The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(87)
As soon as the door closes behind us, I’m overcome by the smell of urine, which seems exponentially multiplied by the day’s warmth and humidity. Toddlers scurry across the floor in walkers, foundlings squirm in metal cribs, and older children—most with physical or mental disorders—linger at the edges. One child—a boy—sits crumpled in a heap against a wall, his atrophied legs like broken twigs beneath him. Although leftover New Year’s couplets and other decorations festoon the walls, the room, while clean, lacks toys or books. Three women, wearing matching pink smocks and kerchiefs, hang diapers on a clothesline strung from ceiling hooks. One of the women leaves her chore when she sees us. As she wipes her hands on her smock, my a-ma’s bracelet slides into view. It’s Director Zhou. The room begins to swim.
“Welcome to Menghai’s Social Welfare Institute. Do you drink tea? Have you eaten yet?” she asks politely.
We’re shown to a sitting room with two overstuffed couches upholstered in faded fabric. Antimacassars cover the armrests and drape over each head position. The other two caretakers bring tea and a platter of sliced watermelon and lychees. The tea is poured, adding more heat and dampness to the chamber. Once everything is served, the two women join us, ready to be part of the conversation.
“Are you looking to adopt a boy or a girl?” Director Zhou inquires. “Many Chinese couples are adopting now, because they don’t want our children to leave the home country. Most want a boy, but all of ours have special needs. We are told they are the ‘rubbish of society.’?” She sighs. “If you can only have one child, you want it to be perfect. For birth parents and adoptive parents alike, no? I can offer many choices for girls. Do you want a newborn or one who can already do chores and care for herself?”
“We’re here on a different matter,” I say. As I recite the facts, Director Zhou nods slowly in recognition. The cardboard box was not unique—many babies probably arrive similarly—but the tea cake was. More important, San-pa and I were the only parents brave enough—or foolish enough—to come here to track down an illegally abandoned daughter.
“None of us have forgotten that day,” the director concedes. “I should have called Public Security to come and arrest you. Then you fainted. I am not without heart.”
The two other caretakers exchange furtive glances as the director pushes A-ma’s bracelet into her sleeve with her unadorned hand. This isn’t like last time, though. I have Jin with me, and he takes over. Sure, the women cover their mouths and tip their heads as if in deep contemplation over the ethical dilemma, but the cash he holds in his hand is too great a temptation.
“We were told she was sent to Hao Lai Wu—Hollywood,” the youngest one blurts.
Hollywood? I grip the armrests.
“Have you been there?” she asks.
I nod, unwilling to give away anything more.
All the women, including Director Zhou, brighten. Does everyone own a car? Do all the women paint their nails? Then the questions become more sinister.
“Is it true that Americans adopt our girls so they can raise them until they’re old enough to have their organs harvested?”
“Or do they adopt our girls purely for sex?”
“That’s government propaganda,” Jin chides. “You shouldn’t repeat such things.”
“Are you sure she’s in Hollywood?” I ask.
“Everyone wants to go to Hollywood!” the youngest caretaker exclaims.
“She knows not one thing about it,” Director Zhou says gruffly, drawing attention—and the offered bribe—back to her. She waits as Jin counts out bills and lays them in a stack on the table. When she’s satisfied, she says, “I told you last time that the baby was sent to Kunming. From there she went to Los Angeles. Somewhere in the Los Angeles prefecture,” she clarifies. “We like to think it was Hollywood.”
Los Angeles isn’t a prefecture, but the city is huge, and really, that could mean Yan-yeh’s anywhere from Venice Beach to San Gabriel, from Woodland Hills to . . . I don’t know. Disneyland?
“Will you show us the file?” Jin asks.
The director locates it easily and hands it to me. The folder contains a photograph—showing an infant a few days old with her head wrapped in an indigo cap decorated with silver charms—a footprint in red ink, and a single sheet of paper, which outlines the basics of Yan-yeh’s arrival at the institute. These three items constitute the only tangible proof of my daughter’s existence.
“Shouldn’t there be more?” I ask, running a finger over the photograph.
The director smiles at me sympathetically. “One of the photos and the rest of the paperwork went with your daughter to the Social Welfare Institute in Kunming for identification purposes, but a fire seven years ago destroyed their records. You could visit the new facility to see if anyone remembers something, but babies are sent to them from all over the province for foreign adoption. I don’t see how they’ll remember one out of so many.”
So no easy answers or traceable clues. Still, I now know where my daughter is—if this information is accurate, and if she and her parents have never moved. How could my daughter be in Los Angeles, of all places, and I haven’t been looking for her every moment? I begin to cry. The ladies are kind, patting me on the back, cooing, pouring more tea. The director even offers to return Jin’s money, saying, “We don’t often see the suffering of mothers here. We only see the babies.”