Free A Southern Girl by John Warley Page B

the cold had left her vulnerable to pneumocystis carinii, a strain ofpneumonia 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 drainagetube 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