The Last Rose of Shanghai(112)

I shake my head. “You were born on December 12, 1942. There were two women in the bedroom when you were born. One didn’t want you; one didn’t know how to keep you. I’ve regretted that for almost forty years of my life.”

“I can show you my passport. It has my birth date.”

“Sweetheart, there were no real birth certificates in China until recently. All papers were forged. Whatever your adoptive parents got was not authentic. And I suppose the birthplace on your certificate is Hong Kong?”

She scratches her head.

“If this is helpful, I know you have a patch of birthmark on your right ankle.”

Her eyes widen. “How . . .”

“I’ve spent years searching for you. I was told your parents were doing business in Hong Kong, where they adopted you. Phoenix found their names, their pictures, and your name through the adoption agency. Here.” I take out a photo from a wallet in my Prada bag.

“Gosh. They’re my parents. They look so young. And that’s . . . that’s . . .”

In the photo, a white woman wearing a skirt is holding a toddler in her arms, and standing next to her is a man wearing a white suit.

“That’s you, isn’t it? The toddler? You recognize yourself? You must have lots of pictures of yourself as a child. I wanted to tell you that you were my daughter yesterday, but I wasn’t sure how you would respond. I asked you to make a documentary so you could listen to my past with Ernest. If you have doubts, we can always do a paternity test of some sort. But really, anyone who knew Ernest can tell. Haven’t you come across his pictures when you were researching?”

“We all look alike in black-and-white photos.”

I give her another photo I saved. “We took this photo before Ernest passed away six years ago.”

“I thought he died during the war.”

“Did your interviewees tell you that? He lost touch with his people after the bombing. It’s no wonder they thought he died. But he had a good life after the war.” I stare at the photo in her hand. Ernest and I were smiling at Canada Place, a cruise ship behind us. He was fifty-three years old, with generous blue eyes and wispy gray hair that came from years of yearning for the daughter he never had a chance to meet. It was our sixth cruise to the B ahamas. His right hand, tanned with age spots, had developed arthritis and gave him a paralyzing pain that could only be eased by strong medication. He never played the piano again, and the same troublesome hand would lead to a sailing accident that took his life.

My daughter scrutinizes the photo for a long time, and I wonder if she’ll exclaim again, but she puts it down, gets up, and picks up the suede hat from the table. “Excuse me.”

Is she excited? Angry? Preparing to leave Shanghai? I can’t let her get out of my sight, not after all these years. I turn my wheelchair to follow her, but my daughter disappears from the restaurant.



A long moment passes before my daughter returns, her boots tapping the marble floor. She sits down across from me, clenching a ball of tissues.

“Ms. Shao, I don’t know what to say. This is beyond my imagination. I have a lot of questions, if you don’t mind. If I am the daughter you’re looking for, I think I should be grateful and excited. I still believe there’s a good chance you’re making a mistake. But the birthmark on my ankle. How did you know?”

She’s crying, dabbing her eyes with the sodden tissue. I take a napkin from a table near me and give it to her, as she did for me earlier.

She laughs, but tears are still rolling down her face. “I’m sorry. This is all too much. I don’t know how to say this. This is crazier than a documentary! So you asked me to make the documentary, but your intention was just to let me listen to your story, is that right?”

“I still hope you’ll make a documentary to honor my husband. Your father. Will you do that?”

“Of course. I want to make a documentary about . . . your husband. So you married him. What happened after the aerial raid? Tell me everything.”

“I’ve told you about Phoenix and how she was terribly burned.”

“Phoenix is Little Star?”

“Plastic surgery helped her face, but you can still see the scar tissue.”

She nods. “What did you do after you united with Mr. Reismann?”

“I got tetanus from the rusty wire, and my foot had to be amputated. As soon as the pain eased some, I looked for you with Ernest and Little Star. Ernest had Little Star and me sit in a wheelbarrow and pushed us all the way to the Jiangsu province. It took us three months, and it was a bittersweet union. Peiyu was pleased to see her daughter alive, and she told me she gave you to one of her relatives in Shanghai, not far from where my home used to be. So we decided to go back to Shanghai. But Little Star wouldn’t let me go. She couldn’t remember Peiyu very well, and she was frightened to be left there. So I asked for Peiyu’s permission to look after her. She agreed. So the three of us—Ernest, Little Star, and I—went back to Shanghai to find you, but another family lived there. We were told you were sent to an orphanage. Ernest searched every single orphanage, joss house, and hospital in Shanghai. It wouldn’t be too hard to find you, he said, since you had his eyes and that birthmark. But the civil war started, and Ernest, Little Star, and I immigrated to the US with the help of Mr. Blackstone, the host family of Ernest’s sister.”