Shanghai Girls (Shanghai Girls #1)(105)

May looks away, her eyes glistening.

The next morning when I go out to the porch, the covers of China Reconstructs have been taken down and put away.


WE STAND ON the platform at Union Station, saying good-bye to Joy. May and I wear full skirts fluffed by petticoats and cinched with little patent leather belts. Last week we dyed our stiletto heels to match our dresses, gloves, and handbags. We went to the Palace Salon to have our hair curled and teased to impressive heights, which we now protect with gaily colored scarves tied smartly under our chins. Sam wears his best suit and a somber face. And Joy looks … joyful.

May reaches into her handbag and pulls out the pouch with the three coppers, three sesame seeds, and three green beans that Mama gave her all those years ago. My sister asked if she could give it to Joy. I didn’t object, but I wish I’d thought of it first. May loops the string around Joy’s neck and says, “I gave this to you on the day you were born to protect you. Now I hope you’ll wear it when you’re away from us.”

“Thank you, Auntie,” my daughter says, clasping the pouch. “I’m not going to squeeze another orange or sell another gardenia as long as I live,” she vows when she hugs her baba. “I’m never going to wear atomic fabric or one of your felt jumpers,” she promises after she kisses me. “I never again want to see another back scratcher or a piece of Canton ware.”

We listen to her giddiness and respond with our best advice and final thoughts: we love her, she should write every day, she can call if there’s an emergency, she should eat the dumplings her baba made first and then switch to the peanut butter and crackers packed in her food basket. Then she’s on the train, separated from us by a window, waving and mouthing, “I love you! I’ll miss you!” We walk along the platform next to the train as it leaves the station, waving and crying until she’s out of sight.

When we go home, it’s like the electricity has been shut off Only four of us live in the house now, and the quiet, especially during the first month, is so unbearable that May buys herself a brand-new pink Ford Thunderbird and Sam and I buy a television set. May comes home after work, eats a quick dinner, says good night to Vern, and then goes out. Remembering Joy’s love of cowgirls when she was younger, the rest of us sit in the main room and watch Gunsmoke and Cheyenne.


“DEAR MOM, DAD, Auntie May, and Uncle Vern,” I read aloud. We sit on chairs around Vern’s bed. “You wrote and asked if I’m homesick. How can I answer this question and not make you feel bad? If I tell you I’m having fun, then I’ll hurt your feelings. If I say I’m lonely, then you’ll worry about me.”

I look at the others. Sam and May nod in agreement. Vern twists his sheet in his fingers. He doesn’t completely understand that Joy is gone, just as he hasn’t completely understood that his parents are gone.

“But I think Dad would want me to tell the truth,” I continue reading. “I’m very happy and I’m having a lot of fun. My classes are interesting. I’m writing a paper on a Chinese writer named Lu Hsün. You probably haven’t heard of him—”

“Ha!” This comes from my sister. “We could tell her stories. Remember what he wrote about beautiful girls?”

“Keep reading, keep reading,” Sam says.


JOY DOESN’T COME home for Christmas. We don’t bother to put up a big tree. Instead Sam buys a tree no more than eighteen inches high, which we put on Vern’s dresser.

By late January, Joy’s initial enthusiasm has finally given way to homesickness:

Why would anyone live in Chicago? It’s so cold. The sun never comes out and the wind always blows. Thank you for the long underwear from the army surplus store, but even it doesn’t make me warm. Everything is white—the sky, the sun, people’s faces—and the days are too short up here. I don’t know what I miss most—going to the beach or hanging out with Auntie May on film sets. I even miss the sweet-and-sour pork Dad makes in the coffee shop.



This last is really bad. That sweet-and-sour pork is the worst kind of lo fan dish: too sweet and too breaded. In February, she writes:

I’ve been hoping to get a job with one of my professors during spring break. How can every single one of them not have work for me? I sit in the front row in my history class, but the professor gives handouts to everyone else first. If he runs out, too bad for me.



I write back:



People will always tell you that you can’t do things, but don’t forget you can do whatever you want. Make sure you go to church. You’ll always be accepted there and you can talk about Bible times. It’s good for people to know you’re a Christian.



Her response:



People keep asking me why I don’t return to China. I tell them I can’t return to a place I’ve never been.



In March, Joy suddenly cheers up. “Maybe it’s because the winter is over,” Sam suggests. But that’s not it, because she still complains about the endless winter. Rather, there’s a boy …

My friend Joe asked me to join the Chinese Students Democratic Christian Association. I like the kids in the group. We discuss integration, interracial marriage, and family relationships. I’m learning a lot and it’s nice to see friendly faces, cook together, and eat together.