The Long March Home

by Zoë S. Roy

  Lon’s eyes lit up. He turned to Meihua and said, “It reminds me of the houses on the mountainside along the Yangtze River.”

  “Yes. That’s what I was thinking. Did we first meet on the ship to Chongqing or in a mountain house?”

  “On the ship.” Looking at Meihua’s misty eyes, he realized she really could not remember where they had met.

  “Do you need to sit down?” Lon asked, his mind drifting back to those days in 1948. Lon had been on the same ship as Meihua. He was travelling to his first job in Chongqing after having graduated as an English major from the National Central University in Nanjing. Lon had been standing beside her, also leaning against the rail, admiring the same hills.

  “It seems I am reliving the day I met you.” She held his hand. “If you’re not tired, do you mind if we stay longer?”

  “Sure, as long as you like. I’m enjoying this as much as you.” Lon stepped toward, gently pulling her closer to him. They paused in front of an oil painting titled “Portrait of an American Clipper Ship.” Lon carefully examined the picture; his eyes narrowed, then widened. “It’s by Lai Fong!”

  Meihua gazed at the fully-blown white sails, her mouth curving into a smile. “Did you recognize his work, or did you read his name on the placard next to the canvas?”

  “You’ve mentioned Lai Fong and his paintings of ships several times. The scene has been stamped indelibly into my head. I think these images, this very painting, must have inspired you on your quest to find your birth father.”

  “Look at the ship, the blue sky and translucent clouds. You can fantasize about many things.” Meihua’s eyes wandered over the picture of the vessel painted about a hundred years earlier by the Chinese artist. Lon was right; the painting had been an inspiration.

  She remembered the first time she had seen this painting by Lai Fong. It was in her Grade Nine art class. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off the canvas. She had pictured her mother on the ship, sailing to China. The ship’s white sails fluttering above the dark blue sea had taken young Mayflora’s imagination across the Pacific. The artist’s Chinese name ‘Lai Fong’ reminded her of her father, Mei, whom she had never met. It was at that moment that she had resolved to learn the language and cross the ocean by ship to find him.

  With time, her girlhood dream had become reality. She studied Chinese with a tutor her parents had hired for her in 1942. It was a difficult time. Her stepfather, Jensen, had left his engineering job to enlist in the army. Her mother had worked hard at a number of different part-time jobs to supplement the family income.

  “I’m amazed to see this painting again after so long,” Meihua sighed. “Everything seems to be happening as if in a dream.”

  Rubbing his eyes, Lon mumbled, “I recognized his ship at first sight.”

  They continued exploring the gallery, ending their visit with sculptures by Donald De Lue and the work of Bernard Brussel-Smith, who had been Meihua’s professor at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.

  Meihua wished they could stay at the gallery forever.

  24.

  THE RED LINE

  BY THE TIME THEY LEFT the gallery and walked into the alley, the snow, glittering in the sun, had thickened. As they tread on the crisp snow to Green Briar on Washington Street, Meihua’s nostalgia melted away. Her heart softened.

  A waiter at Green Briar led them past several occupied tables to one in the corner. Meihua and Lon sat on cushioned wooden chairs while the Irish song, “Londonderry Air,” coming from an old music box, flowed over the bar counter. The dining hall had timber beams and terra-cotta walls, trimmed with hand-painted green leaves of sweetbriars. Under the orange beams of the overhead lights, everything shone a rich coral. Lon scanned the pub, wondering why it was called “Green Briar.”

  Meihua explained, “The shamrock is the symbol of Irish culture. Green is a favourite colour. On St. Patrick’s Day, the Irish decorate everything green; they even dress in green clothes! Youngsters wear green skirts, green trousers or green shirts or hats, and have green clovers painted on their faces.”

  She tapped two of her fingers on the tabletop along with the rhythm of the music. “My stepfather was Irish. We used to come here at least once a year. My parents would drink Irish ale.” She sipped her beer. “Dora and I always ordered New England clam chowder. After dinner, everyone would get up for some Irish step dancing.”

