Throwaway Daughter

by Ting-Xing Ye

  I’d like to say that Kevin and I weren’t bothered by this new development. But we both tossed and turned in the darkness. Say what you will, a disabled child brings added responsibility, strain on the family, expense, and demands on emotional energy. I knew that from being a teacher for years. And if Dong-mei’s hearing impairment had been kept from us, what other problems might the Chinese bureaucrats have overlooked—or hidden?

  We got up in the morning, carried on our normal routine. My mind, though, was a stormy sea, and as the day wore on I became more agitated.

  “Would we have given up Megan if she was born deaf or mute?” I asked Kevin as soon as he stepped into the house that evening.

  Kevin looked at me with the same sense of determination that had attracted me on our first date. “Let’s do it, Jane.”

  I picked up the phone. For the first time since our contact with the adoption agency I was thankful that Vancouver was three hours behind. “Nothing has changed,” I told Ms. Chow. “We are going to China as scheduled.”

  The Nanjing Hotel was a rather forbidding Russian-style pile of stone set in a garden in the northeast part of the city of Nanjing. The trees and hedges surrounding the building drooped in the heat.

  “Ten days?” the young woman at the front desk said incredulously.

  There followed rapid dialogue, frowning, and head-shaking between the clerk and Ms. Cai, the woman from the Nanjing Foreign Affairs Office who had met us at the airport and would be our interpreter and liaison with the orphanage. Kevin and I exchanged glances.

  “Ten?” the clerk asked again, this time in English, holding up both hands with her fingers splayed. “Here? Nanjing?”

  While Kevin filled out the registration form, I asked Ms. Cai, “Is everything all right? The hotel isn’t full, is it?”

  This brought a laugh from the interpreter. Cai was a small woman in her mid-forties, garbed in a white blouse and black trousers. “Oh, no, Mrs. Parker.” She pronounced it Pokka. “Everything just fine. No problem at all. The young comrade is curious about your long staying. In summer, Nanjing is known as one of China’s ‘three furnaces,’ so tourists usually try to avoid to come here. Or to have short visit at least.”

  I looked at the clerk. “Please tell the young lady that where we come from it is winter six months of the year. We don’t mind a bit of hot weather.”

  After Cai translated, the young woman smiled behind her hand. “Wer-come,” she said.

  Although our room had an air conditioner that wheezed away at the window, I would be stretching things if I claimed it was cool. It was frustrating, sitting in our room, bathed in our own sweat, waiting to see Dong-mei. The closer we came to seeing her, the more anxious we became that something might go wrong.

  Ms. Cai was all right, doing what she was supposed to do—acting as a go-between and tour guide—with grace and politeness. The pumpkin-faced woman tried her best to help us occupy our time. Upon meeting us, she had handed me a typed itinerary of sights to see. But after a tedious trip to the Sun Yat-sen tomb the next morning, I pitched the itinerary directly into the garbage.

  While we were having lunch in the hotel restaurant, Ms. Cai came to inform us that our request to visit the orphanage in Yangzhou had been turned down. Yangzhou, about two and a half hours by bus from Nanjing, sits where the Grand Canal meets the Yangtze River.

  Kevin and I were learning that asking “Why?” didn’t often produce acceptable answers. Or answers that made sense.

  “There are no bus tickets,” Ms. Cai said to us.

  Kevin looked at me, then asked Ms. Cai, “How can there be no tickets? It’s a public transit system, isn’t it? It operates daily, doesn’t it?”

  “We’ll take a taxi tomorrow,” I cut in. “If we leave in the morning, we’ll be there before noon. Plenty of time to look around, then return.”

  “Not possible,” Ms. Cai said firmly. “The orphanage is not kai-fang-dan-wei. It is not open to foreign visitors.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to tell us that earlier on in the conversation?” Kevin muttered.

  “But we don’t care about the facilities,” I protested. “We just want to see the place where Dong-mei has lived, maybe take a few pictures to show her when she’s older. It’s important to us that Dong-mei keeps a link to her heritage, her roots.”

