Good Chinese Wife

by Susan Blumberg-Kason

  I hadn’t revealed my pregnancy until after I was offered the job. Erin, my new boss, wasn’t thrilled to learn that I would need to take off unpaid time later that summer, but I was determined not to let my pregnancy get in the way of providing for my family. We could pay our mortgage, and we had health insurance that would cover my delivery and the many well-baby visits to come.

  Chapter 30

  The New Arrival

  On the day of the summer solstice, I lay on the sofa with a sharp pain in my abdomen. Still two weeks from my due date, I wondered if feeling sick was a typical symptom that occurred during the end of a pregnancy. Or perhaps I was coming down with a stomach bug. Maybe it was the beginning of appendicitis. I tried not to think about that. Cai cooked me a light chicken soup with vermicelli and cubed tofu, one of my favorite dishes. He hoped it would settle my stomach.

  After a bowl of soup and a long rest that afternoon, I told Cai that I couldn’t imagine how women worked for the last two weeks of their pregnancy if they felt this achy. We agreed that I would call my doctor the next morning if these symptoms remained.

  When I woke at 5:00 a.m. to go to the bathroom, my water broke. I rustled Cai out of sleep and called my new obstetrician, a Hong Kong–born man named Dr. Kwan, whom I had only seen once. Since Cai’s English wasn’t completely fluent, especially when it came to medical terminology, I choose Kwan, who could speak Cantonese. He had privileges at California Pacific Medical Center, the premier obstetrics hospital in San Francisco, which was where he would deliver my baby. For a pediatrician, he recommended a kind man named Dr. Kwok, who was also Cantonese.

  Dr. Kwan insisted we head to the hospital at once. Because my water had broken, he said it was imperative that I deliver within twenty-four hours, as I was now prone to infection. From my hospital room, I phoned my parents in Oregon. They had planned a leisurely drive from Chicago and hadn’t figured I would go into labor two weeks early. Just a couple days ago they had phoned from Portland, where they had gone to spend the weekend with some friends.

  “Guess what? I’m in the hospital,” I told my mom just as she and my dad were sitting down to a casual breakfast in their friends’ kitchen.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Things couldn’t be better. My water broke and I’m in labor. The doctors think I’ll have the baby by early evening.”

  “Oh my God.” My mom sounded panicked. “We’ll leave right away. But I don’t think we’ll make it before later this evening. It’s at least a nine-hour drive.”

  “Don’t worry. The baby won’t go anywhere. Just drive safely.” Truth be told, when I’d imagined the day of my delivery, I had only pictured Cai in the room with the medical staff and me. I was grateful my parents would spend the summer with us in San Francisco, but for the actual delivery, I wanted it to be as private as possible. If they arrived after the baby was born, that was fine with me.

  Then I called my boss, Erin.

  “I’m on the table now, in labor. Sorry I can’t come to work today.”

  She laughed and wished me a good delivery. I would be back in six to eight weeks, and the office had already hired a temp to fill in for me.

  By early afternoon, the pain was so severe it felt like I was about to be split in half. When the anesthesiologist left my room an hour later, my legs felt cool and heavy. The pain had disappeared completely.

  The next time the nurse checked me, around 2:30 p.m., she announced I was dilated ten centimeters. “Susan, it’s time to call Dr. Kwan.”

  • • •

  Cai and I had talked about videoing the birth and agreed he wouldn’t start filming until our baby was born. As the nurse uncovered her instruments and opened the sterile packages, Cai readied his video camera and placed it on a table next to my bed. Dr. Kwan popped in to say hello before leaving to scrub in.

  Moments later Kwan stood in position, spaceship shield guarding his face. Cai remained on my right, helping me to count as I pushed, with the nurse doing the same on my left. When we were finished with the second round of counting, Cai stepped away from the bed, collapsing onto a chair.

  “I’m so tired.” He panted. “I need a break.”

  I almost had to laugh. If only he knew.