  The waiter placed two bowls of clam chowder in front of them; then, he added a boat-shaped, wooden basket of freshly baked buns. Meihua sniffed at the bowl. “It’s so good to smell fresh bread again.”

  Lon spooned some chowder into his mouth. “This is really tasty. What makes it white?”

  “Milk.” Meihua felt proud of her hometown. “This is a well-known Boston dish. People say that you know nothing about Boston if you haven’t tasted its clam chowder.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Lon, looking at her bright, smiling face. “I’ll have another bowl to prove that I really do know Boston now.”

  Meihua stroked the dark wall with her fingers while she reminisced about her childhood, remembering that the delightful music they danced to was like a bubbling creek running down a hill. “Dora was five at that time. She wanted to dance with the adults after she danced with me. Mom would bend forward so she could hold her hands while they danced. Dad would actually lift her high above his head. Dora would dance with her feet in the air. Her kicks almost hit Dad’s chest!”

  “I can imagine that happy time, especially when I’m sitting here with you, eating this delicious soup.” Lon understood why, after four decades, Meihua was able to find her way to the restaurant without asking for directions. It was an important place for her. But it troubled him that her memory of the past seemed much better than her ability to recall recent events. He was worried about her ongoing headaches, and he wanted her to see a doctor about them, but Meihua kept insisting the headaches were caused by menopause. She seemed so happy right now that he could not bring himself to talk to her about this again, even though Agnes this morning had mentioned the name of a doctor she knew that would be willing to see her.

  Another song was playing. Meihua hummed along with it and asked for another glass of Bass Ale. She told Lon that the song was her mother’s favourite. Not familiar with the variety of beer available, Lon chose something called Blue Moon because he liked the name. Meihua dreamily sipped the ale from the glass, seemingly lost in thought, while Lon watched her, suddenly anxious. The song gradually came to the end.

  When true hearts lie wither’d

  And fond ones are flow’n

  Oh! who would inhabit

  This bleak world alone?

  “This song seems so sad,” Lon said. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s ‘The Last Rose of Summer’,” answered Meihua, “by the Irish poet, Thomas Moore.”

  “I once read a poem called ‘A Red, Red Rose’ by Robert Burns. He is a Scottish poet,” Lon said. “It’s a sweet poem, and not so sad as this song.”

  “Let’s toast.” Meihua raised her glass.

  A line of Burns’ poem popped into Lon’s head. O my luve is like a red, red rose. He touched the glass with his mug and recited the lyrics. “O my luve is like a melody / that’s sweetly play’d in tune.”

  Meihua swallowed her last sip. She gazed at Lon, but he was a blur. Suddently, it was as if there were two of him sitting in front of her. Her blurred vision was making her nauseous, so she leaned into the table, grasping at the edge with one hand.

  Lon noticed that her other hand was trembling when she stretched it toward him. He clasped it between his and asked, “Are you all right? Is there anywhere else you want to go?”

  “Home. Let’s go home,” Meihua whispered, as if some invisible substance had entered her body, and changed her mood.

  Taking her coat from th
e rack, Lon helped her into it carefully, as if he were afraid it it might hurt her. Then he quickly donned his own coat.

  They walked back to the bus shelter just in time to catch a bus that was going in their direction. Sitting by the window, Meihua peered out at the darkened streets. Snowflakes landed against the glass, turning into crystal petals. She laid her fingers against the window as if to touch them. They melted and trickled down the glass. Cars and buses passed through the snow-blanketed city like pencils drawing sketches on paper sheets. Pedestrians moved on the sidewalks becoming spots of colour dotted here and there to complete the sketches. Her eyes felt hot, as though tears were about to spill. Life is like a painting.

  When they reached the subway, Meihua ran down the stairs. She did not hear Lon’s call, “We’re not in a hurry!” She gripped the rail to help herself descend quickly. In her mind she was struggling to catch that train that would bring her home. She did not want to miss the train she had missed so many times in her dreams. Turning to Lon, in a throaty voice, she said, “Hurry.”

