Adoption Journal (8)

By Ridley Pearson

By last night we had seemingly satisfied the last of our requirements - a medical exam where the women doctors were truly kind and gentle to the babies - and more and more paperwork. Marcelle attended a late night hallway meeting (this hotel has floor hostesses who memorize each guest and point you to your room as you come out of the elevator). Panic was in the air. The American Consulate had found problems with our papers (everyone's) and were warning that our adoptions would be denied.

You can't imagine how it felt to have come so very far - so many days, miles and agonies - to hear this news. One member from each family was dispatched to the Consulate at 9PM to argue our case. I stayed behind to deal with you, my fussy child - Marcelle and others walked down the street to the Consulate and attempted to rectify the situation, only to infuriate a woman delegate who had to come downtown at that time of night. It went horribly bad.

By eleven o'clock I was on the computer writing a note to plead for a couple of our dear friends to use their pull with the Consular General and attempt to put out this fire. At midnight, the email ready, I called Lin, our adoption agent here, and she requested I not send the plea. She had one last trick up her sleeve: fly another agent from Kunming with new, notarized documents in a midnight-hour desperation attempt to resolve the issue. But first, she wanted to see how our final interviews at the Consulate went.

At 8:30 this morning we gathered in the hotel and reviewed all our paperwork individually - we knew the Consulate would be gunning for us now, because we had angered them the night before - we wanted every T crossed, every I dotted. With paperwork prepared, at 9:40 we headed off en mass to the Consulate for our tightly scheduled adoption interviews - the penultimate event in legalizing our children. Only the actual delivery of the visa would follow, if all went well, late afternoon the next day.

We entered a room about 500 square feet, and about 55 degrees - air conditioning set to keep the room cool over the next six to eight hours as bodies warmed it one by one. We were freezing! They were angry at us. Lin got chewed out by an assistant director and was in tears. Things did not look good. Within three quarters of an hour there were forty of us in the room - forty!  - babies everywhere, nervous parents, and two Chinese to check paperwork and two Americans to do the interview - all in the open, all in the same room. Time stopped. Thirty minutes passed. An hour. An hour and a half. The Pearsons were called. We went through our HUGE stack of paperwork with the Chinese assistants. We passed muster. Go sit on the couch and wait for your interview. What couch? Another ten people and their babies had entered the room. It looked like a frat party phone booth. A madhouse. Kids everywhere. Tension you could cut with a knife. Lin announced that she thought they would accept the paperwork being flown in by hand from Kunming. Time dragged out. We were the LAST of our group to sit for our interview. The man was incredibly nice (said my name sounded familiar to him, "What do you write?" - we're sending him a hardback.) We spoke for only minutes; he apologized for all the politics and tears and refusals.

We lifted our right arms, a knot in our throats, tears trying for our eyes one final time, and we swore to the United States government that we would protect and cherish this little wonder for the rest of our lives. We married you, little Storey. We said "I do," and our hands went down and we were a family.

This is another of those moments I shall not lose. Not ever. "I do." The man's red hair, his suspenders. The noise in that cold room. "I do." Little Storey in our lives forever now. A member of the Pearson family. Little Storey, quiet and still wide-eyed: fascinated we would bother with a man with red hair.

We stood and we walked out of that place, back into the oppressive heat of Guangzhou, down a peaceful street under a row of Banyan trees, the three of us, walking close together, kissing, leaning against each other. You looking up into our faces. You do this all the time: just look and stare. "You're still here..." your dark eyes seem to say. "You're still here..."

(part 8 of 10, to be continued...)