  Cai sounded puzzled. “But why you want her to know such negative details? The dark part of her life? Her mother deserted her. When they found her, she was half frozen, didn’t have strength to eat or cry. The workers in the orphanage called her Tearless Girl. Then later they realized her hearing defect. It’s sad story. Better she not know. She a lucky girl, just tell her that.”

  Days passed. The streets sweltered. A thunderstorm howled across the city. Kevin and I tried to while away the time reading, going for walks in the relative cool of evening, occasionally succumbing to Cai’s urgings to accompany her to a temple or other historic site. Gnawed by doubt, we reminded ourselves that everything had gone well—though slowly—so far, and we had nothing to fear. We were also aware that as Canadians we were favoured by China to adopt their children. We knew that the memory of Norman Bethune was still strong, and that he was still regarded as a hero and great friend of the Chinese people. Canada’s being one of the first Western nations to recognize Mao Ze-dong’s government also helped, we thought.

  “If this is how they treat people they favour,” Kevin joked, “I hate to think how it would be if we were not favoured.”

  The sixth morning began as the others had. The heat came with the light, and by breakfast time the cicadas were thrumming in the gardens. We had just finished our meal and returned to our room when there was a knock on the door. It was Ms. Cai, her chubby face split by a triumphant grin that made my heart soar. Standing on one side of her was an older man whose white shirt was buttoned to his chin; on the other, a middle-aged woman similarly dressed, with short straight hair as rigid as her posture. In her arms was a bundle of blankets.

  “Kevin!” I called out, forgetting to invite the party in.

  Kevin rushed to the door. “Come in, please,” he urged.

  The woman said something.

  “We may have overdressed Dong-mei,” Cai translated. “We heard that the hotel is air-conditioned and didn’t want her to catch a chill.”

  I let out a nervous laugh at the word chill.

  After we had persuaded our visitors to sit, Cai began to speak formally. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Liu, director of Social and Welfare Institute of Jiangsu Province. Mrs. Xia is with Yangzhou Orphanage, which is under the leadership of the institute. It was Mrs. Xia who found Dong-mei outside the orphanage over seven months ago.”

  While Cai talked, I made tea and set the cups on the tables beside our guests, who ignored them. Mr. Liu cleared his throat and began to talk in a surprisingly powerful voice.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Parker. Your patience is appreciated by our government, and your donation to the orphanage is very generous. Perhaps all the paperwork required for Dong-mei’s adoption is in order. So, if you would sign this document, you may take Dong-mei to Canada.” The document, we were informed, was actually a receipt, dated and stamped, acknowledging that we had received a female child from the institution.

  While the translation pattered on, Kevin and I couldn’t tear our eyes from the motionless bundle in Xia’s arms. We signed where Cai indicated and returned the papers to Mr. Liu. Liu then stood, followed by Xia and Cai.

  “Now I’m sure you are eager to see your daughter,” he said kindly. “If you have no more questions, we will go.”

  He gestured to Xia to hand over the baby, whose face we had yet to see. I took her and immediately pulled the outer blankets away to reveal the same tiny, serious face that I had seen in the photo. “Thank you, thank you,” was all I could say.

  Xia rattled off a few sentences and Cai translated.

  “Mrs. Xia tells that you should feed the baby soy milk, maybe with a little sugar. Also once a day
you may give a bit fruit or rice made into mush.”

  “Yes,” I said, gazing down into the tiny face of my daughter, “I brought soy milk with me.”

  “Please convey our thanks to the Chinese government and the officials at Yangzhou Orphanage,” Kevin intoned, as formally as he could manage. “There is one request I would like to make. My wife and I wonder if there is any information on Dong-mei’s background. We would like to know as much as we can in case Dong-mei asks us when she is older.”

  There was a moment of silence. Cai looked a little displeased after she had finished the translation. Liu shook his head. “Mei-you—nothing,” was all he said.

  Cai elaborated. “Whoever left Dong-mei did it secretly. If seen, the person would have been punished and the baby returned.”

  Xia kept silent, looking at the floor. After more formal thank-yous and farewells, the three Chinese left us with our new daughter.

