Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [79]
I try to imagine you reading this letter. Are you thinking, My sister, what a useless, selfish, and self-centered woman? I’ve been all those things. Is it too late for me to change?
Pearl, even though you are far away, please know that I think of you every day. Why has it taken me so long to understand the important things in life? I’ve always relied on others to take care of me. Now I’m alone in this house and in my life. Please come back, Pearl. Please. I need my sister.
Love, May
I weep at the sorrow of life. I pray for Vern and hope that he’s finally been released from the pain he suffered all these years. It hurts me to think of him with only May in his last days. It seems like she’s finally understood the man she was married to and what a good person he was, but what about Vern? He must have thought of her as an exotic bird that would swish into his room late at night or early in the morning, only to disappear again. His only real companionship had come from Sam and me. I’m so tired of weeping. I’m so tired of heartbreak. I’ve found Joy, but will I ever have joy in my heart again?
I pull out a pen and paper and begin to write:
We all did the best we could, but sometimes that isn’t enough. Vern lived longer than his doctors ever expected. I wish I were there with you, because I understand your pain only too well.
Z.G.’S “A FEW DAYS” turns into a couple of weeks. I go back to my old routine: taking the bus to work, surveying the harbor, and collecting paper. I stand in line at the various shops to buy oil, meat, and rice with my coupons. I make time for prayer, go in for my monthly interview with Superintendent Wu at the police station, and keep up with my political meetings. And I swing by Z.G.’s house once or twice a day, always changing the time. When I wear my paper-collecting clothes, Joy and Z.G. don’t notice me.
I look through the windows, watch the comings and goings of the servants, and learn a lot. Joy sleeps late, has breakfast in bed, takes a long bath, dresses, and then she and her father leave the house around noon. I see them step into a Red Flag limousine with blue curtains drawn shut to keep them protected from prying eyes as they’re whisked to parties or wherever it is they go. Sometimes I see Joy in clothes I know. They’re costumes May and I once wore for sittings with Z.G.
Z.G. and Joy are conspicuously visible. She seems to relish the attention. In Los Angeles, Sam was forever a former rickshaw puller. In Shanghai, Joy’s father is a celebrity. It disturbs me to see the way they live, and I don’t understand why Joy doesn’t rebel against all the privilege. Worse, they don’t care to see much of me. But what hurts the most is that it feels like they’re deliberately leaving me out. I’m completely preoccupied with my daughter. I see her every day, and yet in many ways she’s still very far away.
Then something happens which prompts me to write to May. I worry that sending so much mail to Wah Hong will alert the authorities. That said, May needs to hear this.
March 20, 1958
Dear May,
Today is Joy’s twentieth birthday. I invited her to celebrate at our home. I even asked Cook to make some of our favorite dishes from the old days—steamed eel, shrimp with water chestnuts, and eight-treasures vegetables. But the whole thing was a disaster. You and I always loved our house, but it doesn’t look like it once did. These past months, as I’ve written before, I’ve bought some of our old furniture at pawnshops. Every time I find something, I’m filled with the sense that I’m righting things. But the way Joy looked at it all? It made me feel very poor in spirit. And what was I thinking when I asked Cook to make dinner? Our meal was overcooked and tasteless. How can a mediocre dinner in our old dining room compete with the banquets Joy has been attending?
Again, I have to tell you she looks good. She’s been taken to the best seamstress in the city. This woman is no Madame Garnett, but what she’s made for Joy is far more elegant than the usual clothing I see on the