Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [134]
“Stupid,” suggests my husband.
“Pig,” my mother-in-law spits out.
“Dog,” one of Tao’s brothers says with a smirk.
“Jie Jie,” offers Jie Jie, the oldest of Tao’s sisters. This is clearly the kindest and most generous suggestion, since it suggests that in naming my baby Oldest Sister I’ll have more children. It also gives me the feeling that Jie Jie will help me with the baby and look out for her.
“No Name would be best,” my father-in-law says, simultaneously offending the mother of his children, my baby, and me.
“I want to name her Samantha. I will call her Sam for short.” I’m thinking of my father Sam and that this little baby deserves to be named for someone who was honorable and kind. Samantha Feng. I’m a new mother and I’m in bad circumstances, but already I know I’ll fight for her. Of course, Sam means nothing in the local dialect, which turns out to be a good thing.
“You can call her whatever you want,” my husband says dismissively. “We will call her Ah Fu.”
It means Good Fortune, but it’s actually a terrible insult, because every girl baby is considered a misfortune. That’s all right. My grandfather always called me Pan-di—Hope-for-a-Brother. His name for me only made me stronger.
I write letters to my mother and aunt, telling them of my baby’s birth and giving them her name. Then I wrap Sam in a piece of cloth and tie her to my chest. Together we walk down the hill and wait by the pond for the mailman to arrive. Today he brings a package from my mother. I take it home, excited, hoping it will be filled with food. But the package has already been opened and it’s half empty, so I know someone in the leadership hall has taken whatever he or she wanted. What’s left is some powdered baby formula and some homemade shoes. I hide the formula with the carton of formula Aunt May sent. (Hers came with a note saying I should protect my breasts from early aging and sagging by giving Samantha a bottle.) As for the homemade shoes, Fu-shee won’t let the children wear them even though it’s cold, saying they should be saved for special occasions.
What’s worse, I wonder, to freeze or to starve to death? I’m a long way from starving, but a relentless cold draft comes through the window that must be stopped, especially with a newborn in the house. I ask one of Tao’s siblings to get water from the stream and another to add fuel to the fire outside. Once the water comes to a boil, they come and get me. Tao’s little brothers and sisters watch wide-eyed as I pour the water in a basin, bring it inside, and put one of the shoes my mother made for me in to soak. Very quickly the shoe begins to fall apart.
The loudspeaker in the house is rarely quiet. Right now the announcer talks about natural calamities—drought, floods, typhoons, and monsoons. As I peel off each layer of paper from the soles, I realize we’ve seen none of these calamities. But if the loudspeaker says it’s true, then it must be. I take the layers of paper from the shoes and smooth them across the thin rice paper that’s already been pasted over the window opening, hoping to block the wind from entering through any cracks and create extra layers as a barrier from the elements. Maybe the dark paper will attract more of the sun’s warmth too. As I work, I understand what my mother has done. She’s sent little pieces of herself and Auntie May: their eyes, their lips, their fingers. Then, about halfway through the sole of the second shoe, I come across a different kind of paper. I carefully lift it off the sole, unfold it, and see six words written in my mother’s delicate calligraphy.
My heart is with you always.
I glance at the collage I’ve made over the window opening. I take the baby out of her sling and hold her up so she can see. “Look, it’s your yen-yen and your great-aunt. See how much they love us?”
Then I put Sam back in her sling and return to my pasting. Tao’s little brothers and sisters rush out to tell