by Patti Lacy
Not even to Andrew.
Perhaps China could’ve better provided for Joy than us Powells. Perhaps God is punishing Joy—and us—for our arrogant assumption otherwise.
“I hate you!” Joy’s words had glazed their family room—and Gloria—with ice. “When I’m eighteen, I’m outta here.” Joy had tugged at the sleeves of the canyon-deep V-necked sweater, whose purchase by Joy had slammed yet another thunderstorm into their home. “I’m going to find them. My real parents.”
Gloria remembered the exact inflection that spewed from Joy’s painted-purple lips. Shivering, she now darted a glance at Andrew and heaved a sigh. She couldn’t burden poor Andrew with her fears. Not now. It wouldn’t stop this meeting, anyway. China—and that real family—had called. Andrew said they must answer.
They exited at Main, mere blocks from the Sundance. Mere minutes from the time when Joy’s past might funnel from the sky and suck up the life they’d created. Who, really, was this Dr. Chang Kai? What did she want with Joy? They swerved into a parking lot. Gloria clutched the door handle. She’d been praying for a chance to show Joy how much they loved her. Andrew said he hoped God had answered the prayer. Though how God could use a mysterious Chinese relative—supposed relative—Gloria couldn’t begin to imagine.
I cannot endure the stares of those dead animals for another minute. Every fiber in Kai’s body screamed for her to escape the garish hotel lobby. In an unusual acquiescence to psychological whims, she clicked past a fireplace bigger than her townhouse kitchen. A lion, a cow with gigantic horns, and a grizzly bear stalked her from their trophy mounts. Animals slaughtered, just for show—another strange American custom, like being late to appointments. Ten minutes late. She ducked her head and hurried to the grand Sundance entry. Would she ever get used to this country? Would this country ever get used to her?
“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked the concierge, seated behind a mahogany table.
“No, thank you.” Kai fanned her face with Lily’s folder. “I just need fresh air.” Until she settled this matter, breathing would not come easy.
Outside, she dodged strollers and businessmen and gulped air so hot, so humid, it possessed a cottony texture. Where were her salty Boston sea breezes?
In a parking lot across the street, a lanky man dressed in khaki pants and a wrinkled Oxford shirt helped a woman from a faded blue sedan. It was the woman who still harrowed her nightmares. Hot wind tore through Kai at the sight of the familiar blond hair, though six years had faded it, and the rouged cheeks. Lily’s taker wore a gauzy pastel skirt that fluttered around well-formed legs. Her shoulders hunched as if she might blow away. Dared Kai hope she was as compliant as she looked?
The couple joined hands and stepped forward. The man locked kindly eyes on Kai, who managed a smile. Surely he knew who she was, as she was the only Asian standing in front of the Sundance Hotel. Most likely the only Asian staying at the Sundance Hotel. To scurry inside now would be improper. Discourteous.
“You must be Dr. . . . um . . .”
“Call me Kai.” Another forced smile. Though it rankled, she had dropped her Chinese surname, as her sponsors had suggested, when she deplaned at Logan, insisting Americans just call her Kai. It was less insulting than to hear them butcher her name. Why embarrass those not knowing better? She gripped Lily’s file as if it were a shield. Distance between them would buttress her composure.
“Kai, this is my wife, Gloria.”
It was difficult to smile while staring into the visage burned into Kai’s memory, eyes that had devoured Lily as she’d been guided into that van. Kai forced a bow and adopted the mindset she used with patients who’d asked the receptionist if they could be seen by another doctor, one they could understand. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”
Not a muscle on Gloria moved . . . except her fingers, which dug into pale fists.
Gloria’s silence crushed Kai’s chest. Soon she might asphyxiate. “A meeting room was available,” she managed.
“Wonderful,” breathed Reverend Powell, perhaps relieved to utter pleasantries and compensate for his wife’s silence.
Kai led Lily’s parents past enormous Western oil paintings that lined a corridor lit by chandeliers fashioned from antlers. More strange Texas things.
The Stampede Room had been serviced with a soft drink tray, ice bucket and tongs, hockey-puck-sized cookies, plates, and napkins. Everything to make this meeting comfortable, though the well-meaning staff did not realize that was impossible.
