by Zoë S. Roy
“Wow, I like the square neckline and the lace.” Jian narrowed her eyes and reached her hand out to touch the fabric. It looked like a dress she had seen in movies. “It’s so nice! I like the floral pattern and the short, puffy sleeves. Put it on, let me take a look.”
Yezi quickly slipped into the dress and spun around. “What do you think?”
“It’s terrific,” Jian said, clapping her hands. “Why don’t you wear it to school tomorrow?”
“People would say it’s too bourgeois.” Yezi frowned. They might nickname me Dress Wei, the same way my mother got her nickname.”
“I like it so much. I wouldn’t be afraid of wearing it if it were mine.” Jian pursed her mouth. “Maybe I am just too bourgeois.”
Yezi slipped out of her dress and then encouraged her friend to try it on. Then she examined Jian in the dress and beamed. “You look gorgeous!”
“Is your grandmother a capitalist?” Jian asked in an awkward tone, her hands sliding uncertainly over the crisp folds of the dress.
“No, she’s a retired nurse.” Yezi felt proud of having a non-capitalist grandmother.
“You mean she doesn’t exploit people, but she can afford a trip to come here?” Jian asked with surprise. “I don’t think my family can even pay for a train trip to Beijing,” Jian added, unable to hide the pity she felt for her own circumstances.
“I don’t think she’s exploited anyone,” said Yezi, even though she was not entirely certain what that meant. “Instead, she’s been exploited by capitalists,” she announced firmly.
“Why do you think that?” Jian was astonished.
“If capitalists exploit people, they must exploit working people,” Yezi replied, trying to explain her logic. “My grandmother must have been exploited because she worked, just like we do.”
“So, she isn’t bourgeois, but has an eye for a nice dress!” Jian was not convinced.
“Hey, it’s not only the bourgeoisie that like to dress up. Girls like us also appreciate pretty dresses,” Yezi said in what she thought was a convincing tone of voice. Then she shook her head, adding, “But I don’t think I’ll wear it to school.”
“I wish, someday, we could wear what we like. And not be afraid of gossip,” Jian said, her voice conciliatory.
“I wish someday we could feel free to do what we want!” Yezi smiled broadly at her friend.
“Girls, bedtime,” Yao called out as she came into the room. Plopping down on her own bed, Yao loosened her long, gray braid and sighed, “I don’t know why you use those big words: ‘capitalist,’ ‘bourgeoisie,’ and so on. Life is life; talking is no use.” She stretched her arms, opened her mouth wide and yawned.
“Good night,” Jian said and then left for home.
When Meihua and her mother visited Chengdu, Agnes showed Meihua the formal West China Mission compound. They also visited Huaxi Medical University in which Meihua’s father had studied. Without being watched by Miss Wang, Meihua and Agnes had a chance to share their memories of those past years. Agnes told Meihua how much she wished they had been able to find her father, Mei. Meihua told her she’d never given up hope.
After Agnes’s visit, Yezi’s family quickly fell back into their familiar routine. When Yezi returned to school, however, several classmates stared pointedly at her, and one of them chanted, “Yankee grandmother! High pointy-nose invader! Beaten by great Koreans!”
Before Yezi could respond, her teacher approached the chanting child and asked, “Who told you that?”
“I heard it from his sister,” the child said, pointing to another boy in the seat behind him.
“Stop talking nonsense. Both of you. That’s history. Yezi’s grandmother is a very nice American,” the teacher said, and she sent the children outside to play.
The incident bothered Yezi a lot. Why did the Americans invade Korea? She did not understand and did not get the answers she needed in her class. When she got home, Yezi told her mother what the children had said and asked her to explain what had happened between the Americans and Koreans. Meihua sucked in a deep breath. “There was a war between America and Korea in the early 1950s. But your grandmother didn’t go to Korea, and she wasn’t an invader.”
“But why did the American soldiers go to Korea?” Yezi longed to know more.
“In order to answer your question, I must first read many history books. If you’re really interested to know why it happened, you also need to read lots of books and do your research,” Meihua explained. It was hard for Meihua to discuss political issues with her daughter. And it was dangerous to do so. She rose to her feet and pulled Yezi to her side. “Look at you! Soon you will be taller than I am. And when you grow up, you’ll know a lot more than I do.”
