Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [153]
“You can keep this,” I say.
He puts the letter in my hand as I put the camera in his. I tuck the letter and the film inside the cloth envelope. The brigade leader watches as I stitch it closed, making sure I don’t add or subtract anything. When I’m done, I give it to him.
“The sooner they receive this, the sooner you’ll have your acclaim,” I say. I bow and then back out of his office, like I’m a lowly servant from feudal times.
I go home, rummage through my belongings again, and pull out the pouch my aunt gave me. I lay Sam on one of the sleeping mats, put the pouch over her head, and then push it down around her distended belly like a belt so there’ll be no chance of strangulation. Then I lie down next to her. I don’t know how quickly my package will leave here or what will happen to it when it passes through the censors’ hands in Shanghai. Will my mom receive what I’ve sent in a few days, a week, never? I’ve done what I can, but the end is coming. I have only a little baby formula left. If I take the bits and pieces of my mother and aunt that I pasted over the window and boil them, I might be able to extract enough rice paste to make a weak milk to keep Sam alive for a while. For now, she sucks at my empty breast, too weak to complain. The Boar always suffers in silence.
I close my eyes. I hear the voices of the past in the wind and in the beating of my heart. My two mothers, my two fathers, and my dear uncle all tried to tell me I was wrong about the People’s Republic of China. In the beginning, going all the way back to the University of Chicago, I thought socialism and communism were good, that people should share equally, that it wasn’t fair that my family had suffered in America when others drove fancy cars, lived in big houses, and shopped in Beverly Hills. I ran away and came here in hopes of finding an ideal world, to find my birth father, to avoid my mother and aunt, and to crush my guilt. None of that worked the way I expected. The ideal world was filled with hypocrisy and with people like Z.G., who went to parties while the masses suffered. In finding my birth father, I only remembered how wonderful my father Sam was. He loved me unconditionally, while Z.G. wanted me as a muse, as a pretty daughter to show off, as a physical manifestation of his love for Auntie May, as an artist who would reflect how great an artist he is. I thought I could use idealism to solve my inner conflicts, but in healing my inner conflicts I destroyed my idealism.
As I gaze into my daughter’s face, everything becomes very clear. My mother and aunt loved me, stood by me, and supported me, no matter what. They were both good mothers. My greatest misery and grief is that I have not been a good mother and I can’t save my daughter. I pray that in our finals days and hours Samantha will know how much I love her.
Pearl
SEPARATED BY A THREAD
AT THE BEGINNING of April, I come home from a day of paper collecting to find a package from Joy. Finally! I hurry upstairs to my room and close the door. The package is in pristine condition, which means that no one has opened it or read the contents. I’m so excited that my hands are clumsy as I snip open the hand-sewn seams with scissors. A roll of film and a few feathers fall on the bed. I pick up one of the feathers