Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [77]
“But Chairman Mao likes you,” she repeats weakly.
“He likes you,” Z.G. responds. “It pleased him to see such a pretty girl leave America to come here. Thank you for helping with my rehabilitation.”
“Rehabilitation?” Joy echoes, finally hearing the word.
“Don’t you remember his conversation with us at the exhibition?” Z.G. asks.
I don’t know what they’re talking about, but Joy nods in understanding.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.
“I tried, but you wouldn’t listen. When we were in Canton, I wanted you to leave the country.”
“That’s right,” Joy acknowledges. “You did.”
“Well, obviously you didn’t try hard enough,” I cut in. They both turn to me, remembering I’m here.
“The truth is,” Z.G. admits, “I didn’t want her to leave.”
“She’s your daughter! You should have been protecting her!”
“She is my daughter,” Z.G. says. “I hadn’t known she existed. I was selfish. I wanted to know her.” He now addresses Joy. “But that doesn’t mean you should stay here.”
“I don’t want to stay here. I want to go back to the Green Dragon Collective.”
Concern passes over Z.G.’s face. I don’t know what this place is, but I know my daughter doesn’t belong in a collective.
“People are shaped by the earth and water around them,” he says. “You’re an American. You don’t know hardship or how to survive. If you go back to Green Dragon, you’ll be giving up city life. You won’t be able to return to Shanghai. And you certainly won’t be able to leave China.”
“I don’t want to leave China,” Joy says stubbornly. “This is my home now.”
“How do I explain things to her so she’ll understand?” Z.G. asks me. Joy stiffens at that, and I keep my mouth shut. He turns back to Joy. “I begged Mao and Chou for forgiveness with my paintings, but who knows what could happen tomorrow? Mao won’t admit when he’s wrong. He purges anyone who disagrees with him. Since the recent class struggle, everyone with a brain or a backbone has been sent to labor camp or been killed. Those who remain, like Chou En-lai, are afraid to go against Mao, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s stopped listening to others anyway. Who will protect China from bad ideas?”
Looking at my daughter’s lovely face, I can tell she doesn’t care about any of what Z.G. is saying. He has tried reason—self-centered though it may be—but my daughter is suffering from something that can’t be touched by logic. The dead can claim the living, and guilt and sorrow have claimed my girl.
“Joy,” I say softly, “will you come home with me? You’ve never seen the house where May and I grew up.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because I’m your mother and I’ve come all this way.”
“No one asked you to come here.”
“Joy!” Z.G.’s voice is startling in its sharpness. She rapidly blinks her eyes, ashamed of herself, fighting back tears. Then to me, he says, “This is all very sudden. We need time to accustom ourselves to things. Let Joy stay here a few days, and then I’ll bring her to you.”
Pearl
THE SORROW OF LIFE
February 15, 1958
Dear May,
Our girl has finally come back to Shanghai. She’s healthy and she’s in one piece. These are the most important things to remember. I’ve been so focused on finding her that I haven’t thought enough about how she would feel when she saw me or what should happen next. I don’t know how to say this except just to say it. Joy doesn’t want to come home. She believes, and this hurts more than I could ever express, that she’s to blame for Sam’s death. As much as I don’t want to accept it, she’s at least partially right. If she hadn’t joined that club, the FBI never would have investigated us.
As you know, I’ve blamed you for everything that happened. It’s only because Joy ran away and I needed your help that I even stayed in contact with you. You’ve tried to tell me how you feel—at the airport and in your letters—but I haven’t listened or acknowledged you. A part of me is still angry with you, but listening