  Lon quickened his steps to catch up with her. Linking his arm through hers, he said breathlessly, “Slow down. I’m with you now.”

  Meihua drew a deep breath and relaxed. She had stopped running. The heavy sensation that had taken over her body gradually dissipated. A train pulled into the station. Following the other passengers, Meihua and Lon boarded. Noticing her sweaty, pale face, a young man offered her his seat.

  Barely able to utter a few words, Meihua struggled to tell Lon, “Let’s transfer to the Red Line at Park Street … The Red Line … Park Street!”

  Lon nodded, placing his hand reassuringly on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I know where to transfer to the Red.”

  Meihua closed her eyes and envisioned a canvas she had painted recently. She called it “Nirvana.” The painting was of a phoenix that whooshed past a giant flaming ball. The burnt tail feathers of the phoenix drifted away in the wind. New plumage on the phoenix’s wings glinted in the fading sunlight. A strikingly red sun went down in the corner, its rays streaming across the darkening sky.

  The train stopped, and Lon said, “We’ll get off here and transfer to the Red Line.” Lon took her hand and tried to pull her to her feet.

  Meihua opened her eyes, but only a crimson light registered in her vision. Rising from the seat, she blindly followed Lon off the train. People around them walked and talked, but Meihua could not see them. She was only aware of the smell their perfume and cologne. She could not see Lon, either. Red enveloped her; everything else lost its form. She mouthed “the Red,” though she could not hear herself.

  “What’s wrong?” She heard Lon cry out, but she could not respond. Her head throbbed. A burning sensation enveloped her. Everything seemed to disappear, including herself.

  Two pizzas arrived at 3333 Rindge Avenue at suppertime. Yezi carried the large boxes into the kitchen and laid them on the counter. She helped herself to a slice of pepperoni pizza and called out. “Grandma, I can’t wait for Mama and Baba. I am so hungry!” She took her plate of pizza into the living room and plopped back on the couch to continue watching television.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Agnes untied a bundle of paper and flyers. As she scanned the Boston Globe, her stomach growled. She glanced at the mahogany clock on the wall. Why aren’t they back yet? Maybe I should eat now, too. Agnes forked a slice of cheesy mushroom pizza onto a plate.

  The phone rang just after Agnes had finished the last bite. She picked up the receiver and heard Lon’s husky voice. “Where are you?” she asked. Her face went pale.

  Half an hour later, Agnes and Yezi arrived at Emerson Hospital. In the waiting room beside the emergency room, Lon sat on a bench, hunched over with his head buried in his hands.

  “Baba!” Yezi ran to him and grabbed his arm. Lon raised his head, his eyes dim. It was the first time Yezi had seen such desperation and hollowness on her father’s face. She looked at her grandmother whose wrinkles had deepened. Worry and grief had washed over them both. Their faces were streaked with tears. Yezi’s heart felt as though it would explode.

  Several hours later, a doctor came to inform them that Meihua had regained consciousness but needed surgery immediately. Before her surgery, lying in bed, Meihua asked Yezi to come closer. Then she held Yezi’s hand and said, “Remember no matter what happens I’m always with you,” Yezi’s heart skipped a beat, but she nodded and tried to smile.

  After the operation, Yezi sat motionless by her mother’s bed. An oxygen mask covered Meihua’s nose. Intravenous injections remained connected to her arms. The expression on her face was peaceful. Her eyes were closed as if she had fallen into a deep sleep. Yezi held one of her mother’s hands. From the other side of the bed, her father held Meihua’s other hand. The room was warm, but Yezi’s heart felt cold. Mama, wake up. Mama, please don’t die. We need you. She was consumed by guilt. I should’ve spent more time with you, Mama, after you arrived. We should have done things together. When she turned her head, her father’s eyes met hers with an anguished look.

  Yezi felt her mother’s hand move. She stood and looked down at her face, holding her breath. Meihua opened her eyes slowly. When she saw Yezi, she smiled. Meihua was diagnosed with Glioblastoma multiforme, the most malignant form of brain cancer. Years of malnutrition in jail had contributed to her already frail physical state. Surgery, a last resort, could not save her from the cancer’s vicious attack. Three days later, she died.

