A Southern Girl: A Novel

7: Elizabeth

A Southern Girl 54 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. j 7 i Elizabeth On the morning after Christmas, we packed the station wagon for the eight hour trip to South Carolina. I tolerated these as a rule, but dreaded this particular one because I knew I would be blamed for the adoption Confluence 55 idea, and Coleman couldn’t have been looking forward to it either because the time had come to tell his parents we were expanding the family and, “no, Elizabeth is not pregnant.” I told Josh and Steven they could each take one new toy and they showed what I thought commendable restraint in limiting to three the number smuggled aboard in overnight bags. When you marry a southerner, you get a husband, his extended family, a region with all its quirks (and there are many), not to mention historical legacies that brides from the Midwest like me know nothing of until long after they say “I do.” It seemed so simple when Coleman proposed, when naïve me asked myself the question most brides ask: did I want to spend the rest of my life with him? I did not ask whether slavery was as cruel and heartless as is often portrayed (it was), whether the Civil War was justified (it was) or rightly decided (it was), or whether the evening meal is properly called dinner or supper. Who cares? His parents, to name two, care very much, and that should tell you something about how this adoption news will be received. Adoption is a word in the southern lexicon, but it isn’t used much except to refer to things like the “adoption of Articles of Secession” or “adopting the ways of our forefathers.” To adopt, as in embracing as your own a child not related by blood, and taking over the care and custody of that child? That’s pretty rare, as I am learning. Coleman’s mother, Sarah, once told me she had a friend who adopted twins orphaned by the death of their widowed mother, but was emphatic in pointing out that her friend was a cousin of the deceased, so the bonds of family, while stretched, were not broken, as if a stranger stepping up to adopt those twins would have committed an act of perversion. This conversation took place just after Josh was born and long before I had taken any steps to adopt. His parents live in a...