The Cooked Seed (29 page)

“A ring!” the judge said.

Qigu’s face turned red. He cleared his throat and then replied, “No, sir. No ring.”

“A souvenir of any kind?” The judge asked.

“No, sir. We … uh … No souvenir,” Qigu said.

“Not even a flower for your bride?” This time the judge’s voice was harsh. His tone showed disapproval.

“I … uh … we … uh … sorry about that.” Qigu tried to put on a sage-style smile, but didn’t make it.

The judge turned toward me. He went silent, but his message came through loud and clear.

I struggled to hold back my tears.

The judge’s expression softened. He stopped asking questions.

I could feel the judge’s eyes on me. It was at that moment I realized that I was after all an ordinary woman. My heart desired a wedding ring. It had been praying for a ring. If not a ring, a souvenir or a flower. Qigu had prepared none of it. What kind of fool was I? Qigu had given no thought to this occasion. This ceremony was meaningless to him.

I wiped my tears and turned to Qigu.

He looked like a hostage waiting to be released.

The judge began to speak words of blessing. But my brain had difficulty performing the translation. The judge said something about marriage not being child’s play. It should be held sacred as a commitment between two people. A vow under God. He said something about faith, the faithful, and the faithless.

Qigu was embarrassed, and I was ashamed.

Abruptly the judge left us. I would forever remember the frown on his face.

I walked ahead of Qigu as we exited the building. My tears were uncontrollable. Outside, the sun was bright. It was lunch hour, and people were going into and out of cafés and the McDonald’s on the corner. We passed the Loop under the elevated subway rails. A clattering train passed over our heads.

I didn’t know why I was walking so fast, as if I was running away. At the bus stop, Qigu caught up with me. He pulled me toward him, and I collapsed into his arms. I told Qigu that I felt awful, and that I missed my family.

Qigu told me that I had every reason to be upset. “We are in America,
a country and culture that values superficial appearances. Once you compare yourself with these people, you’re bound to feel sorry for yourself. My question is: Have these people achieved lasting harmonious marriages? Will they have the same happy faces thirty years from now? Did the rings, the souvenirs, and the flowers stop half of the marriages in this country from failing? No!”

I had never seen Qigu so dignified.

“I might be poor in a material sense, but I am wealthy in my spirituality,” he continued. “What I am offering you is what money can’t buy.”

Qigu tried to convince me that it was his intent to “sing against the American tune.” “That doesn’t mean I take our marriage lightly. Quite the opposite!” He said that he would prove to me and to the judge that without the ring, the souvenir, and the flowers, our marriage would not only last but also flourish and prosper.

I am married. I am a married woman
, I woke up thinking. This was supposed to be my honeymoon! I looked around. I was still on the same mattress that we had found in a Dumpster. Our side table was a wooden box, and a stained carpet covered the floor. Qigu was still asleep across from me on the other side of the bed. We had come straight home yesterday from the city hall. We ate again leftovers for dinner, and went straight to bed. Nobody in the whole world knew that we were newlyweds.

“You only get married once!” I heard my heart say.

I wanted to honor this moment. I wanted to congratulate myself. I needed a photo to send my family in China. A photo of my wedding day.

I took out my camera and went downstairs into the yard. I set up the camera on a tripod and tested the auto-timer button. It was about eight o’clock in the morning. Although the sun was rising, the air was freezing and the ground icy. I was apprehensive about waking Qigu, but I needed him to pose, to smile at the camera.

With the neighbors’ garage as my picture’s background, I ran back and forth adjusting the tripod to the right height. Once again I checked the camera’s auto timer and lens focus. When all was set, I went back
upstairs. I woke up Qigu. I told him that I wanted him to join me for a wedding photo.

Qigu did not want to leave his warm bed. I promised him that it would only take a minute. “Do it for me, please,” I begged. “Just one shot and I’ll let you go back to bed. Please, it is important to me.”

I helped Qigu into his sweater and pants. He got himself into a big winter coat.

In front of the camera, Qigu looked miserable. He pulled up his hood and tightened his coat. He was in his slippers. I told him that I needed to readjust the camera angle to avoid his slippers.