“Mama, can I study history at university?”
“Yes, of course, but maybe you’d better focus on science instead.”
“Why?”
“Science is useful and practical.” Meihua gazed into the distance. She turned toward Yezi, and asked, “What do you think about your eldest brother?”
“I’m proud of him.”
“Why?”
“He’s a hero. He fought for the revolution.” Puzzled by the question, Yezi asked, “What do you think?”
“He was an idealist.”
“What does ‘idealist’ mean?”
“An idealist is someone who cherishes high or noble principles. The most important thing for them is to fight for what they believe in.” Meihua stifled her tears, “He shouldn’t have died so young.”
“Don’t cry, Mama. It’s no use. I, too, wish he could come back.” Yezi embraced her mother, holding her protectively.
Meihua was reminded then of a conversation she’d had with her mother during their trip to Chengdu. Agnes had suggested Meihua consider getting medical help in Boston for her persistent headaches. She looked at Yezi and asked, “If I go to the States, would you like to come with me?”
“Do you mean we can afford to take a trip?”
“Tell me if you’re willing to go with me.”
“Yes, I am. But what about Popo Yao, Sang, and Baba?”
“I don’t know the answer to that yet. I’m just considering a suggestion your grandmother made.” Meihua stroked her daughter’s back. “Please don’t say anything to anyone else about this.”
“What was Grandma’s suggestion?”
“I’ll tell you later. I need to discuss it with your father first.”
20.
LOGAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
YEZI TURNED THIRTEEN IN 1979. The year began with the recently launched reform movement called “The Realization of Four Modernizations.” It was intended to strengthen the fields of agriculture, industry, national defense, science and technology, and to open China up to the outside world, and make it a great economic power. According to Hu Yaobang, the new General Secretary of the Central Party, branded rightists and people persecuted during the Cultural Revolution would have their cases reviewed and get rehabilitated. As a result, people who were in prison camps would be freed and allowed to return to their former work units. University students across the country initiated a free-speech movement with the hope that freedom and democracy would soon be practiced in China.
Yezi had more tests at school than ever before. After midterm exams, Jian and she were ranked top students. If they kept their grades up, they would both be assured a promising future: admission to a key high school and then, presumably, acceptance to a first-class university.
Completely immersing herself in studies, Yezi worked hard until her final exams. Finally, just as she was able to relax in front of the television, her mother returned home and with a big smile on her face, gestured for Yezi to come into her room. “Look at this.” She took out a brown, wallet-sized booklet from the desk drawer.
Yezi
read the words on the cover. “A passport!” she said with surprise. “Whose?”
“Yours.”
“Mine? But where is yours?”
“It’s a long story.”
“They didn’t permit you to have one.” Yezi lowered her voice, “What about the medical help you need?”
“I can get medical help here.” Meihua looked deeply into her daughter’s eyes, and gently added, “Grandma is expecting you. You will be able to go to school there. It’s a wonderful opportunity.”
“Do you think I can catch up with students there?” Yezi hesitated, and then said, “I don’t know English that well.”
“You will learn quickly.”
That night, Yezi sat on a stool next to Yao who, under the light, mended her apron. “I have a secret.” Yezi pulled on Yao’s arm and told her about the passport.
“Whoa! I have a needle in my hand.” Yao stopped sewing. “You should go,” she said, though she wished Yezi would stay and and had to fight back tears. To Yao, life seemed better in the United States. Yezi’s grandmother could afford to come to China, when the people of China never travelled those distances. “I’ll come and visit you there someday,” she added encouragingly.
“Really?” Yezi linked Yao’s arm. “Do you have enough money for a ticket?”
“I can save some.”
“Maybe you should learn some English from my mother,” Yezi teased.
“When I was a kid, I didn’t even go to school to learn Chinese. How can I put English into this rusty head?” Yao rapped her knuckles on her head, her smile wide and toothy.
“Even though you didn’t have the chance to go to school, you are really smart,” said Yezi, stroking Yao’s arm. “Don’t worry. When you come to see me, I’ll be your interpreter.”
