happy with God. But I still believe in him and his goodness. Will you stay with the baby and let me borrow your car?”
“Of course, of course,” Helen said. “I will stay with the baby every Sunday, as many as you want to go.” She held her handkerchief out. “I will finish dinner while you tell me all about the Baek-il, the one hundred days celebration.”
Eunhee’s voice was tinted with anxiety. “Will Mi-Ja live until then? It will be on November 22. One hundred days, that is.”
“Yes,” Helen said. “She will wear her beautiful hanbok.”
“We can have a small celebration,” Eunhee said. “Just the three of us.”
The next Sunday, as soon as Eunhee drove out of the driveway, Helen cleaned the house, looking at her watch. The Dutch church got out at 11:00 a.m., and she figured Johanna would be home thirty minutes after that. At 11:30 promptly, Helen picked up the phone.
“Hello, Johanna? It’s Helen. Listen . . . you know that Eunhee’s baby, Mi-Ja, is very ill and is likely to die within the month.”
Gasps came across the line—not from Johanna—but Helen did not care at that point. “The baby must have her one hundred days celebration before she dies. Will you help me?”
“Anything,” Johanna replied.