“I am cold!” Qigu cried. “I am going back inside!”

“We are almost done! Ready? Set? Here I come! Say ‘cheese’!” I released the auto-timer button and rushed to stand next to Qigu.

I offered the camera a big happy smile. I held the smile until I heard a clicking sound.

Qigu ran toward the door.

“Wait!” I cried. “One more shot just in case!”

The photo didn’t turn out the way I wanted because Qigu looked unhappy.

I had wanted to send the photo to my family in China, but Qigu’s expression made me abandon the idea. There was too much misery on his face. People would question. I knew my parents would. They would wonder where his expression came from.

I ended up sending a letter instead. I described how happy I was about the marriage. I didn’t mention that there were no rings, no souvenirs, and no flowers. I didn’t mention the judge. I faked a happy ending by telling everyone the news of my pregnancy. “The wedding photo didn’t turn out,” I wrote. “The negative was defective.”

I received my parents’ blessing. They were thrilled about my pregnancy. “Your mother has started knitting a baby sweater,” my father wrote.

A friend who worked at a Chicago health clinic offered a free ultrasound exam as a gift when I was about four months pregnant. Asked
if I would like to know the sex of the baby, I said, “Sure.” I was certain that I would be told that I carried a male. When the fetus appeared to be a female, I said, “Look again!”

Upon returning home, I devoured books on pregnancy. I clung to one author who said in a footnote that there were cases in which ultrasounds had failed to accurately predict the sex of the baby.

By the end of summer 1991, I finished revising my manuscript and sent it to my publisher. I was seven months pregnant. I continued to work with Qigu on the building, because the city inspector kept issuing violations. The reinspection deadline for the front staircase was approaching, and there was still much work to do. I had meant to finish the job long ago, but Qigu kept coming up with excuses. What worried me was that we had already removed the rotted boards, so there were gaping holes that were tricky to navigate. If tenants forgot to be careful, they might fall from the second floor.

I told Qigu that the longer we waited, the less I would be physically able to help.

Qigu started to sleep late after we got married, usually not rising until lunchtime. I kept reminding him about the upcoming city inspection, and he kept ignoring me.

I decided to do the job myself. It was after the lumberyard truck dropped off the eight-foot-long replacement boards in front of our building. I dragged the heavy boards from the curb to the staircase one by one. With my big belly, I was soon out of breath. I apologized to the baby inside: “It’s something Mommy has to do.”

It took two hours for me to stack the boards next to the stairway. I was sweating heavily. I pulled up my hood to avoid getting a chill.

Measuring and cutting the boards was easier. I then started to nail them down. The noise of hammering drew Bruno out of his apartment. He watched me with a beer in his hand.

“You don’t want to lose the baby!” Bruno said to me.

“Thank you, Bruno!”

“Where is your husband?” Bruno asked.

I gave no reply. What could I say? “Sleeping”?

I continued to hammer down the three-inch nails. By now my palm hurt and my arm was sore.

Helen came yelling. “For Christ’s sake, you’re going to have a miscarriage!”

I felt a stir inside my belly. I prayed that my baby was undisturbed.

In the middle of my hammering I heard Qigu’s voice. He came out in his slippers and pajamas. He was waving his arms above his head. Bruno and Helen were standing behind him.

“Why do you do this to me?” Qigu shouted. “You are putting on a show! You want everyone to think that I am a bad husband!”

By now I no longer bothered to argue with Qigu. He always had his reasons for doing things or not doing things. Failing the city’s reinspection meant more fines. The trouble would not go away. The citations would keep coming and the charges would double.

The tenants’ safety was a tremendous liability. It was a risk we couldn’t afford to take. Since we had no insurance, we could lose everything. The new staircase had to be finished before the baby was born.

A half hour later, Qigu picked up a hammer and started to work beside me, cursing the whole time.

Lauryann was born on October 8, 1991.

I remember hearing, “Congratulations, it’s a girl!” Happiness and sadness overwhelmed me at the same time. I was happy that my baby would not belong to the Communist Party of China but only and gloriously to herself. And I was sad—I regret to say now—I was sad that she was not a boy. Being female meant a tougher life.

