A Book of American Martyrs(41)

Evidence: the (visual) record of a happy family.

It would leave her teary-eyed and shaky to examine these pictures too closely. Little Melissa and Naomi cuddling with Mommy in a porch swing, little Melissa and Naomi lifted into Daddy’s muscled arms . . .

Sometimes Daddy had a beard. Other times, Daddy did not have a beard. Daddy’s beard was not the color of his hair (which was a gingery-toast color), Daddy’s beard was wiry and white, and threaded with dark crinkly hairs. Daddy’s beard was scratchy-funny.

In Grand Rapids there were not many Chinese people. It was rare to see any except at the Chinese restaurants which were Mommy’s and Daddy’s favorite restaurants in Grand Rapids. In Naomi’s school there were no Chinese children.

At first you saw that Melissa was different-looking from other children but soon, you did not see that at all. You did not “see” anything unusual about Melissa except that her hair was very black and very silky and shiny and that her eyes were different-shaped than other people’s eyes and she was very pretty like a doll. And there was a stillness and watchfulness about her which you would not see in other children.

Which was why sometimes at school or in some public place (like the Grand Rapids mall) it was surprising that others stared at her so openly, seeing her with her family; or that older children dared to say stupid mean things revealing their own ignorance.

Little Chinee girl?

Hey little Chink-Chink.

Where’d you come from, Chink-Chink?

Melissa did not seem to hear these taunts. Mommy walked us quickly away. We did not look back.

Comm-un-NISTS!

It was rare that Daddy was with us on excursions to the mall or to the grocery store. And so, if Daddy was with us, no one would make such crude remarks, that we could hear.

It had been explained to Darren and Naomi what “adoption” meant. The subject had been brought up as if casually and set aside for another time and then brought up again, the second time in more detail. And the third time in greater detail. This was the way our parents approached such matters: methodically. So we were made to understand that we would have a new little sister in the family who was adopted. Carefully this was presented by both Mommy and Daddy who read us Chinese storybooks for children, showed us Chinese picture books and played videos on our TV of Chinese people, Chinese art, Chinese history.

It was related to us: “Melissa” was just a little girl but she came from a great, ancient civilization that had cultivated the arts, and science, and agriculture, and had built waterways and roadways and the Great Wall when (as Daddy said) his ancestors were still swinging from trees.

For a long while, in one of my dreamy states I would see human figures swinging from trees like monkeys. I would feel unease and worry and yet, I would find myself smiling.

His being has suffused mine. I would try to escape but I do not want to escape. His being is everywhere. It is his eyes through which I look, at sights he never saw, yet he interprets them for me.

Before the adoption, Mommy and Daddy were showing us pictures of Melissa. Already this felt to us like a betrayal, the way the pictures were brought out to us, the way we were summoned, to sit together on the sofa, in a way that felt unnatural, even posed; we understood that our parents must have had these pictures for a while, and must have discussed them together, in the privacy of their bedroom from which at certain times we were barred; yet they were behaving now as if the pictures were new, and expected us to react to them as they did.

“Well—what do you think?”

Instead, Darren said nothing. Naomi said nothing.

“Your new little sister is beautiful—isn’t she?”

Warily, Darren shrugged. Naomi frowned, sucking at her fingers.

Despite even the evidence of the pictures the affronted brother and sister did not entirely believe that they would have a new, little sister from China or from anywhere else. Darren did not believe it really, and Naomi did not think about it at all.

But then, one day a seven-month-old baby with feathery tufts of thin black hair was brought into the house in Grand Rapids, in Mommy’s arms, and with Daddy close beside, and from that time onward Melissa was their little sister.

It was shocking, the baby was real. The children had not been able to comprehend even the idea of the baby, and now the baby was real.

You could run away to hide. You could gape and blink into the bassinet. You could act very silly chattering and laughing like a monkey, or you could be very quiet, clenching your jaws so your back teeth ached. It made no difference really, Mommy and Daddy would scarcely notice.

Darren glowered with resentment and jealousy, Naomi knew he’d have liked to strangle the new little sister. For a long time he could not utter the name “Melissa”—as Naomi did.

Meanly they whispered together. Wished their parents would send Melissa back to China! Nobody needed her.

Too young to consider that obviously there was something lacking in the family, our parents had felt the need for a third child when our father was in his late forties and our mother at about the age when bearing a child was beginning to be “problematic”—and at a time when our father’s work was becoming increasingly dangerous.

But Melissa was so little, it was hard for Darren and Naomi to hate her for long.

Such a nice feeling when Melissa began to recognize them and to smile at them, within weeks of her arrival. Such a nice feeling when Melissa closed her tiny fist around your finger! And Melissa shook both her hands at Darren excitedly as if she had a particular message for him. The kitten-squeaks she made were not intelligible but Darren pretended he could understand.