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"Pam," he said, taking me in his arms, "this is very 'Level Two' behavior. Our leader will not be pleased."
I was soon laughing so hard, I could barely breathe.
In the end, Randy ignored all the books. "Let them say what they want," he said. The darkness that had been in his eyes was beginning to fade. He came in from mowing the lawn one day and said, "It's weird. I just caught myself whistling in the garage. I haven't done that since Jantsen died. Maybe I'm feeling hopeful again." The idea that Randy could be happy once more was enough to make me do my best to ignore all the books too.
But I was still struggling with my emotions. As attached as I felt to Vinh, I would cling to sadness if it would keep Jantsen close to me.
I wondered, Could we do this? Was adopting a child right for our family, especially now? Could I truly and properly take care of another child? One afternoon, I went to my room and sat down in my gold wingback chair. On the end table was Van's photo. I took it and held it in my hands, staring at his sweet face.
What would his future be like if we didn't adopt him? Saying no to him meant he'd likely stay at the orphanage for the rest of his childhood, never getting a good education or enough to eat, never knowing that somebody loved him completely. Without us, his future was hopeless.
And what would my future be like if we didn't adopt him? I wanted to live a life of meaning and grace. Despite all we'd been through, I felt that God had led us to Van.
We had a choice: to walk through this door and find new meaning in our lives or ignore it and experience tremendous regret.
Time, and courage, made up our minds. Ten months after our first trip to Vietnam, we returned there to pick up our son.
August 4, 2000: Dear Jantsen, I have decided I'm no longer going to defend our decision to adopt your baby brother. Your dad and I have spent months getting looks of pity from others who seem to be judging us, who see Van as some sort of "replacement child." I am ready. I want to bring your brother home and be his mom. Love you, Mom.
In August we got the call that our paperwork had been processed and the adoption was approved by the Vietnamese authorities. The decision to say yes to Van, and to myself (and, probably, to the antidepressants I had begun taking), changed me more than I could have imagined. When Randy, his mother, Anne, and I landed in Saigon in August, not only was I sure that I could handle the responsibilities of being Van's mom, but I desperately wanted to.
When the director of the orphanage handed him over to us on our fifth day there, during a ceremony in a small room decorated with Ho Chi Minh busts and red velvet curtains, Van was dressed in rags—thin jersey shorts with patches sewn on the rear, a tattered shirt, and little plastic gold loafers that barely fit. That first night with him in the hotel was one of the best nights I've ever had. I ran him a bath and removed his clothes. Now 16 months old, he was still perfectly plump, as if he'd been pumped with a tire pump.
When I set him down in the bubbles, he had no idea what to do. Unlike my other kids, who could spend a whole weekend playing in the bathtub, he just sat there. The only time I'd ever seen him bathed was when a staff member once dumped cold water over his head after he'd been lathered, and he stood there taking the punishment. After he was clean, I rubbed lotion on his calloused knees, elbows, and feet. I clipped his nails, combed his hair, cleaned his ears, and brushed his teeth.
"What are you doing, detailing him?" Randy asked me. Van took it all in, barely making a sound.
Crista had packed his suitcase, and I opened it to find her brother's new clothes organized into outfits. Shorts were pinned to shirts, socks to hats. I dressed him in a soft one-piece white sleeper (clearly marked by Crista as Night #1) and, sitting next to Randy on the bed, fed Van a bottle.
He fell asleep in my arms.
It took us more than three weeks to clear all the formalities of an international adoption. Compared with other adoptions, we may have gotten off easy—you never know how long the medical checkup, passport, and interview with the U.S. consulate will take.
A little more than midway through our waiting time, both Randy and his mom had to return home, so I had Van to myself. I loved it. I'd take him downstairs to the buffet at the New World Hotel so that I could fill us both up on oatmeal. We'd eat at a table in front of a huge window that offered a beautiful view of the park across the street, which was filled with children on their way to school. We got to know the hotel staff, who let Van crawl around the empty halls in the afternoons. Then we'd swim in the hotel pool and take a nap. I fell in love with a cozy little restaurant called Sinh Café on Backpacker's Alley. It had a big open area where Van could run around, chasing the geckos that scampered back and forth. Many mornings, I'd walk him there.
By the time Van's paperwork was processed, I was dying to get him home. Not only because of how much I knew the family wanted to meet him but also because he'd picked up a parasite somewhere along the way—not unusual for a child from a Vietnamese orphanage. I knew that it could be easily treated with medication at home, but it was uncomfortable for him and tricky for me on a trip that would take us from Saigon to Los Angeles to Tulsa and finally home to Neosho by car.
We made it safely, arriving in Tulsa at midnight. Randy and Crista were there at the airport, waiting for us.
I'd never seen either of them as excited. Crista had gotten braces while I was away, and her smile could have lit the airport. Van went to his big sister immediately, and she took him and held him, whispering in his ear.
Randy put his arms around me. "I'm so happy you're home! When I saw how close your flight connections were, I never thought you'd make it."
I pictured where I was all those days and nights after Jantsen died, feeling hopeless. Like I couldn't go on. I never thought I'd make it either.
But I did. We did.
Van brought so much light back into our house, as if the curtains had finally been pushed aside and the black shades lifted again. Rocking him to sleep every day for his nap was like a balm on my heart. As his body melted into mine, I knew that he needed the closeness, and the healing, as much as I did.
After we had him home, I mustered the strength to finally clean out Jantsen's room so Crista could have it and Van could have hers. My mom, Jill, came over to help me pack Jantsen's things. We sorted out the keepsakes, and I put them in the trunk that Randy and I had spent weeks trying to find—the "perfect trunk" in which to store our son's belongings.
I opened Jantsen's little nightstand drawer, where he'd kept his most valued possessions, and tried to absorb the fact that it had now been 16 months since I'd seen my son. There were golf balls he'd retrieved from the golf course pond, baseball cards he'd bound with a rubber band, sports medals, a beanie flipper, and some coins. He had needed little to be happy. Oh, and of course, there was his Jeff Foxworthy book, No Shirt, No Shoes … No Problem!, which was probably the only book he'd ever read all the way through of his own will.
There was something else I needed to do. By now we had donated $10,000 of Jantsen's money to Carol and Marvin for their adoption work in Vietnam. We wanted them to use it as they saw fit and help get some of the other kids we'd met into loving homes. With the remaining money, we started a program to help at-risk children in Vietnam, children who were underage but out on the streets, desperately working to support themselves or their families.
Christmas, 2000: Dear Jantsen, I sometimes think I will stop breathing when I see Crista and Van together laughing. Your dad and I are surprised every time Van does something that reminds us so much of you. Your similar characteristics are a sign that he truly is our special gift. He would love you so much. Love, Mom.
Editors' note: In October 2001, the Cope family returned to Vietnam to adopt their daughter, a two-year-old girl named Tatum Diane. Today, Van and Tatum are both in fourth grade, and Pam and Randy are fully immersed in their Touch a Life Foundation, which is based in Dallas. Its mission is to improve the lives of needy and endangered children. With the $650,000 they've raised so far, they support 260 children in Vietnam, Cambodia, and Ghana.
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