Dreams of Joy: A Novel (18 page)

“This is your mother at her most beautiful,” Z.G. says.

My mother Pearl flies into my mind:
Compose your face. Don’t let him see your shock. Pretend this is just another piece of art
. I nod, trying to be perky, trying to look happy, but I want to throw up. It was one thing to go to the countryside, see the famous sights, and hobnob in Peking, but now I’m in Shanghai, in a house that in many ways is a shrine to my mother and aunt. In just a few minutes here, I’ve gotten a glimpse of what their lives must have been like, of the way they were. These were not the people I grew up with. And my aunt May certainly did not have a great fortune—living in Chinatown, married to Vern, never admitting I was her daughter.

“It’s wonderful,” I say. “Everything is wonderful.” Another wave of nausea hits me. “I can’t wait to hear more about those days, but I haven’t seen Shanghai yet. Do you mind if I take a walk? I’ll be back soon. We have so much time, now that I’m here.”

“Of course. Would you like me to come with you?”

“No, no. I just want to take a little walk. We were a long time on the train.”

I hurry downstairs and step into the night. It’s
cold
, but the fresh air is a relief. I put a smile on my face. I came here to be happy, and I’m going to be happy. If I smile, then maybe I can convince my body just how happy I am. I look both ways, and decide to venture to the right. I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to walk and keep smiling.

Pearl

SCARS ON HER BREAST

I’M ON MY
way to Z.G.’s house, as I usually am at the end of the day. It’s February 15 in the Western calendar and three days before Chinese New Year. I’m a Christian, a one-Goder, but I could only carry the spirit of Christmas in my heart. On Valentine’s Day, I could only think of Joy and the cards she used to make for her classmates when she was in elementary school. Now all around me people are busy with their New Year’s preparations: buying clothes, sweeping their front steps, shopping for special ingredients. I see Joy everywhere. The first time I stumbled on Z.G.’s New Year’s poster with Joy I was overwhelmed. Now it’s pasted on walls in cafés, shops, doctors’ offices, and schools. I’ve heard that close to 10 million copies have been sold. Every piece of paper I collect and turn in I hope will be milled and recycled into another poster of my daughter, because her smiling face lets me know that she’s all right.

Then I actually
see
her.

Joy!

She’s walking purposefully toward me, unafraid of the dark, as though she’s stepped down out of a poster, as though she knows the city. She’s wearing May’s coat, the one my sister supposedly lost. Z.G. must have had it all these years. My stomach roils with that knowledge, but I ignore it because my daughter has returned to Shanghai! She looks right at me, our eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and then she keeps walking. She doesn’t recognize me. Have I changed that much? Did she refuse to see what was right in front of her because she couldn’t imagine I’d be here? Or maybe she couldn’t recognize me dressed in layers of padded clothes with a knit hat pulled down over my hair and ears and a scarf tied around my neck and up to my nose.

I turn and follow a safe distance behind her. A part of me wants to run up to her and take her into my arms. But I don’t do that. I just worked all day, and I look like the paper collector I am. I can’t let her see me like this. I can’t let Z.G. see me like this either. That’s right. I’ve come all this way to find my daughter, and when I see her I’m filled with vanity. How will Z.G. look at me after all this time? For years, I’ve known he existed somewhere in China. I’d never believed I’d encounter him again, but seeing Joy means that I’m about to see Z.G. again too. I have an urge to hide behind the bush across from his house, watch them through the windows as they move in the rooms, and wait until I can get my thoughts and emotions together before knocking on the door, but I can’t do that either. Z.G.’s servants know about me. I don’t want Joy to hear about me from them. But it’s more than that. I suddenly don’t know what to say to her.

We reach Huaihai Road. She turns right, walking toward the Whangpoo River. I know what I
want
to say—you’re coming home with me right now—but I also know that would be absolutely wrong. I’ve been a mother for nineteen years, and I know a few things about motherhood, and my daughter. I’m disappointed in her for being so rash and stupid as to come here, but as she passed me she didn’t look sad or disheartened. Far from it. So, what tactic do we, as mothers, use with our children when we know they’re going to make, or have already made, a terrible mistake? We accept blame. In my case, I can legitimately accept some blame for having lied to her all those years. I’ll tell her about the regret I feel for having failed her. And then, and then … 
Please come home!
That method isn’t going to work either.