  Less than an hour later, at 3:53 p.m., our son Jacob arrived, skinny and screaming. Cai started filming after Dr. Kwan expertly cut three loops of umbilical cord from around Jake’s neck. The nurse wrapped Jake in a warm blanket and placed a pink-and-blue hat on his tiny head while Cai continued to film our baby’s every move. I had never seen Cai more in awe. It was the happiest day of my life, the happiest day of our marriage.

  The nurse handed Jake to me, encouraging early breast-feeding. I saw Jake’s pink face for the first time and looked for Cai’s features in him, but he didn’t look Asian at all. Instead, he reminded me of a photo I’d seen of myself as a newborn; we had the same round nose and peaceful expression. Cai thanked me over and over just as he had the morning we learned I was pregnant.

  Five hours later, my parents entered the room where I’d been placed after my delivery. My mom and dad hovered around Jake’s bassinet as he rested peacefully, swaddled in a hospital blanket, his eyes squinting under the dull ceiling light. Just before 10:00 p.m., my parents and Cai returned to the house on Newhall Street to give me a chance to sleep. But I was afraid Jake would stop breathing (he was so tiny!) and couldn’t bear to take my eyes off him. I barely slept that night.

  • • •

  The morning I was to leave the hospital with Jake, my obstetrician entered the room minutes after Cai arrived.

  “Today’s the big day.” Dr. Kwan checked my stitches while Cai stood next to Jake’s bassinet. Jake slept swaddled in a blue, white, and pink hospital blanket and a new matching knit hat. “Everything looks great. You can leave as soon as you complete the discharge paperwork.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Cai spoke in English as he shook Kwan’s hand.

  Kwan faced us with his hands in his suit pants pockets. “You probably know about the Chinese traditions for women after childbirth, but they’re old-fashioned and not based on medical evidence. It’s completely fine to take a shower and wash your hair now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I glanced at Cai. He stared at the opposite wall with a blank face.

  “Oh, I see,” Dr. Kwan continued. “Well, in ancient China, when water was unsanitary and dangerous for women in the early days after childbirth, they stopped bathing for a month until their immune systems grew stronger. Some Chinese people today continue this tradition. But like I said, it’s all based on ancient conditions. Our water is clean and safe. I’ll see you in six weeks.” He patted my knees through my blankets.

  All through my pregnancy, Cai had never spoken of Chinese prenatal rituals. I ate whatever I wanted and certainly showered every day. And as for postpartum customs, we’d only spoken of the Jewish bris, the tradition of circumcision. Once Dr. Kwan left, I slowly stood up and grabbed the clean clothes I had packed the morning of Jake’s birth. I headed toward the bathroom.

  “Where are you going?” Cai asked urgently.

  “To take a shower.”

  “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You shouldn’t take a bath for a month after you have a baby. It’s bad for the health.”

  What? “Didn’t you just hear Dr. Kwan say—?”

  He rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “But that’s based on old-fashioned ideas. It’s—”

  “Bad for your health. You should get dressed. American parents will be here soon.”

  I glanced at Jake, who continued to sleep peacefully. My heart filled with love every time I looked at him, every time I nursed him, changed his diaper, or held him. I didn’t want to argue with Cai now and spoil this special time. But this custom seemed old-
fashioned, just as Dr. Kwan had suggested. And to me it sounded sexist. How could Cai ask me to refrain from taking a shower for a month when I was still bleeding from Jake’s delivery?

  I thought back to the humiliating time he had commanded me to bathe in his dirty Wuhan apartment. If Cai really thought women were dirty and smelly, why would he go along with this ancient and restrictive postpartum custom? I felt like crying when I thought about caring for my new baby in dirty clothes and with unwashed hair. Trying to hold myself together, I knew I would be able to shower and shampoo my hair once we returned home, when Cai wasn’t watching over me.

  Chapter 31

  The Neighbors

  We hadn’t been home from the hospital for more than a day when Cai lifted Jake from my mom’s hands. She had been cradling him in the living room after dinner.

  “Susan, we should visit the neighbors now.” When Cai spoke of our “neighbors,” he meant the Changs next door. We barely knew our other next-door neighbors, a Cantonese family of four generations who kept to themselves.

  “Do you think it’s okay to take Jake out?” I asked. The sun had already set and the late June temperatures nipped like a chilly day in Chicago.

