Story time at
home offered a vast menu. There was the usual storybook, Irish myths, stories
of my parents’ childhood, or tales that came straight from Da’s head. There was
a schedule about the venue. Monday would be in my bedroom. Tuesday would be at
Don’s; Wednesday at Jim’s. Then mine again on Thursday.
On that night,
Don and I were snuggled on the bed with Da between us. It was his turn to tell a story. Jim plonked himself on my easy chair. Though my brothers considered
bedtime tales soppy by then—Jim was 13 and Don was 10—they couldn't resist the
inviting tone of our father’s voice. He is a gifted storyteller who could
capture the attention of people in whatever age.
_____________
Once upon a
time, there lived a family in a Dublin suburb. The father and mother had two
little lads. They wanted another baby, so that the lads will have a sister to
care for and play with. And they would have another child to love. But the
doctor said that the mother cannot have babies anymore.
Incidentally,
a tiny baby in an orphanage had no family. The lady who took care of her wanted
the baby to have a da and mammy, just like any other child. When the family in
the suburb heard that, they prayed hard.
“Was it long
before they got the baby?” I ask.
“Not too
long,” my father replies, “the baby lived with the family when she was three
months old. Like this,” he demonstrates with his hands how little the baby was.
“The lads helped their parents buy clothes for the baby. Right, Da?” pipes in Jim.
“And a baby
blanket too?” asks Don.
“Yes. It was
blue.”
“Why was it
blue? My teacher said it is for lads,” I say.
My father chuckles at my love for details. "You're like your mammy," he says.
“It doesn't really matter, love,” explains Mam. “When the family got things for the baby,
everyone helped. The da painted her room. The mammy bought bottles and shoes.
The little lads helped choose clothes. And one lad chose a lovely blue blanket.”
Da goes on, “The brothers kissed her before they went to
school and when they got back. The family loved the new baby very much. The mammy would read to her.
"Does she know about Oisin and Tir Na nOg?”
“Tomorrow,” my
father would say with a wink. Then he would sing me to sleep.
The baby was
the only thing I could think of for several days. As I come home from school to
cookies and milk, I’d try to worm it out of my mother.
“It’s your da’s
story, my love,” she would say, “let him tell it, do you think?”
She would tell
me instead another story and keep me company in the kitchen. And I’d tell her
about school. My brothers would join us later then it was off to play then
homework. I would look forward to bedtime with more
excitement than I ever did. My brothers would be in my room during my bedtime.
“Does the da
sing to the baby and the lads?” Don asks.
“Yes,” says
Jim. “I think he sings ‘For Baby’ for the little baby and reads Oisin McFinn to
the lads.”
“How do ya
know?” Don demands.
“Oh, I know. I
just do,” says Jim with the air of a wise older brother.
Mam enters
with glasses of milk and sits beside Jim.
“What can you
say about the baby, mammy?” I ask.
“She has
beautiful brown eyes and a beautiful smile. And her da and mam were very happy
when she arrived. It was one of the best days."
"How about the lads?" I ask.
Mam thinks. "When the eldest was seven, he carried his baby sister to his room. He loved having her there. He would tell her about his school and what he wanted to be when he grew up. The younger lad loved to see her drink milk. He tickles her toes when she drinks milk. Now why don’t you let da continue?”
“The baby is
already eight years old,” says my father. “Her favorite colour is blue, and she
loves to read. She’s here, in Dublin. She loves to listen to her da tell
stories.”
Mam adds, “She
loves to stay in the bench in the yard, just like her mam. And she enjoys watching her brothers draw and play the guitar.”
“Just like
me!”
“Yes. Just
like you.” A knowing wink is given to Mam, who smiles as if she knew something
I didn't.
As the story
progressed each night, I noticed that the baby and I had things in common. Two brothers
and a lullaby. Same hobby and favourite colour. We both loved adventure books and Irish myths.
“What does the
baby do now? Does she eat ice cream too?” I ask, curiosity peaked.
My mother
nods. “Cookies n cream is her favourite.”
“Me too!”
"Yes, like you, my wee love."
“Does she know
that her ma and da are not her ma and da?” I ask, wondering if that child knew
her story.
“One day, she
will,” my mother says as Da plants a kiss on my head. “And I hope that right
now she knows that her da and ma and brothers love her so much.”
“Even if she
didn’t come from the mammy’s tummy?” I wonder.
“Yes. Because what matters is that the mammy and daddy love her. And her brothers have the sister they want so much,” Mam
says.
I couldn’t
hold the suspense. “Where is she now, Da?”
My father’s
blue eyes find mine. “She’s right here in my arms.”
I suddenly put
the pieces together. I realize that the baby and I had things in common,
because I am the baby. So that is how
I came to the family. That is how I was told of my adoption. Though I didn't know the word itself at that time, my parents guided me to the truth—as
always—with creativity and a gentle hand.
My brothers
and I closed our eyes that night engulfed in our blankets, listening to our
da’s song. And I am sure, my face was split by a smile.
Twelve years
later, I find solace in that story. Every time I think about it, I smile. My
family’s nature and nurture is where I flourished. People might define me as an
adoptee, Asian, Chinese, or Korean. It doesn't bother me. At the end of the
day, only one thing defines me. I am my parents’ child. I came from their
heart.