Kai waited for the Powells to take seats at a gleaming mahogany table surely designed for oil barons, then settled across from them. Give the Texans their space, but position yourself to look in their eyes.
Reverend Powell chatted about the weather, but Kai barely listened for scrutinizing the couple. Andrew’s wrinkled shirt—had they properly cared for Lily? Gloria’s glacial eyes—had Lily received a mother’s compassion?
“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” asked Reverend Powell.
Gloria extended her moratorium on speech.
“No, thank you.” Kai placed her hand on Lily’s folder and battled emotions threatening to spew all over the table. How hard it was to play what Americans called the waiting game when every tick of the clock could be shortening Lily’s life. She debated presenting her gifts in the Chinese way and decided against it. The last impression she wanted to give was that of a fawner, a user, trying to buy respect.
Reverend Powell reached for his wife’s hand and cupped it in his. Freckled skin displayed matching gold bands, symbolizing commitment to each other. Did that same commitment extend to Lily?
“Well,” the reverend finally said, “would you mind if we begin in prayer?”
Kai shook her head, though exasperation tightened her jaw. How often had David and Cheryl begun festive evenings in this same depressing way?
As the man begged for God to be present, Kai couldn’t keep from casing the room and everything in it, including Gloria . . . who pinned her with a narrowed gaze.
So prayer is a sham to her as well. Kai ducked her head and waited for the “Amen” to end the ritual.
Reverend Powell cleared his throat. “Kai, I appreciate you coming all the way from Boston.” The man’s curly brown hair glistened with sweat. “We are grateful, truly, for your concerns about Joy’s health.”
Gloria let go of her husband’s hand to dig into her palms.
Kai tried not to stare at the woman’s frantic gesture. Was the woman—Lily’s mother—neurotic?
“We’re curious why you felt the urgency to find us. To find Joy.” The man seemed hypnotized by Kai’s folder.
“Yes, we are,” echoed the woman, a glazed look in her eyes. Would this woman’s demeanor be so cold if she had been in debt up to her frosty blue lids; if she had worked twenty-four-hour shifts and rushed home, not to sleep but to pore over journals, wait on a green card; if she’d had to pay bribes to get records from China, then hire a reputable PI willing to help a Chinese woman find her American sister?
It’s behind me now, Kai reminded herself. But it was still painful.
“We’re just, um, concerned.” Reverend Powell laughed nervously. “I guess we need to shush and let you tell us why you are here.”
Kai closed her eyes to visualize the mother of the terminally ill toddler, the husband of the colleague whose inoperable tumor had gobbled up a perfectly healthy liver. With surprising calm, she remembered those who had come for her parents, those who had killed Old Grandfather. She begged every anatomical term, every whim of fate, every unfortunate act that had twisted her world to infuse her speech with kindness and hope. If she did so, the fates might convince these people of her veracity . . . and spare precious Lily.
“I am honored to meet Joy’s parents,” she lied. It stung to call Fourth Chang Daughter by this American name! “I am here first as a medical doctor, sworn to honor the commitments I made when I took the oath.” She opened her file, though there was no need; the words had bee
n stamped into her brain, her soul, her heart. “Secondly, I am here in the role of Joy’s birth sister.”
The woman named Gloria tightened her jaw. Her forehead creased. Her eyes turned clear as ice. Not a propitious start.
“Six years ago last summer, my blessed mother passed away. I was allowed to return to China for her funeral. It was then that . . . we were fortunate to have you adopt Joy.” Despite the bitter taste of the words, Kai managed to say what must be said if this wooing were to be successful.
“When I returned to America I committed myself to the study of kidney disease, which I believe to be the cause of my mother’s demise.”
The reverend sighed and shook his head. At least he displayed sympathy.
Kai battled a dry mouth. “It took years, but I persuaded”—bribed—“Chinese officials to release my mother’s file. I have spent hours” —and every spare penny—“identifying her underlying disease.” Her zeal to fight PKD infused her voice with passion.
The woman shuddered and drew back. Was it because of prejudice? Innate dislike?