I remember feeling cold. Then I couldn’t breathe. An oxygen mask was put on my face. I remember people rushing around and shouting. Then I went unconscious. Qigu later told me that he was terrified by the amount of blood pouring out of me. Nobody knew that my cervix had torn. My doctor was still trying to get to the hospital.

“They kept wiping you with gauze,” Qigu said later. “It was a blood-soaked mop. They rolled up your bed with your head down, trying to slow the bleeding. I was asked to say good-bye to you before they rolled you into the emergency room. It felt like I was saying good-bye to you for good.”

Three days later, I woke up in the intensive care unit. To my shock and confusion, a priest was sitting by my bed. It felt like I was in a movie scene. The priest wore a black robe with a white collar. He was speaking gently to me, holding his Bible. I heard him say “Lord’s hand,” “guidance,” and “eternal light.” I thought I must be hallucinating.

“God’s peace that passes all understanding is guarding your heart and mind in Christ Jesus,” the priest’s voice continued.

It dawned on me that I must be dying.

“Be free of anxiety,” the voice prayed. “You journey here is almost over, and you’re leaving for your final glorious destination …”

“No!” I screamed. “No die! No God! Please! No die … Go away, I am not … not ready … Me no die! Help! Me haven’t see my baby! My child! Let me see my child!”

I must have passed out, because I have no memory of the priest leaving the room.

Someone kept waking me up. Someone told me that it was time to measure my blood count. I was disturbed every hour. I begged to be left alone so that I could get some sleep.

“Sorry,” the nurse said. “We have to check on you. We have to test your blood. You are still in critical condition, Miss Min.”

“What do you mean by ‘critical condition’?”

“You could die.”

A nurse told me that Qigu had called but was not allowed to visit. I was in an isolation unit and could easily catch pneumonia.

It had been four days since giving birth. I was tied up with plastic tubes from head to toe. My hands and feet were bruised and swollen from needles. I was still on blood transfusion. Things had been perfect at the beginning. First my in-laws, Qigu’s parents, arrived from China. They moved into our newly fixed back unit while Qigu and I continued to live in the attic. I was happy that my in-laws were there to help. When the time came, my mother-in-law tracked the timing of my contractions. I was dancing, holding my belly. It was a delightful moment, and I welcomed the pain.

When I walked into the delivery room, the hospital staff said that I looked so strong that I could deliver ten babies. My doctor hadn’t shown up. He had predicted the date of my delivery a ways off. “Three more weeks to wait,” he had said, but the baby arrived right on time, according to the calculations of a pregnancy chart.

I remembered a male nurse who was in a great hurry. I felt his roughness when he broke my water bag. He kept telling me to push. “Push, or your baby will suffocate in the birth canal. Do you understand? Push harder!
Push!
”

Qigu stood nervously next to the male nurse and watched the monitor. He saw the indication of the level of the contractions was down. When he saw the contraction levels fall and pointed this out, the male nurse responded, “Who knows more about delivering, you or I?”

My doctor arrived after I was rolled into the emergency room. “Your cervix is like a rubber band,” he later explained to me. “It gets brittle as the body ages.”

“I pushed as told,” I said.

The doctor let me know that I was too old.

I woke up to the sound of an animal-like howling. It was coming from next door. I asked a nurse what it was.

“The old gentleman is dying. He is in great pain.” The nurse explained that she had just given him morphine, and he would soon be calmer.

The next morning everything was quiet. I asked the nurse what had happened to the gentleman. She told me that he had passed away. I asked if I could go home.

“Not yet,” the nurse said. “The doctor says you are still unstable.” My blood count was too low. I asked the nurse if I could sit up. She smiled but shook her head. I had been tube fed for days.

The nurse promised to let me see a picture of my baby if I would agree to stay in bed and not move. A few minutes later, she returned with a Polaroid photo. This was the first time I met my daughter. On the edge of the photo the nurse had written, BABY MIN.

Feelings of gratitude filled my heart. I thanked God for letting me survive to enjoy this moment.