  “Yes. It’s polite to introduce them to Jake.”

  Reaching for the front baby carrier, I fiddled with the straps. It was my first time using it. Cai placed Jake in his car seat and gently took the straps from my hands. Instead of helping me put it on, he loosened the straps and secured them over his oversized DePaul sweatshirt, a gift from my parents.

  “Cai, I wanted to carry Jake.”

  He snorted as he picked up Jake and placed him into the front carrier. “You can’t walk down the stairs with Jake. It’s not safe.”

  “What?” I glared at him. “I carry him up and downstairs every morning and night.”

  “We have carpet inside.” Cai spoke slowly like a wise sage. “The neighbors will worry you’ll fall carrying Jake. You just went through a hard time. It’s time for you to regain your strength.”

  My parents were in the same room, so I acquiesced and followed Cai down the steep front steps to the Changs’ house next door.

  Soon after Cai rang the doorbell, Old Mrs. Chang peered at us through the front metal security door, something most of our neighbors installed upon moving in. I’d somehow talked Cai into purchasing a security system instead of an ugly front grille. Old Mrs. Chang ushered us inside, imploring us to take a seat on the leather living room sofa.

  Clapping her hands twice, Old Mrs. Chang held them out to Cai, as if preparing to receive a dish at the dinner table. Cai took Jake out of the carrier and offered him to the elderly woman, whose bowed legs rocked back and forth as she waddled to the adjacent love seat.

  Young Mrs. Chang joined us and sat in an oversized chair next to me. “How was your delivery? Was it painful? When I had Tiffany, it was awful.”

  We drifted into labor-and-delivery war stories while Cai conversed in Mandarin with Old Mrs. Chang. Young Mrs. Chang had just entered her nineteenth hour of labor, starting the play-by-play of her second epidural, when she jerked her head toward her mother-in-law as Old Mrs. Chang offered another bit of wisdom.

  “Of course, no showers or hair washing for a month, and no cold drinks. The coldness will suck out her calcium and your baby won’t grow.” Old Mrs. Chang sat perfectly upright, looking like a Taoist nun at a temple high in the mountains among the clouds.

  “Ma, don’t forget pig feet soup. That will bring her milk in.” Young Mrs. Chang then looked over at Cai as if I were invisible.

  Cai’s eyes lit up when she mentioned milk. “What are the ingredients for the soup?” He squinted in concentration.

  There was no way I was going to eat pig feet soup. Cai was probably feigning interest to be polite. He knew I didn’t eat pork and that my milk supply wasn’t a problem. Already I was walking around with wet spots on my blue nightgown from forgetting to change a nursing pad or two. What would I do with more milk?

  As Old Mrs. Chang handed Jake back to Cai, Young Mrs. Chang rattled off more dishes to increase milk and nutrition. “And be sure to give her plenty of eggs.” Suddenly the thought of eggs churned my stomach.

  “Fish head soup also has lots of nutrition. You can cook it with dates and it’s delicious,” she added.

  Why was I never included in conversations that centered around me and no one else? When Mama discussed my eating habits with Cai, or when he spoke with the Suzhou temple staff about my adjustment to China, no one stopped to ask what I thought. This discussion about my postpartum diet reminded me of those times in China when I felt like I had no control over matters that only pertained to me.

  Was this a weird cultural difference that viewed non-Chinese people as incapable of making certain decisions for themselves? I wanted to wave my hands back and forth to see if I was in fact invisible to Cai and the Changs. But then Cai turned to me. “I’ll go to the store tomorrow to buy these things for you. Especially the eggs.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget to keep his belly button covered,” the old lady interjected. “If it’s exposed to air, he could get very sick.”

  What? These customs sounded like voodoo. I longed to return to the time when Dr. Kwan warned me about these practices, called manyuè in Mandarin. If only I had had the sense to ask him to explain to Cai that we didn’t need to follow these rules! I wished I hadn’t assumed Cai was on the same page as Dr. Kwan before he left the room. Biting my lip, I forced a smile. I didn’t want to create a rift with our neighbors. We already had one set that didn’t speak to us, so I wanted to keep a good rapport with the Changs.

  Perhaps they would awkwardly confess they hadn’t eaten dinner yet and invite us, which was the polite thing to do. That would give us an excuse to leave. We would thank them for the invitation but decline because we’d already eaten. The minutes passed, and no such invitation seemed forthcoming as Cai asked more about the traditions of manyuè. The Mrs. Changs warned about taking Jake out during the first month and advised Cai of more home remedies for protecting my calcium and stimulating my milk.

  When we returned home, my parents were still reading in the living room.

  “How’d it go?” my mom asked. Cai took Jake out of the carrier and handed him to me, then wandered off to the kitchen.

  “Terrible. They couldn’t stop talking about all these horrible things to eat to increase milk, conserve calcium, and regain strength. And the worst thing”—I lowered my voice to a whisper—“is that Cai is going along with it.”

  “Sounds like witchcraft, but I suppose Chinese people have been doing this for thousands of years and find value in it. You should just do what you want.”

  “I’m trying to, but Cai already said he would go to the store tomorrow to brew me up a strange soup to increase my milk.”

  “Increase your milk? Can’t he see you have plenty?”

  The next day at breakfast, I wasn’t surprised when Cai announced he was heading to a Chinese grocery after he finished eating.

  “I’m going to cook you traditional Chinese food for new mothers,” he said, sounding every bit the doting husband. “Like what the neighbors told us last night.”

  “I won’t eat pig feet soup.”

  Cai promptly scowled, his face punctuated by his trademark eyebrow furrow and tightened lips. “You need to eat special food or else your milk won’t be enough. This is a sensitive time and you need more strength.”

  “But I have enough milk. It leaks all the time.” I looked down at my bowl of cornflakes. “And I’m not weak.”

  My parents sat at the table with us, their eyes focused on the morning San Francisco newspaper as if they didn’t understand English. Cai mopped up the last of his eggs with a piece of toast and shoved it into his mouth. He pushed his chair out from the table, the screeching sound piercing my ears.

  “I’m going now.”

/>   When Cai returned from the grocery store, he carried bags containing a fish head the size of a cantaloupe, a package of smoky dates, two dozen eggs, blocks of tofu, a basket of tomatoes, and two packages of ground pork, along with replenishments of green onion, ginger root, and garlic. Then he got to work in the kitchen, chopping, mincing, and dicing. He sautéed, boiled, and simmered. The water in the rice cooker bubbled, escaping around the sides and through the tiny steam hole on the cover.

  Just after noon, Cai entered the living room, wiped his sweaty brow with his hand, and smiled at his latest culinary achievement. Despite his frustrations about living in the United States, cooking brought him calmness, reminding me of our early months together in Hong Kong. “Lunch is ready.”

  Carrying Jake in his car seat, I followed my parents to the kitchen table and sat down to a normal meal for us: three entrees and a soup. Succulent tofu sautéed in soy sauce, ginger, garlic, green onion, ground pork, and frozen peas; Cai’s signature egg and tomato scramble; pork and egg fried rice; and a large glass bowl with a fish head peeking out of the cloudy light broth, its eyes engaged in a stare-off with me.

  Thankful Cai had bypassed the pig feet and opted for the less repulsive fish head soup, I spooned a few ladles into my rice bowl. Small brownish-red dates fell to the bottom after breaking the surface of the broth. Crunchy lotus seeds, a staple Cai stocked in the kitchen cabinet, dove toward the dates.

  I dipped a Chinese soup spoon into my bowl and brought it up to my lips. The dates tasted as if Cai had moments ago lifted them from a charcoal campfire. I didn’t mind a subtle smokiness, like in cheese or turkey sausage, but this harsh smokiness crushed the flavors of the other ingredients in the soup. I took another spoonful and stopped breathing through my nose.

  More thirsty than hungry, what I really wanted was another glass of the lemonade my mother had hand-squeezed that morning while Cai was at the grocery store. I could almost taste the cool, tart beverage. I tried one more spoonful of soup, but I couldn’t muster another sip. Cai saw me place my spoon on the plastic placemat shaped like a watermelon slice.