  For many days, Yezi moved puppet-like from one room to another. She was convinced her mother might not have died, had she stayed home the night they arrived. She was filled with remorse, and wished she had gone out with them and shown them around Boston.

  Aunt Dora arrived with her family to mourn the sudden loss of her sister. Agnes and Dora tearfully comforted each other.

  Yezi’s bosom friend, Helen, came with condolence messages from other classmates.

  Lon was inconsolable. He sat motionless, as if a part of him gone with his wife. He couldn’t get the words of “The Last Rose of Summer” out of his mind. “Oh! who would inhabit / this bleak world alone?” The lyrics seemed to have been written only for him.

  After the wake, Lon kept repeating over and over, “She’s home.” He told Agnes that Meihua had liked to recite a line by an unknown Boston poet. “‘Go back to Boston, friend. Heaven isn’t good enough for you.’” Lon looked down at his hands, tears in his eyes, and said, “Maybe this is where she wanted her soul to rest.”

  Both Agnes and Dora offered to sponsor Lon to stay in the U.S., but he declined. To Yezi, America was a country of freedom and opportunity. People could do what they want. Baba can learn to speak English more fluently. Getting a job won’t be difficult. She could not understand why her father would want to go back to China.

  “Baba, are you afraid of staying here? Why do you have to go back?”

  “I have many things to do back home.” Lon searched for the right words, hoping to make Yezi understand. “I’ve been given back my teaching job. And I’m in the middle of a project that I need to finish. Besides, Yao’s old and needs to be taken care of. I cannot leave her alone. And there’s Sang.”

  Yezi frowned and then smiled. “Let’s bring them both here, Baba. We can all be together again.”

  “We will need a place to stay. How will we pay for it?” Lon had a wry smile. “If I had to start over here, I couldn’t even afford to find a place for all of us.” Yezi was silent, her expression mournful. Lon blinked his eyes. “Something more important is—”

  “What?” Yezi grabbed his sleeve.

  “This is our secret.” Lon lowered his voice. “I want to see if I can find your grandfather.” Imagining the possibility of locating his late wife’s birth father gave Lon a renewed sense of purpose.

  “How?” Yezi held her breath.

  “Do you remember Ling, your
mama’s colleague? She told your mama about a woman in her parents’ neighbourhood, originally from Chongqing. Her maiden name was Mei.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Your grandfather was from Chongqing. His family name is Mei.”

  “Where are Ling’s parents?”

  “In Mianyang. Ling’s back there for the holidays. She’ll find out if that woman has any connection to your grandfather’s family.”

  Yezi willed herself to appear optimistic. “But is it possible? Grandpa’s parents must be too old to be alive.”

  “Maybe not. But he may have had sisters, or brothers. Anything is possible.” Lon’s voice softened. “This was your mother’s wish. I would like to do this for her.”

  Yezi’s eyes moistened. “I’m also going to carry out one of her wishes: to go to university.”

  “Good girl!” Lon wrapped his arm around Yezi’s shoulder. “I have been afraid you’d only lose yourself in this rich and free country. That you would only be interested in accumulating material things, which are so easily acquired here. I hope you will learn that objects are meaningless. Your life must have meaning. When your life has meaning, you will need very little, because you will already have what fulfills you. Sometimes I feel I have no right to say anything to you, or to try and teach you anything. As your father, I haven’t taken enough responsibility for you. I was never around you enough.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you.” Yezi pulled her father’s hand to her face.

  Lon softly dabbed her tears and stroked her hair. “You have not disappointed me. A better education is what your mama and I have always hoped for you.” He went upstairs and returned with a small envelope in his hand. “Look at this photo.”

  Yezi lifted the rectangular envelope and drew out a black and white snapshot. The yellowed photograph featured a young couple standing under a tree with picturesque mountains in the background. “My Grandpa?” Yezi fingered the photograph. “Did he have a Chinese wife?”