“My mother didn’t have to tell me anything,” I respond indignantly. “I know how babies are made.” But I have a bad feeling, because yes, I do know how babies are made.
“Have you had the visit from the little red sister lately?” Kumei asks, trying to be helpful. “Your mother-in-law says you haven’t.”
I flush in embarrassment to have what I consider a private subject gossiped about so broadly by my mother-in-law that even Yong and Kumei know about my periods, but it does explain why she’s been kinder to me lately.
“I haven’t had the visit,” I admit. “But I bet you—and eve
n my mother-in-law—haven’t had it either. We haven’t been eating properly or enough.”
“Comrade Joy, you haven’t had the visit because you’ve been doing the husband-wife thing.”
And if I didn’t already know she’s right, I prove it by leaping up, running to the low wall, and throwing up again into what was once the pigsty.
Kumei comes back to her cheerful self. “You’re very lucky. Having a baby changes you. Having a son is even better. It gives you value and worth. Sung-ling is going to have a baby too. Have you heard?”
I hadn’t heard this piece of gossip either. This leads me to suspect that people in Green Dragon truly must consider me an outsider—and that was before I helped Yong.
“You and Sung-ling should become friends, since you’re both pregnant,” Kumei suggests. Then, as if reading my mind, she adds conspiratorially, “She’ll be able to help you after what you did today.”
It starts to sink in. A baby. How can I leave Green Dragon now? I cover my face with my hands.
“Make yourself some ginger tea,” Yong recommends, confirming that my mother-in-law has known about my condition. “It will settle your stomach.”
“You’ll need to eat plenty of fish,” Kumei advises, “because that’s important for the growth of a baby’s hair.”
“And forgive your husband and his family for their actions earlier,” Yong adds. “They were just pulling at the roots of their poverty and hardship. Remind yourself that once they had no rights as human beings.”
I reluctantly leave the villa and walk up the hill to my husband’s home. I’m pregnant. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. I suddenly understand something about my mother and aunt that I never did before. They stayed in arranged marriages to men who were not of their social class—and, in Uncle Vern’s case, not all there. They stayed in Chinatown, a place they didn’t like. They stayed because of me. This, more than anything, shows me the depth of their mother love. They loved me very much and sacrificed for me, just as I’m finding myself filled with love—and fear—and am determined to sacrifice whatever’s necessary for my child. Not two hours ago, I wanted to leave this place, but how can I now? My son—every Chinese mother wishes for a son—belongs here. His family is here and his father is here. This is his ancestral village. I must stay here to show my son the depth of my mother love. But how can I do that, after what I saw in Tao’s face during the struggle session, after the black mark I earned today helping Yong, after realizing the terrible misjudgments I’ve made about communism, communes, and the ideals of village life?
I pause on the terrace of my husband’s home and look out over the fields. What is it about impending motherhood that causes me to see things with such fresh eyes? I don’t know, but how much more rapturous the yellow of the rapeseed looks than it did this morning. For me to survive here—as a wife and mother—I’m going to have to do something for myself, as Auntie May did with her work in Hollywood and my mom did in her care of our home, the café, and all of us. I need to take the images that have been flitting through my brain and put them down. A photograph is too small. A poster is too common. In my mind I see something as big and expansive as the rapeseed fields. While I can’t have a canvas that large, I know of the perfect place to paint what I’m feeling: the walls of the leadership hall where Brigade Leader Lai has his meals and stores the grain for the commune. I’m going to have a baby, I’m going to launch a Sputnik, I’m going to right things with my husband, and along the way I hope to protect myself from the peasants and find my true self.
Pearl
THE LADDER OF LIFE
IT’S APRIL—TWENTY months since I left Los Angeles and five months since Z.G. and I returned from Canton. I’ve gone back to being a paper collector; Z.G. has gone back to his studio. I’m ignored for the street cleaner I am; he’s watched closely to make sure he doesn’t stray from mandated subjects. We follow our daily and weekly routines: painting, parties, and political meetings for Z.G.; working, participating in the life of my house, visiting Superintendent Wu at the police station, political reeducation, and a little time in my garden for me. Z.G. and I still see each other quite a bit. We’ve finally become what we always should have been—good friends, brother-and-sister close.
Right now I sit on the front steps of my family home, letting the last of the day’s sun warm my face. The season’s first roses are in bloom. I hear Dun and the other boarders inside, laughing. I hold two letters in my hand: one from May, one from Joy. I open May’s letter first and find twenty dollars. Nothing in her letter has been censored, and obviously no one took the money. We seem to be in a period of openness, but that could change tomorrow. I put the bill in my pocket and open the letter from Joy—my treat for the day.
I’m pregnant.
I take this news with decidedly mixed feelings. I’m thrilled that I’m going to be a grandmother—who wouldn’t be?—but I worry about my daughter. Is she healthy? Will she be all right having a baby in the commune? But most of all, is she happy? I hope with all my heart that she is. But that’s not enough for me. I want to see her. I want to be part of this miraculous moment. I want to bring gifts, and already I start thinking of things I can make and buy for Joy, the baby, and even all those other children in her household. I’ll visit Superintendent Wu tomorrow and see if I can get a travel permit, but first I need to tell Z.G. the news.
I go to my room, change clothes, and then take the bus to his house. I’m prepared to wait for him to return from some party or other, but he’s home, which is a nice surprise.
“Joy’s going to have a baby,” I announce. “I’m going to be a grandma and you’re going to be a grandpa.”
I try to interpret the emotions that ripple across his features, but I’m unsuccessful.
“I have just stepped up a rung on the ladder of my life,” I go on. “So have you.”
“A grandfather? I haven’t been a father all that long.” He’s trying to be humorous. Or maybe this news makes him uncomfortable. Being a grandfather may not mesh with his view of himself as a bachelor about town. Then, “It’s wonderful! A grandfather!” Then he laughs and I laugh with him.
Later, Z.G.’s driver takes me home in the Red Flag limousine. I say good-bye and enter my house. I get some stationery and find a spot in the salon to sit. Dun is across from me, reading student papers. I’m struck, as I always am, by his dignity during these difficult times. He has a tranquil and orderly way about him, which I find reassuring. The two former dancing girls listen to an evening broadcast on the radio, unaware that their feet move in time to the music. Cook dozes in another chair. I hear the cobbler rummaging in his space under the stairs. The policeman’s widow sits cross-legged on the floor, knitting a sweater for one of her daughters.
I write to Joy, telling her how delighted and excited I am. I ask if she needs anything and when it would be good for me to visit. I seal the letter and lean back in my chair to think before I write to May. I recently turned forty-three. I’ve had many terrible days in my life, experienced many woes, and changed a lot along the way, but now I’m going to be a grandma. I let that word sink in and fill my heart. Grandma! I smile to myself, and then I put my pen to paper.
Dear May,