I stop walking, watch my daughter disappear into the crowd, and then make my way to a bus stop. When I get home, I bathe, pin my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, put on some makeup, and go to the closet. I stare at my clothes, all of which are mementos of the past. I see a fox stole. I see my fur-lined black brocade coat, the twin to the one Joy was wearing, the one I wanted so badly, the one Baba tried to make me give May. I pull out a dress Madame Garnett made for me—dark green wool crepe cut on the bias with jet buttons sewn at the hips as decoration. Twenty years ago, Mama said it was too sophisticated for me; now I think it will be just right—modest, a little old-fashioned, and the color will accentuate my black hair. Z.G. might like to see me in the brocade coat, but I can’t go that far. I tell myself I don’t care how I look after twenty years, but I do, of course. I tell myself that no woman should allow a man to see the scars on her breast or in her heart.

I want to do something to remind Joy of home and that she’s been loved and missed. I’ll bring a present. (What kind of mother would I be if I forgot her at Christmas?) I take an old perfume bottle off the vanity and wrap it in one of my silk scarves. I bundle back up in my padded jacket and put the gift in my pocket. I pull on my work gloves, but I throw a red scarf made from baby cashmere from my old life around my neck. It’s the first time I’ve worn something this nice on the street, but most of it is hidden under the jacket.

I take a bus back to Z.G.’s neighborhood, walk to his house, and ring the bell. One of the servants answers the door. She nods, as though she’s been expecting me, and shows me into the salon. I take off my jacket and gloves. Z.G. enters a few minutes later. I think he’s still an extraordinarily handsome man, and I’m hoping he’ll have a similar reaction to me, but the first thing he does is look over my shoulder to see if May is with me. In an effort to keep myself composed and not betray a hint of disappointment, I adjust my jade bracelet on my wrist.

“My servants said you were here in the city,” he says, and his voice cascades over me like water over rocks. A Rabbit is always gracious and soft-spoken.

“I’ve come to get my daughter.” I blurt it out.

“Your daughter?”

His question tells me Joy hasn’t been honest with him.

“Joy,” I say. “She’s mine. I raised her. May gave her to me.”

“May wouldn’t have done that, and Joy hasn’t said anything—”

“You’d be surprised what May would do.” My words sound harsher than I want them to be. I twist my mouth into a smile to show I’m not the bad person here. “Joy believed I was her mother and my husband her father her whole life. When she found out the truth, she ran away and came here to look for you and … I don’t know what.”

“Joy has been lying to me—her own father?”

It’s disconcerting to hear the disbelief in his voice. He doesn’t know Joy at all.

“Sam Louie, my husband, was her father. He’s dead now.”

Z.G. takes that in, considers, and says, “I’m still her father.”

“You lost that honor a long time ago.” I hear sarcasm creeping into my voice, but I can’t stop myself. Too many years of heartache have passed for him to claim fatherhood. Still, he looks at me without comprehension. “When I came to you that night to say that May and I were going into arranged marriages to men we didn’t know, you didn’t try to stop me, stop us. Why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you
say
something?”

Twenty years of anger and disappointment bubble up in me, but he still doesn’t seem to understand. The worst part is I can’t stop staring at him. My old passions—despite everything I now know about him and my sister—make my breath shallow and fast. My heart beats so hard it feels like it’s going to break right through my chest. And lower down—even though I’m a widow, even though I loved Sam—there’s a warm sensation I never felt for my husband. I always thought it was because of the rape, but now I see it’s not. I’m ashamed, guilty, and still angry.

“May knew you had feelings for me,” he says at last. “She asked me not to tell you about us. She didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt you either. I just wanted to take care of May.”

“She was a Sheep,” I say bitterly. “Everyone wanted to take care of her.”

During our last fight, May said that she and Z.G. used to laugh at the way I acted around him. Which story do I believe? I’ve come all this way to find Joy, but what’s flickering through my mind is whether or not I might still find love with this man who’s been in my heart all these years. It’s been only six months since Sam’s death, but is it possible I deserve a second chance?

Wait a minute!

“What do you mean you wanted to
take care of May
? You got her pregnant and then you didn’t do a thing, not one single thing, to help her. You let her go into an arranged marriage. You left the city. You—”

“She never told me she was pregnant.”

That gives me pause, because how could it be?

“When you were painting her and she was”—I close my eyes against the memory of it—“naked, couldn’t you tell?”

“Did
you
know?”

“I didn’t, but I wasn’t making love to her. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” he admits. “At least, I wasn’t thinking properly. In those days, I was caught up in the movement. I was filled with
ai kuo—
love for our country and its people. I thought I could help change China. I didn’t think enough about
ai jen
—the love I felt for May. We were all young. None of us thought about the consequences of anything we were doing.”

The doorbell rings. We know who it’s going to be. I straighten my dress and tuck a few strands of hair into my bun. Z.G. broadens his chest and clasps his hands behind his back. We stand there like two statues as one of the servants hurries to the door.

Joy swishes into the room, all dazzling energy, her cheeks pink from the cold. Even though it’s February, I can tell she’s spent time in the sun. She pulls off her hat, leaving her black tresses tousled and unkempt. She hasn’t cut her hair since leaving Los Angeles.

Joy absorbs Z.G.’s dour look, and her eyes scan the room to see what’s wrong. Her delicate eyebrows, pretty nose, and full lips register absolute astonishment at seeing me. Her eyes widen and become even brighter. Then I see not happiness, sadness, or even anger that I’m here. It’s worse than any of those. The cool shadows of indifference fall over her features. She stares at me but doesn’t say a word.

I smile and say, “Hello, Joy.” When she doesn’t respond, I hurry on. “I brought you a Christmas present.” I go to my coat, fumble in the pocket to get the wrapped perfume bottle, and offer it to her.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore.”

A long silence follows this declaration. She knows that I’m a one-Goder and that this would hurt me.

“Joy.” The appeal in my voice is strong. She’ll have to respond.

“I don’t want you here. You’ll ruin everything.”

“Don’t speak to her like that,” Z.G. says in the calmest voice possible. “She’s your auntie.”

I drive my nails into my palms to keep the pain of that from overwhelming me.

“And you’re my father,” my daughter retorts. “That’s much more important.”

I feel all the things I’ve wanted to say to her about being ungrateful, cruel, spoiled, and self-centered—
-just like your birth mother
—pushing to fly out of my mouth. Z.G. steps forward. I put up a hand to stop him from coming closer or speaking.

“I love you very much, Joy. Please can we talk about why you ran away?” Of course I know the reason—she didn’t want to deal with two mothers who had lied to her—but I need to get her to open up. “We never had a chance to talk that night. If you tell me what you felt, then maybe you’ll feel better about everything. And maybe I can help.”

And like that, my daughter is once again five years old. She pulls her upper lip between her teeth and bites down hard to hold in her emotions.

“Tell me, honey. Tell me so I can understand.”

When she shakes her head, I know that I’m approaching this the right way. We are back in a pattern we’ve lived as mother and daughter so many times.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you after your baba died,” I say. “I apologize for that. We both loved him.” Tears begin to roll down Joy’s cheeks. “We should have been holding on to each other.”

But what she says takes me by surprise.

“You were right to ignore me after what I did.”

“What did you do?” I ask, confused. Again, this is not at all what I expected. My brain hurries to catch up.

“Oh, Mom, it was all my fault. Auntie May and I talked after your fight. She explained everything about Dad being a paper son—”

“May always puts blame on someone else.”

“No, Mom, listen to me. The FBI and INS never would have looked at our family if I hadn’t been involved with that group in Chicago. Agent Sanders approached Auntie May
because
of me. She was trying to help our family. She was trying to get you and Dad amnesty. She didn’t realize I was the real target. If you’d told me the truth about Dad, I would have been more careful, I wouldn’t have joined that club, and the government wouldn’t have noticed us.”

She’s right. If Joy hadn’t joined that club, it would have made a big difference. Still…

“That doesn’t change the fact that my sister betrayed us.”

“But Auntie May didn’t betray you! She was trying to help you in the best way she could. Amnesty, Mom. Do you even know what that means?”

A part of me thinks,
Even here, even after everything that’s happened, Joy takes May’s side
. But another part of me actually
hears
what my daughter has said. I’ve blamed May for everything, but what if she wasn’t to blame?