Shanghai Girls (Shanghai Girls 1)

“He must have really loved you,” my daughter says.

“Oh, I hardly think that’s possible,” May says, covering for me.

“You should look at these more closely,” Joy says. “Don’t you see what the artist has done? Thin, pale, and fashionable girls, like you must have been, Auntie May, have been replaced by robust, healthy, strong working women, like Mom. Didn’t you tell me that your father always used to complain that Mom had a face like a peasant—ruddy and red? Her face is perfect for the Commies.”

Daughters can sometimes be cruel. They sometimes say things they don’t mean, but that doesn’t mean her words don’t sting. I turn away and stare out to the vegetable patch, hoping to hide my feelings.

“That’s why I think he loves you, Auntie May. Surely you see it.”

I take a breath, one part of my brain listening to my daughter, the other part reinterpreting what she said before. When she said, “He must have really loved you,” she didn’t mean me. She meant May.

“Because look,” I hear my daughter say. “Here’s Mom, all peasant-perfect for the country, but look how he painted your face, Auntie May. It’s beautiful, like you’re a fairy goddess or something.”

May doesn’t say anything, but I sense her examining the pictures.

“You know, if he saw you now,” my daughter cont

inues, “he probably wouldn’t recognize you.”

Like that, my daughter manages to wound both her mother and her aunt, poking at our softest, most vulnerable, parts. I press my fingernails into my palms to bring my emotions under control. I lift the corners of my mouth, exposing my teeth, and then spin around and put my hands on my daughter’s shoulders.

“I came out here to say good night. You should climb in bed. And, May,” I say lightly, “can you help me with the books from the café? I can’t seem to make the numbers work.”

My sister and I have had a lifetime together of false smiles and escaping things we don’t like. We leave the porch, acting as if Joy hasn’t hurt us, but as soon as we get to the kitchen, we hold each other for strength and comfort. How can Joy’s words be so painful after all these years? Because inside we still carry the dreams of what could have been, of what should have been, of what we wish we could still be. This doesn’t mean we aren’t content. We are content, but the romantic longings of our girlhood have never entirely left us. It’s like Yen-yen said all those years ago: “I look in the mirror and I’m surprised by what I see.” I look in the mirror and still expect to see my Shanghai-girl self—not the wife and mother I’ve become. And May? To my eyes, she hasn’t changed at all. She’s still beautiful—Chinese-beautiful, ageless.

“Joy’s just a girl,” I tell my sister. “We said and did stupid things when we were that age too.”

“Everything always returns to the beginning,” May responds, and I wonder if she’s thinking about the original meaning of the aphorism—that no matter what we do in life, we will always return to the beginning, that we will have children who’ll disobey, hurt, and disappoint us just as we once disobeyed, hurt, and disappointed our own parents—or is she thinking about Shanghai and how in a sense we’ve been trapped in our final days there ever since we left, forever destined to relive the loss of our parents, our home, Z.G., and carry the consequences of my rape and May’s pregnancy?

“Joy says these mean things so you and I will come together,” I say, repeating something Violet said to me the other day. “She knows how lonely we’ll be without her.”

May looks away, her eyes glistening.

The next morning when I go out to the porch, the covers of China Reconstructs have been taken down and put away.

WE STAND ON the platform at Union Station, saying good-bye to Joy. May and I wear full skirts fluffed by petticoats and cinched with little patent leather belts. Last week we dyed our stiletto heels to match our dresses, gloves, and handbags. We went to the Palace Salon to have our hair curled and teased to impressive heights, which we now protect with gaily colored scarves tied smartly under our chins. Sam wears his best suit and a somber face. And Joy looks … joyful.

May reaches into her handbag and pulls out the pouch with the three coppers, three sesame seeds, and three green beans that Mama gave her all those years ago. My sister asked if she could give it to Joy. I didn’t object, but I wish I’d thought of it first. May loops the string around Joy’s neck and says, “I gave this to you on the day you were born to protect you. Now I hope you’ll wear it when you’re away from us.”

“Thank you, Auntie,” my daughter says, clasping the pouch. “I’m not going to squeeze another orange or sell another gardenia as long as I live,” she vows when she hugs her baba. “I’m never going to wear atomic fabric or one of your felt jumpers,” she promises after she kisses me. “I never again want to see another back scratcher or a piece of Canton ware.”

We listen to her giddiness and respond with our best advice and final thoughts: we love her, she should write every day, she can call if there’s an emergency, she should eat the dumplings her baba made first and then switch to the peanut butter and crackers packed in her food basket. Then she’s on the train, separated from us by a window, waving and mouthing, “I love you! I’ll miss you!” We walk along the platform next to the train as it leaves the station, waving and crying until she’s out of sight.

When we go home, it’s like the electricity has been shut off Only four of us live in the house now, and the quiet, especially during the first month, is so unbearable that May buys herself a brand-new pink Ford Thunderbird and Sam and I buy a television set. May comes home after work, eats a quick dinner, says good night to Vern, and then goes out. Remembering Joy’s love of cowgirls when she was younger, the rest of us sit in the main room and watch Gunsmoke and Cheyenne.

“DEAR MOM, DAD, Auntie May, and Uncle Vern,” I read aloud. We sit on chairs around Vern’s bed. “You wrote and asked if I’m homesick. How can I answer this question and not make you feel bad? If I tell you I’m having fun, then I’ll hurt your feelings. If I say I’m lonely, then you’ll worry about me.”

I look at the others. Sam and May nod in agreement. Vern twists his sheet in his fingers. He doesn’t completely understand that Joy is gone, just as he hasn’t completely understood that his parents are gone.

“But I think Dad would want me to tell the truth,” I continue reading. “I’m very happy and I’m having a lot of fun. My classes are interesting. I’m writing a paper on a Chinese writer named Lu Hsün. You probably haven’t heard of him—”

“Ha!” This comes from my sister. “We could tell her stories. Remember what he wrote about beautiful girls?”

“Keep reading, keep reading,” Sam says.

JOY DOESN’T COME home for Christmas. We don’t bother to put up a big tree. Instead Sam buys a tree no more than eighteen inches high, which we put on Vern’s dresser.

By late January, Joy’s initial enthusiasm has finally given way to homesickness: