even my sister. I doubt I’ll ever forgive her for reporting Sam to the FBI. She gave me her apologies, and when we stood at the airport, she said, “When our hair is white, we’ll still have our sister love.” I listened, but I didn’t believe her. I didn’t say anything because, whether I liked it or not, we had to come together as sisters to find Joy. That said, when I allow myself to think about the things May accused me of that last night, I know she was right in many ways. She pointed out that I’d gone to college in Shanghai, but I’d never done anything with it. I’d never taken advantage of the opportunities that were given to me in Los Angeles either. May said I preferred to be a victim and wallow in my sacrifices. She taunted me for being afraid and for running from the past. But May also used to say, Everything always returns to the beginning. She would laugh to see me now, because I’ve run so hard and for so long that I’ve run full circle into the heart of my past.
And look at me! Just as May said, I am afraid. I’ve always been hopelessly and pathetically afraid, but my sister has never given up. Twenty years ago, as we were escaping Shanghai, she didn’t leave me in the shack after I was raped and beaten by Japanese soldiers nearly unto death. Instead, she piled me—unconscious—into a wheelbarrow and pushed me through the countryside to safety. She didn’t wither into nothing when she had to give me the daughter she’d carried and loved for nine months. Nor did she ever once falter in acting as Joy’s aunt for nineteen years. She kept the secret. She honored her daughter and me by keeping that secret. She would not be in a hotel room, weeping and mourning all night.
Just before dawn, I get up, take a shower, and get dressed. I look in the mirror. I’m forty-one, and, even after everything I’ve been through, I don’t have a single gray hair. I’ve never been like my sister, whose face is her fortune. Nevertheless, despite the trials of these past weeks, my cheeks are still pink. Only in my eyes do I see the depth of my struggling heart, a maelstrom of sadness and loss.
I go downstairs and order a bowl of rice porridge and a pot of jasmine tea. The meal is as plain as I can make it. I’m a widow, who’s lost everything. How could I ever eat a Hong Kong English breakfast of eggs, bacon, stewed tomatoes, and toast?
After breakfast, I stop at the front desk to ask directions to the Soo Yuen Benevolent Association, hoping to get advice about going into China and also how to deal with mail to and from my sister once I get there. The association was founded to help people of the Louie, Fong, and Kwong families. My father-in-law used its services for years. Father Louie remained connected to his home village of Wah Hong after nearly a lifetime spent in America. He sent tea money to his relatives, even if it meant we had to sacrifice. When China closed, he had to use the association to get money across the border to his family. After Father Louie died, Sam kept sending money to Wah Hong, which the FBI and INS agents considered one of his biggest crimes. I can almost hear Sam say to them, “We do what we can for our relatives who are trapped in a bad place.” That didn’t matter to the agents, obviously. So I know that, if May sends letters and money straight to me in Red China, she’ll be attacked for being a Communist sympathizer by the FBI, just as Sam was. At the same time, what waits for me on the other side of the border is a mystery. We’ve heard mail is often opened, read, and censored, or tossed in the dustbin. I know as well that people in China who dare to send letters abroad or receive them—no matter how innocent the content—can also be accused of being secret capitalists or spies.
So, out into the streets. Hong Kong bustles with life: flower and bird sellers, street markets, British businessmen in three-piece suits, beautifully dressed women holding umbrellas to shield
And look at me! Just as May said, I am afraid. I’ve always been hopelessly and pathetically afraid, but my sister has never given up. Twenty years ago, as we were escaping Shanghai, she didn’t leave me in the shack after I was raped and beaten by Japanese soldiers nearly unto death. Instead, she piled me—unconscious—into a wheelbarrow and pushed me through the countryside to safety. She didn’t wither into nothing when she had to give me the daughter she’d carried and loved for nine months. Nor did she ever once falter in acting as Joy’s aunt for nineteen years. She kept the secret. She honored her daughter and me by keeping that secret. She would not be in a hotel room, weeping and mourning all night.
Just before dawn, I get up, take a shower, and get dressed. I look in the mirror. I’m forty-one, and, even after everything I’ve been through, I don’t have a single gray hair. I’ve never been like my sister, whose face is her fortune. Nevertheless, despite the trials of these past weeks, my cheeks are still pink. Only in my eyes do I see the depth of my struggling heart, a maelstrom of sadness and loss.
I go downstairs and order a bowl of rice porridge and a pot of jasmine tea. The meal is as plain as I can make it. I’m a widow, who’s lost everything. How could I ever eat a Hong Kong English breakfast of eggs, bacon, stewed tomatoes, and toast?
After breakfast, I stop at the front desk to ask directions to the Soo Yuen Benevolent Association, hoping to get advice about going into China and also how to deal with mail to and from my sister once I get there. The association was founded to help people of the Louie, Fong, and Kwong families. My father-in-law used its services for years. Father Louie remained connected to his home village of Wah Hong after nearly a lifetime spent in America. He sent tea money to his relatives, even if it meant we had to sacrifice. When China closed, he had to use the association to get money across the border to his family. After Father Louie died, Sam kept sending money to Wah Hong, which the FBI and INS agents considered one of his biggest crimes. I can almost hear Sam say to them, “We do what we can for our relatives who are trapped in a bad place.” That didn’t matter to the agents, obviously. So I know that, if May sends letters and money straight to me in Red China, she’ll be attacked for being a Communist sympathizer by the FBI, just as Sam was. At the same time, what waits for me on the other side of the border is a mystery. We’ve heard mail is often opened, read, and censored, or tossed in the dustbin. I know as well that people in China who dare to send letters abroad or receive them—no matter how innocent the content—can also be accused of being secret capitalists or spies.
So, out into the streets. Hong Kong bustles with life: flower and bird sellers, street markets, British businessmen in three-piece suits, beautifully dressed women holding umbrellas to shield
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