Kai stemmed a desire to massage her right hand. She’d dealt with such things before and would deal with them again. Stiff fingers pried open the file and withdrew documents. She slid copies to the Powells, who had huddled close, like shivering chicks. “I believe the disease that killed my mother is PKD, polycystic kidney disease.”
“You believe or you know?” asked Mrs. Powell.
Kai stiffened at the woman’s comment, and then determined to set it aside.
“PKD is a hereditary disorder.” Kai’s physician’s control faltered; she had to envision Lily’s perfect oval face to harden her resolve and mask her emotions. “There is a possibility that your Joy”—my Lily—“has inherited the abnormal PKD chromosome.”
Gloria covered her mouth but failed to stop a sob. “How much of a chance?”
Kai stared at the willowy body, the trembling chin. This was the crux of being a healer: finding a humane yet truthful way to inform patients of their fate. Yet this was not just any patient. This was her long-lost Lily. Kai moistened her lips. “At this point, we do not yet know whether Joy has PKD. Has she manifested symptoms? That is the true sign. If so, she needs to be tested. The sooner, the better.”
Silence swallowed every sound save the hum of the hotel’s air-conditioning system. Kai replayed her words, sure that the tone and vocabulary had been wrong. She had not presented her case—Lily’s case—in the proper way. Did she, with the yin-yang personality of an Americanized Asian, even possess the ability to be both sympathetic physician and Chang family member, desperate to reclaim her youngest sister?
Blond hair cascaded over the woman’s eyes. “We’d like to know more about PKD before Joy’s subjected to . . . who knows what.”
The air-conditioner hummed louder, as if desperate to cool the air, yet heat flashed through Kai. She begged the fates to intervene before a storm clouded her plan.
“Dr. Kai,” drawled the reverend, “what are we—what is Joy—facing?”
Kai swallowed down prognoses hovering on her tongue and forced Western optimism onto a palate exposed to death’s reality. “Has Joy had unusual symptoms?”
“Such as what?” came from the woman, who grabbed her husband’s sleeve and fixed wild-animal eyes on Kai.
To compose herself, Kai lowered her gaze to the star-spangled carpet. Lily had symptoms. Not only did the PI’s report hint at it; she could read it in those eyes as clearly as if she held Lily’s complete medical history in her hands. Tears welled. Poor Lily, who had endured neglect at the orphanage, must now drink a draught brewed from life’s bitter roots. Again Kai moistened her lips. She was mired in what Americans called a lose-lose situation! A good doctor would avoid listing symptoms sure to fertilize anxious parents’ imaginations. But these were not just anxious parents. These were her sister’s parents. Forget Harvard training and intern mandates. At all cost, she must humor the Powells.
“Signs and symptoms for PKD would include unexplained elevated blood pressure, low back pain, occasional sharp, localized pain in the abdomen—”
Knowing gasps escaped the woman.
An iron vise gripped Kai with such force that she, too, gasped, though she tried to mask it with a cough. Poor Lily. I must help her! Could she convince the Powells—mainly the wife—of her concern for Lily? Could they forge an alliance, based on mutual devotion to a teenaged girl?
“Doctor.” The reverend’s smooth brow and soft drawl demonstrated control; his soft brown eyes, compassion. They exchanged sad smiles. Kai’s tightness eased. This was a kind man, accustomed to shouldering others’ troubles. Reverend Andrew Powell seemed an ally in this war against PKD. “Assuming our girl’s had aches and pains, what’s the worst-case scenario here?”
Kai pursed her lips. Americans insisted on leaping to worst case as if with knowledge, they could trump fate. She smoothed her skirt, desperate to hold the hands of these Texans and progress slowly. “PKD can be life-threatening, but science is making great strides toward—”
“Tell me what will happen to my Joy.” Mrs. Powell’s nostrils flared with anger. Delicate features hardened with dislike.
Heat throttled Kai’s cheeks. This woman blamed her for Lily’s predicament! Thankfully the words of old Dr. Ward rescued a poisonous retort. “Patients view you not as physician but as the deadly disease itself. To them you are the enemy. Accept this burden with grace and continue the fight.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Urgency sped up Reverend Powell’s pulled-taffy drawl. “Cut to the chase here. What will happen to our Joy?”
