A Southern Girl: A Novel

16: Elizabeth

147 j 16 i Elizabeth Those scars? Of course they worried us, but our doctor reviewed the records from Korea and reassured us so promptly that had it not been for seeing them when we changed or bathed her, I would have forgotten they were there. Of far greater concern, to us and to every adopting couple who lacks knowledge about the biological parents, the child’s prenatal care, and genetic predispositions, are signs of impairment, mental or physical. The ones that take some time to manifest themselves. And there is a name for adoptive parents who deny that these were a concern with their particular child. They are called liars. We named her Allison and called her Allie. The first few mornings revealed something about each of us. The mobile suspended above her crib fascinated her. From the doorway of her bedroom I watched as her eyes went from the monkey to the fish to the giraffe to the squirrel. When she moved, they moved, and this brought the first smiles we saw. I say ‘we’ because Coleman joined me there on several of these first mornings, and sideways glances told me she was not the only one smiling. Aside from occasional squawks from hunger or irritation, she impressed me as content in her new environment, which naturally justified my “it-was-meant-tobe ” optimism. The most remarkable thing about Allie’s early childhood development was how unremarkable it was, as if she had started life over within traditional markers. She ate everything put in front of her (except squash) or left within reach. Her neck, too weak to support her head when she arrived, strengthened. Her legs lengthened until her body took on proportion . Gradually, she thrived, but with developmental differences I A Southern Girl 148 noticed and Coleman ticked off to me one day not too long after her first birthday. Josh and Steven had crawled looking up; she kept her head down. The boys, taking their first steps, had fallen backward, on their diapered bottoms; she fell forward. The boys deflected strained vegetables with their right hands; she used her left, and only for squash, which she hated. “Mom” was the first word said by the boys; for her it was “milk.” At least that is what I think she said. We were in Charleston by then, where Coleman’s father passed away two months after we arrived. He regained only limited speech, and what little he communicated was spent on subjects well wide of adoption. He died without ever meeting Allie. Sarah composed his obituary, and when I realized she had omitted Allie’s name as a surviving grandchild, it was all I could do to attend the funeral and to feel empathy for his widow. Sarah knew I was livid, and I stayed so for weeks afterwards. It was not until that summer, on the beach, when we watched Sarah instruct a toddling Allie on the proper way to build a sandcastle, that I began to sense things would only get better between them. And they did, but it was gradual. At eighteen months, Coleman took her for her checkup. “How is our girl?” I asked as he loosened his tie and tossed his coat over the back of a kitchen chair. “She’s still not on the growth chart, but Rick says she’s healthy. She didn’t like the shot at all. She let the whole clinic know how unhappy she was.” “Good lungs, eh? If she develops a chest I’m going to be very upset.” Coleman laughed. “You’re feeling threatened?” “Asians are supposed to be small breasted. I’m counting on it. She can be as beautiful as she likes, but I refuse to be intimidated by a daughter who won’t wear my dresses because they are ‘snug.’” “Maybe you can bind her chest. It works for feet.” On the day President Reagan was shot, Allie tripped on a pull toy in the playroom and struck her mouth on an end table. For a time it looked as if she might lose a tooth that had just emerged on her lower gum. Like Reagan, the tooth survived. Josh and Steven, adapting to new friends and surroundings, ignored her. They rode their bikes, tested their imaginations against neighbors, adapted to a different school. Occasionally they would use her as a prop in Rapids 149 a game, or...