Shanghai Girls (Shanghai Girls #1)(88)
During the New Year festivities I visit an astrologer, who tells me my son will be born in the Year of the Ox, just like his father. “Your son will have the purest of hearts. He will be filled with innocence and faith. He will be strong and never whimper or complain.” Every day, when the tourists leave China City, I go to the Temple of Kwan Yin to make offerings to assure that the baby will be safe and well. As a beautiful girl in Shanghai, I looked down on those mothers who went to the temples in the Old Chinese City, but now that I’m older I understand that my baby’s health is more important than girlish ideas of modernity.
On the other hand, I’m not stupid. No matter what, I’ll be an American mother, so I go to an American doctor too. I still don’t like that Western doctors dress in white and paint their offices white—the color of death—but I accept these things because I’ll do anything for my baby. Anything means having the doctor examine me. The only men who have been in that area are my husband, the doctors who repaired me in Hangchow, and the men who raped me. I’m not happy to have this man feeling around and looking in there. And I really don’t like what he says: “Mrs. Louie, you will be lucky to carry this baby to term.”
Sam understands the dangers, and he quietly goes to each family member to warn them. Immediately, Yen-yen refuses to let me cook, wash dishes, or iron clothes. Father orders me to stay in the apartment, put my feet up, sleep. And my sister? She takes more responsibility for Joy, walking her to American school and Chinese school. I don’t know quite how to explain this. My sister and I have fought over Joy for many years. May gives her niece beautiful clothes bought in department stores—a sky blue party dress in dotted swiss, another with exquisite smocking, and a blouse with ruffles—while I sew practical clothes for my daughter—-jumpers made with two pieces of felt, Chinese jackets with raglan sleeves made with cotton bought from the remnant bin, and smocks made from seersucker (what we call atomic fabric, because it never wrinkles). May buys Joy patent leather shoes, while I insist on saddle shoes. May is fun, while I’m the maker of rules. I understand why my sister wants to be the perfect auntie; we both do. But right now I don’t worry about that, and I let Joy drift away from me and into her auntie’s arms, believing I’ll never have to compete with May for my son’s love.
Perhaps realizing she’s stealing Joy from me, my sister gives me Vern. “He’ll be with you all the time,” she says, “to make sure nothing bad happens. He can take care of simple things, like getting you tea. And if there’s an emergency—and there won’t be—he can come and get one of us.”
Anyone would think May’s offer would please Sam, but he doesn’t like the idea one bit. Is Sam jealous? How can he be? Vern is a grown man, but as we spend our days together, he seems to shrink while my belly grows. Still, Sam won’t let Vern sit next to me at dinner or any other meal. As a family we accept this, because Sam is going to be a father.
We spend a lot of time talking about names. This isn’t like when May and I named Joy. Father Louie will have the honor and duty of naming his grandson, but that doesn’t mean everyone doesn’t have an opinion or try to sway him.
“You should name the baby Gary for Gary Cooper,” my sister says.
“I like my name. Vernon.”
We smile and say that’s a nice idea, but no one wants to name a baby after a person so defective that if he’d been born in China he would have been left outside to die.
“I like Kit for Kit Carson or Annie for Annie Oakley.” This of course comes from my cowgirl daughter.
“Let’s name him after one of the ships that brought the Chinese to California—Roosevelt, Coolidge, Lincoln, or Hoover,” Sam says.
Joy giggles. “Oh, Dad, those are presidents, not boats!”
Joy often makes fun of her father for his poor understanding of English and American ways. At the very least, this should hurt his feelings. At the most, he should punish her for being unfilial. But he’s so happy about his coming son that he pays no attention to his daughter’s tart tongue. I tell myself I have to stop this trait in our girl. Otherwise she’ll end up like May and me when we were young: rude to our parents and flagrantly disobedient.
Some of our neighbors also give suggestions: One named a son after the doctor who delivered the baby. Another named a daughter after a nurse who’d been particularly kind. The names of midwives, teachers, and missionaries fill cribs throughout Chinatown. I remember how Miss Gordon saved Joy’s life, so I suggest the name Gordon. Gordon Louie sounds like a smart, successful, non-Chinese man.
When my fifth month comes, Uncle Charley announces that he’s returning to his home village as a Gold Mountain man, saying, “The war’s over and the Japanese are gone from China. I’ve saved enough and I can live well there.” We host a banquet, we shake his hand, and we drive him to the port. It seems that for every wife who arrives in Chinatown, another man goes home. Those who’ve always seen themselves as sojourners are now finding their happy endings. But not once does Father Louie, who always said he wanted to return to Wah Hong Village, bring up the idea of closing the Golden enterprises and taking us back to China. Why would he retire to his home village when at last he’s going to get his grandson, who will be an American citizen by birth, venerate his grandfather when he goes to the afterworld, and learn to hit baseballs, play the violin, and become a doctor?