“Tell us,” demanded the woman.
This one suffers from sharp-tongue disease. Though she begged it to leave, the image of that pale hand on Lily’s shoulder, leading her toward the van, toward America, infused her clinician’s mind with emotion. Dr. Ward had not prepared her for this. “By the time young patients with PKD develop symptoms, there’s usually advanced kidney disease.” Kai’s words came out garbled. “Until I know the specific presentation—”
“Oh, please! Can’t you just tell us? In English?” Gloria wailed.
“Speak up!” a patient had hissed on Kai’s first night in the ER. “Can’t you talk any better than that? Where are you from, anyway? Are you a Jap?” Memories of racial slurs stung, though Mrs. Powell, of course, referred to medical-speak and not her foreign accent. Still, pride for China filled her with indignation. Kai released a sigh. “The worst case is dialysis. Kidney failure. With no transplant, death.”
“How can we be sure this is necessary?” Gloria rose from her seat, shoving away her husband’s hand, his spluttering protestations. “You appear out of nowhere with this . . . emergency.” Her eyes were veiled with . . . dislike? Fear? “Carl—Fort Worth’s best internist, I might add—thinks Joy has a nervous stomach. No one’s mentioned this . . . poly . . . whatever it is. How do we know you are not using this . . .”
“PKD,” Kai supplied.
“. . . PKD . . . to worm your way into Joy’s life?”
“I do not worm my way in, Mrs. Powell. I have been prepared for this all my life.”
“Prepared? What do you mean?”
Papers swished to the floor. The carpet’s reds, whites, and blues blurred, as did Kai’s vision. How dare this soft American woman question a calling the fates revealed at age five? She would not stand for it. No, she had come too far and accomplished too much to be treated this way. Did not Lily’s well-being—perhaps Lily’s life—hang on the hope that she could convince these people of her motives, concern, and love?
As she reclaimed the scattered papers, she begged fate to reveal words that would resonate in the hearts of these Texans. She would tell them as much as they—and she—could handle, starting from the beginning.
2
AN EASTERN CHINA VILLAGE, 1967
Five-year-old Kai dashed down an alleyway past neighbor children. Ripening plums perfumed the air with a sweet wine smell. Birds twittered a gloriou
s song. Gentleman Dog growled and chased his tail. Kai’s jubilation over Spring Festival threatened to send her airborne, like the kites children released to the winds before sunset. When Father’s school gates closed, the two of them would crisscross the field and let their royal red kite rule mountains, birds . . . even puffy white clouds. But first she must purchase new twine.
Peasants in their rough cotton shirts and pants shuffled by, kicking up dust. Two men grumbled and conked each other in the head with bamboo poles.
“Silly little fool,” one mumbled, as if Kai were to blame for their bad moods.
“What do you expect from the spoiled child of intellectuals?”
The men afflicted with jealousy’s green-skinned disease spat on the ground and glared at her as if their tobacco-stained phlegm belonged on her face. Kai flinched and then puffed out her chest. She would not let the peasants’ poor feng shui dim the bright light that was her family’s successful wooing of fate, especially during this glorious season. Despite her thoughts, she bowed at the men in the customary way. She was Chang Kai, Second Daughter. To retaliate against villagers who wished her evil might upset life’s delicate balance.
Kai reached in her pocket, where she had stashed the last bit of old kite twine and a knife, whose ivory smoothness soothed the men’s harsh words. Buoyed by a west wind, she streaked past the workers to the dusty main street of their village. Fluttering crimson-and-gold animal lanterns hung from warped rafters of the store. She hopped up uneven steps to say hello, first to the bulging-eyed frog lantern. Silly thing! Then an elephant lantern waved his trunk and begged a pretend peanut, trumpeting thanks when she flattened her palm to feed it. Saving best for last, she tiptoed to the fire-breather lantern, her very own zodiac symbol, with such splendor in his forked tongue and scaly tail! Pride stretched her legs to reach his shiny crimson back. Up, up—
Chee, chee.