Yao nodded and continued mending her apron. Her eyes blurred; the stitches were hard to see.
“Promise me you’ll come to see me.” Yezi snuggled next to Yao.
“I promise,” her husky voice softened.
In late July, Meihua told Yezi she had ordered a plane ticket for her. Like silk threads newly spun, feelings of enthusiasm and anxiety enveloped her like a cocoon. She felt as if she were a silkworm biting its way out. She longed to learn about her mother’s birth country; but at the same time, she wondered and worried about what would become of her in that foreign place.
Yao wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. “Poor little one, how will you bear the food there? Americans only eat tasteless milk and bread.”
Yezi said, “Don’t worry about me,” Yezi said. “I will like milk and bread as much as I enjoy your food. And when I come back, I will eat lots of your good home-cooking.”
Yao took Yezi to buy some fabric because she wanted to make her some clothes. Even though Yezi had not left yet, Yao already sensed the emptiness around her when they walked through the people-packed street.
After purchasing the fabric and returning home, Yao asked for a large sheet of white paper from Meihua. She placed the dress Agnes had given Yezi on the paper and traced around its edges, carefully measuring the puffed sleeves and ruffled hem. She sewed busily every day for the next week and managed to complete two dresses. She asked Yezi to try them on.
Fingering the garments made with fine stitches, Yezi gazed at Yao’s sweaty face, her wrinkles like tiny, uneven cracks on dry land. It was the first time Yezi realized Yao looked old—even older than her grandmother, though Yao was only sixty-two. A sad feeling welled up inside her, but Yezi resolved to look cheerful. The dresses were almost identical to the one Agnes had given her. One was pale pink with white polka dots, the other a deep navy blue. “I’ll wear the pink one when I get on the plane.” She did not want to endure the gossip or taunts of bourgeois lifestyle she knew would rise around her in a flurry should she wear either dress to school.
Yezi carefully wrapped the yellow floral dress that her grandmother had given her in a piece of newspaper. She decided to offer it as a keepsake to Jian who liked it so much.
In mid-August, after a twenty-hour flight from Shanghai, Yezi landed at Logan International Airport in Boston.
As she watched crowds rush into and out of a grand hall, and heard the chatter of English all around her, she knew she was in America—the country she felt close to in her dreams, but now, in its immediate presence, distant and strange.
An interpreter helped her during her interview with an immigration officer. As Yezi went to pick up her luggage, an announcement rose, “Mrs. Agnes McMillan, please come to Gate Eight.”
Yezi pushed a cart with her luggage toward the exit gate. She was relieved when she spotted her grandmother, then surprised that she was wearing a bright red dress. Agnes rushed toward Yezi and immediately pulled her into her arms. “How was your flight? I am so happy you are here!”
Yezi nodded, feeling warm and happy. I’m not alone. I have Grandma! She touched her grandmother’s burgundy silk scarf and buried her face in her grandmother’s neck, catching the subtle aroma of lilacs. “I almost didn’t recognize you, Grandma.”
“Because of my dress?” Agnes chuckled, seeming to know what Yezi thought. “We old women like to wear colourful clothes, so we can feel young again.”
Raising her head to look around, Yezi noticed that quite a few of the older people milling around were wearing colourful clothes. Things are different here, Yezi thought. Most of the older people in China only wore dark or gray clothes. She could scarcely imagine Yao in a brightly-coloured dress.
Agnes led Yezi to her car and helped Yezi put her luggage in the trunk. Wondering how her grandmother got the key from the driver, Yezi followed her to the passenger’s side. Agnes opened the door. “Hop in, sweetie.”
She hesitated. “Where are you going to sit?”
“You’ll see.” Agnes closed the car, walked past the front end and slid into the driver’s seat. Yezi gasped as Agnes started the car. She could not help but exclaim, “Oh my, you’re the driver!” Yezi’s eyes widened. She had never thought her grandmother could drive a car!
As the car turned onto the freeway and zipped along, colourful ads, street signs, telephone poles and tall trees rushed by them. The cars around her formed glittery lines stretching to the end of the freeway. They exited the freeway and made their way through the city streets. Agnes finally turned into the driveway of a two-storey house and parked the car in front of the garage.