  As soon as the door was closed I lay Dong-mei on the bed and began to loosen the tightly wrapped blankets.

  “Three layers! It’s a wonder the poor little mite didn’t roast. Look, Kevin, she’s so small!”

  But she was bright-eyed and she kicked and punched, blowing bubbles as I removed her soggy cotton diaper and put on one of the disposable ones we had brought with us. It was far too large, and, as if aware of how pathetic she looked in it, Dong-mei began to cry.

  I picked her up, swaddled in a light cotton blanket, and began to pace the room to quiet her. No luck. I sat down and bounced her on my knees. Dong-mei wailed even louder, and I was grateful that the hotel was almost empty. Kevin took her from me and sang to her, with no effect.

  It was a long night. We took turns walking and rocking our little girl, who after a few hours quieted down—provided she was in motion. As soon as she was placed on the bed, her eyes would snap open and the cries would come again. An hour or so before dawn, Dong-mei drifted off to sleep, and I lay her between us on the bed. In seconds, the three of us were asleep.

  I was awakened by a quiet knock at the door. “What’s that?” I exclaimed.

  I looked at my watch when the knock was repeated, low but insistent. Six am. Still dressed from the night before, I rolled carefully off the bed, picked Dong-mei up, and opened the door.

  Mrs. Xia pushed past me into the room and closed the door behind her.

  “Oh, no,” I moaned. “Kevin, there must be something wrong! Is there a problem?” I asked Xia. She gave me a bewildered look. I remembered she had no English. I asked, “Alone?” She frowned at me. I held up one finger. “Alone?” She seemed to catch on, because she nodded and, to my relief, smiled.

  “Um, you-wen-ti-ma?” Kevin tried haltingly. “Is there trouble?”

  Xia shook her head. “Bu, bu, bu,” she said. She made sure the door was locked, then took a small piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to me.

  I said to Kevin, “There’s writing on it. In Chinese.”

  The writing was in blue ink, just four handwritten characters. I wondered why Xia hadn’t given it to us the day before so that Ms. Cai could translate it for us. Then it struck me that she had brought it today, alone, at dawn, because it was secret.

  Xia pointed to the first line on the paper. “Chun-mei. Mama,” she said. Then, pointing to the second, “Dong-mei.”

  “Is she trying to say that Chun-mei is Dong-mei’s mother?” Kevin said to me.

  “But they told us yesterday her mother was unknown.”

  This time I pointed to the first line of writing. “Dong-mei Mama?” I asked Mrs. Xia.

  Her face brightened. “Dui, dui, dui.” She smiled, touching my finger. “Chun-mei.” She then moved my finger to the last two characters. “Dong-mei.” She patted the baby’s head.

  The similarity of names struck me, though I didn’t know what they meant. “I understand,” I said uselessly.

  “I bet the note was left with the baby,” Kevin said. “The mother must have wanted the names to be known.”

  Dong-mei chose that moment to wail as if I had pinched her. Xia took a close look underneath her blanket and noticed the disposable diaper with the big pink flower on the bottom. She tsked and shook her head and held out her arms. Reluctantly, I handed Dong-mei to her.

  Xia put Dong-mei down on the bed and stripped off the diaper. She searched the room with her eyes and pounced on the green canvas bag she had left with us the day before. From it she removed a worn but clean cotton diaper and, mumbling to herself, pinned it on the baby. Dong-mei fell silent.

  Xia pointed to the disposable diaper. “Bu, bu, bu,” she said, shaking her head.

  She passed Dong-mei to me, then shook hands with Kevin and me.

  “I wish I could talk to you—and thank you,” I told her.

  Xia unlocked the door, opened it, and looked up and down the hall before stepping out. “Zai-jian,” she said, and walked briskly to the stairway.

  GRACE

  One of the many rules of the Parker family is that dinner must never be interrupted by serious conversation. Arguments are strictly forbidden. Polite chit-chat of the “How was your day, dear?” variety is all that’s allowed. The sharp bickering that sometimes goes on between Megan and me shuts down as soon as we enter the dining room. Only after the plates have been cleared can any weighty discussion happen.

