Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [80]
It’s only been a little over a month, but I keep waiting for the moment Joy will say, “Mom, take me home.” We’re a long way from that, I’m afraid. It doesn’t help that I think she’s in love. She hasn’t told me much about this Tao, but when she speaks of him a pretty pinkness comes to her cheeks and her eyes shine. The best I can say is that Joy and I have come to an uneasy truce.
Love, Pearl
Again, I don’t write about Z.G. I don’t tell May how carefully he held on to Joy’s elbow as he walked her through my house. A couple of times, she looked like she was going to flee—when she saw the grime in the kitchen I haven’t yet had a chance to clean, when she saw the posters of my sister and me in our bedroom, when she met Cook. I saw Z.G.’s knuckles turn white as he held her in place. I wonder what he said to her before and then after they left.
I don’t receive a response from May to my last two letters. Have they been held up? Am I to be arrested? Has May been too busy to write? Or has she been worn down by grief, mourning, and guilt? I know what that’s like. I wait a month and then write a short note:
Is everything all right? Have you received my letters? In case you haven’t, I found Joy and I’m sorry about Vern. Please write as soon as possible.
And then I wait for a response. I don’t receive one, which means I don’t have to write to May about the poster of Joy, which would, in turn, lead back to Z.G. I don’t have to write about the day when Joy visited unannounced and by herself for the first time either. I looked out the window and there she was, staring at the first rose to bloom along the fence. I was extremely pleased to see her, convinced that Joy had experienced a sea change. I made tea, and we sat in the salon. Joy’s coming here was her way of reaching out, I’m sure of it, and yet she only made small talk. She told me that she’d reported to the police station and the block committee in Z.G.’s neighborhood. “It wasn’t a big deal,” she said. She’d also gone to the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission and had been given the same special coupons that I’m entitled to receive. “But I don’t need them,” she said with a shrug. “I can get whatever I want at Z.G.’s house.”
As she spoke, I wanted to cry, because sometimes it’s just so damn hard to be a mother. We have to wait and wait and wait for our children to open their hearts to us. And if that doesn’t work, we have to bide our time and look for the moment of weakness when we can sneak back into their lives and they will see us and remember us for the people who love them unconditionally.
I have my worries, but life continues elsewhere. Z.G. has a new poster, which shows Mao—as the Chairman himself asked to be painted, according to Joy—in simple trousers and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck against a plain background. He looks like a benevolent god—of and for the people. I honestly can’t go anywhere or do anything without seeing his face. He’s literally everywhere—on the sides of buildings, in restaurants, in private homes. I’m told that 40 million copies of this poster have been sold across the country. In any other part of the world, this would make Z.G. an extremely wealthy man. Here, it earns him privilege and party (Party!) invitations for him and Joy.
And still no letter from May. Do I write another note to her or stop writing completely for a while? I don’t know where or what the problem is. In case there’s been an issue with the content of my letters, I decide to write something pro-political about the Great Leap Forward. I’m still careful, but that’s easy. All I have to do is echo the enthusiasm I hear on loudspeakers, see on posters, or read in the newspapers. May and I are sisters. I expect her to look for hidden meanings in my words.
May 15, 1958
Dear May,
Chairman Mao, our Supreme Leader, is leading us into wonderful times. He has come up with a slogan that we all joyously repeat: Hard work for a few years, happiness for a thousand. You remember