“Here we are,” Agnes said, turning to Yezi, whose face had suddenly become white. “Are you all right?”
“I … feel … sick.” Yezi opened the door and stumbled out of the car.
“Take deep breaths. I think you must be carsick,” Agnes said, slowly taking Yezi by hand. “Come and sit here. You’ll feel better in a minute.” She led Yezi to a patio chair on the veranda.
Yezi plopped down, breathing deeply, her eyes absorbing the huge spruce tree in the centre of the front yard, surrounded by delicate pink and white mayflowers. Elegant rows of irises and daffodils lined the driveway. At sunset, everything looked shiny; the scent of honeysuckle drifted along with the breeze. “Such a nice garden,” Yezi murmured.
“Would you like a drink? I have apple cider, fruit punch and grapefruit juice.”
Yezi did not know what to choose. “I’ll have whatever you are having.”
“Okay.” Agnes entered the house and returned with two glasses of grapefruit juice.
Yezi took one and slowly sipped from her glass.
“How do you like it?” asked Agnes.
“It is a little bitter.”
“Grapefruit is good for blood pressure. That is why I drink it. Next time we will have the cider, it’s sweeter.”
Suddenly a black squirrel jumped from a branch low in the spruce tree and landed on the railing. Hand shaking, Yezi tilted her glass, spilling the juice. She screeched
, “Did the squirrel get away from a zoo?”
“Oh, no. It lives here, in my trees. Here, squirrels are everywhere.”
“I have only seen squirrels in picture books.” Yezi watched the squirrel pat its head with its paws, her eyes gleaming with delight. “It’s washing its face!”
“Do you like animals? I’ll take you to the Franklin Park Zoo later.”
Yezi nodded. “Is the zoo large?”
“Oh yes. There are about two hundred different species there. The zoo’s more than sixty years old,” explained Agnes. “We will definitely go. But now, let’s have supper. And then you need to rest from your long flight.”
“Okay,” said Yezi, following her grandmother into the house.
Agnes motioned for her to sit at the table in the kitchen while she opened the refrigerator and took out a package. “I have Chinese won tons for you.”
“Did you make them?” Yezi was surprised again.
“No, I bought them in Chinatown,” Agnes spoke slowly, removing the lid of a round porcelain cookie jar and placing it in front of Yezi. “And look, here are some Chinese treats.”
“Oh,” Yezi said, peering inside. “Fried broad beans. China … town?” She repeated the word in two parts, trying to understand it. “Yes, they have all kinds of Chinese food.”
Yezi held the jar and pointed at the won tons. “Please do not buy these just for me. I like bread and milk. I’ll eat your food.”
“Well, let’s eat this for now. Tomorrow you’ll have American food.” Laughing, she added, “And by the way, we eat more things than just bread and milk!”
After supper, Agnes showed Yezi around the house and finally to her bedroom. A giant fluffy teddy bear was perched on the bed, inviting her into her new room with an exaggerated smile. Yezi sprang forward and cuddled the bear in her arms. Exhausted, she lay down and promptly fell asleep.
The following morning, Yezi woke as the first sunlight peeked through the window curtains. At first she was puzzled. Where’s Popo Yao and her bed? A framed painting of horses grazing in meadow on the wall across from her bed reminded her that she was in her grandmother’s home. Quickly she got dressed, and then pulled the curtains open. An unfamiliar view appeared outside. Just beyond her grandmother’s garden, on a spacious lawn, rows of headstones sat next to one another. Is it a graveyard? She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Why aren’t there any mounds? She remembered once seeing a number of round tombs in Kunming’s suburbs, on a stretch of land that appeared to be abandoned; there were no people or houses around for miles. Indeed, the area was surrounded by wild trees and noisy crows. The memory faded and was replaced by a vision of the grave of her brother Dahai. A mound with a wooden marker stood in the wind, on which the words, “Rest in Peace” were carved. Her anxiety melted away. She opened the window. Sunshine poured in, along with the scent of sweet clovers. A new day in her new home had just begun.