  One autumn day when I was in elementary school I made my way home under a cloud of doom, dragging my feet and seizing any opportunity—walking with my arms held out for balance along the curb, side-stepping cracks in the sidewalk, kicking bunches of soggy leaves along the gutter—to slow me down. Dad’s car was in the driveway. When I pushed open the front door I yelled “I’m home!” and ran upstairs to my room.

  Dinner was torture. My teacher had told me that she had called Mother at lunchtime. I knew my parents were aware of what I had done—or, more exactly, not done. I knew they wouldn’t mention my crime until after dinner, and their calm, purposeful eating infuriated me. Megan’s cheerful ignorance of the issue heightened the suspense and her prattling twisted my nerves.

  I fiddled with my pork chop, pushed mashed potatoes around on my plate, rolled peas back and forth. My mother pretended not to notice. Dad chomped away noisily, setting my teeth on edge. Mom ate with her usual delicacy, nodding and making encouraging noises as Megan nibbled at her salad and rattled on about the Drama Club elections. She was running for president. She’d win, too. Miss Perfect.

  “Can I be excused?” Megan finally asked, throwing down her napkin and pushing back her chair.

  “Not yet, dear,” Mom replied. “We have something to discuss first.”

  Megan shot a glance at me, then at Dad. I could see the wheels turning. She was wondering if our parents had found her out, prepared for the possibility that I had broken my promise and told about her sneaking off to Matt’s party the previous Friday night. She had told Mom and Dad that she’d be spending the night at her friend Patti’s—which was, as with all Megan’s subterfuges, partly true. Patti had gone to the party, too. I sat quietly, watching Megan suffer as she decided on the exact proportion of truth and falsehood, composing her lie, grateful for the diversion, even if it would not last.

  “Dong-mei, dear,” Mother said calmly in her Teacher Voice. “Mrs. Crossly called me today. Would you like to tell us why?”

  “Didn’t she tell you?”

  The corners of her mouth tightened a little. “Your dad and I would like you to explain.”

  Megan planted her elbows on the table, rested her chin on her hands, looked straight at me, and smiled.

  “Well?” Dad said half-heartedly.

  “I didn’t hand in my project,” I confessed.

  “Why not?” Mom asked.

  “I didn’t have one to hand in.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I didn’t do it.”

  Mother let out a sigh. “Dong-mei, stop being obtuse and explain yourself.”

  Two weeks before, Crossly had announced what she proudly called a s
pecial history project. We would have a great deal of leeway, she said, and there would be lots of opportunity to be as creative as we wished. I had assumed history meant history, and that leeway signified choice.

  Mrs. Crossly handed out the assignment the next morning. “It’s your personal history!” she crowed, as if announcing the winner of a lottery. “And, above all things, exactness and accuracy will be rewarded. All information must be correct.”

  The instructions, detailed and numerous, were printed on pink paper—“So you won’t lose them,” she had told us. There were lots of blanks to fill in to get us started. My pink sheet remained somewhere in the dust and grime of my desk at school.

  One look at it had been enough to awaken the procrastination I was so good at. NAME marked the first blank line. DATE OF BIRTH, the second. CITY OF BIRTH, the third. I dutifully printed Grace Parker at the beginning, then put down my pencil. The fear of being mocked or thought stupid paralyzed me.

  I didn’t know my date of birth. Yangzhou was the city where the orphanage was situated, but my actual place of birth was as big a mystery as the date. My parents had always held my birthday party on the anniversary of my arrival in Canada, but Mom had carefully explained to me that this was a symbolic date. Mrs. Crossly had stressed, repeatedly, that the details in our personal history project must be “absolutely exact. The evidence is no good if it’s not accurate.” And I took her literally, certain I’d be found out and criticized if I faked the information.

  Below the empty blanks on the pink sheet was a paragraph of instructions that emphasized the need to interview family members, especially grandparents and other relatives, as well as our parents. More blanks had been provided to list the names of those questioned. But who could I interview? I felt as if the whole project had been designed to snare me.