Gift of the Golden Mountain

by Shirley Streshinsky

  At the rear of the room was her living space—a platform for sleeping, a soft chair, a chest with a photograph on top. May was tom by a wish to see the photograph, and a rush of guilt that she was invading another's privacy.

  "Perhaps I should not have come in," she remarked.

  Xue Lian looked surprised. "You are hurt, you must see the doctor."

  May lowered her voice. "I am the doctor's daughter, she may not want to see me."

  "Even so," Xue said, smiling to take the sting out of what she was about to say, "she must see you as a patient before we can leave." She considered May, then asked, "Can I leave you to find us something to eat?"

  Xue closed the door behind her, removing May from the scrutiny of the villagers. She sat back in the chair and concentrated on her breathing, Karin's trick. When you feel the anxiety rising, Karin would say, all you have to do is think about your breathing and you can control the panic. After a while May managed to stand and, by holding on to the chair and the tables, make her way to the back of the room, to the chest with the photograph on it.

  It was a snapshot of a young boy, perhaps twelve. He was straddling a bicycle, both hands on the handlebars, looking gravely into the camera. The picture was yellowed around the edges. May guessed it to be ten or fifteen years old.

  She lowered herself onto the sleeping platform, needing to rest a moment before returning to the patient's chair. She would not want her mother to find her here, in her living space. Except, May thought, looking around her, there is so little that seems personal. A flowered apron hanging on a nail on the wall, a dish with a small round of soap. She lifted the soap to smell it, but there was no perfume to it.

  Xue Lian returned carrying two bowls. The smell of the food made May go weak. She was, she realized, ravenous. "Rice and vegetables and fish," Xue said, putting down the bowls so she could help May back to the chair.

  "Are the villagers still out there?" May wanted to know.

  "No, they've moved down to the riverfront. I think they will meet the doctor, to tell her you are here," Xue said as she scooped the last bits of rice out of her bowl with her fingers. That accomplished, she took May's empty bowl and said, "Now I go to the house of the family who shared their food with us. When you are ready to go, send one of the children for me."

  At the door she hesitated. "We must leave at dawn. It would not be wise to stay longer."

  May nodded and whispered, "Yes."

  When the door closed behind Xue, May felt the blood rush to her head. She was here, in her mother's house, waiting. Always waiting. Then she knew. Her mother would not return, May was not going to see her, she would never meet her mother. She could feel the certainty of it flooding through her body, into her arms and legs and toes. She was not meant to meet her mother, it was over. An awful sadness took possession of her, transferred into a lethargy. She had done all she could do, she had reached her mother's house, the place she had been all these years. But she was not here, she would not be here.

  May felt the warm tears roll into her mouth, she licked them with her tongue and tasted the salt. She began to cry, small sobs that eased into quiet little catching cries. She moved from the chair to the narrow bed, wrapped her arms around herself for comfort, pulled her knees up to her chest, and allowed herself to escape into the deep, mindless cloud of sleep.

  She heard it around the purple edges of consciousness, sounds. Musical, low, hushed. She tried to push it back, away from her. She did not want to hear it, did not want to be brought back.

  The sounds persisted. She could not deny them but she did not know what they were, she did not know where she was. People were talking softly, very softly. She did not open her eyes, she tried to move back into sleep, she did not want to rise to the surface.

  The chill moved up her arms, into her teeth. She clamped them shut tight. The sounds were voices, there were voices in the room. She began to shiver and could not stop.

  "Ah," the voice said, "my new patient from the North awakens, and she is chilled."

  May opened her eyes to look into the face of a woman who was observing her with humor in her eyes. "I am told you went to war with your bicycle," the woman said, pulling a thick comforter over May. "As soon as I finish lancing Mrs. Chen's boil, we will have a look at your war wounds." She smiled and turned back before May could say anything.

  She is here. The words rang up May's spine, into her stomach, into the small nerve endings of her fingers. In this room, standing there, her mother. Liao Ch'ing-Ling. May closed her eyes and forced them open again. To see her, she had to see her.

  Her body was slender under the dark cotton pajamas she wore, her hair was cropped short and was streaked with gray. But the face . . . May's eyes were riveted to the face, absorbed now in her work . . . the high cheek bones, the wide-set eyes, the delicate smoothness. Her mother's beauty had not been erased by time, only softened. She wore dark-rimmed glasses and as she tilted her head back, May could see they magnified her eyes. She bit hard on the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out. Dear God, she wanted to pray, help me.

  Quickly, with hands that were sure, the doctor removed the bloody rag and looked at the cut. "Not so bad," she said, in the reassuring tones of one who had looked at many cuts, and then repeated, "Not so bad, we'll just clean it out some more and I think you will be fine. Did the part of the bicycle that cut you have rust on it?" She looked at May for the answer.

  May could not think what to say, all thoughts were gone from her head. She lay there, blinking her eyes, her mind spinning, words rolling around in her head. She had to say something, so she blurted in the Mandarin taught her by her father: "I had a tetanus shot before I left."

  The doctor moved back a step and stared at her, confusion and suspicion written on her face. She asked, carefully, "Who are you?"

  "You are Liao Ch'ing-Ling," May said, and then she whispered. "I am Wing Mei-jin."

  Her mother stood as if facing into the wind, arms out to steady herself. She was staring at May, looking at her as if searching for someone, something . . . and then she lifted one arm and moved it across her eyes, as if to shield them from the light.

  May was the light, and she was blinding her. Ch'ing-Ling began to move backwards, away from her.

  "I had to see you," May said, sitting up. "I can't stay long, only a few hours, but I had to see you." She heard the pleading in her voice. She had promised herself she would not plead, but she could not stop. It had happened, they were alone in the room, and she had to finish it, to see it through. She could not let her leave.

  "Please talk to me," she begged. "You are my mother. I have only to look at you to know that. You left me behind thirty years ago, in San Francisco, and I have to know why. I promise, if you tell me I'll leave and never bother you again. But I can't continue . . . I have to know."

  Ch'ing-Ling clenched her hands tightly together and tried to speak. Nothing would come out. She walked toward the door and for a moment May feared she would walk out, walk away from her again. But all she did was open the door, say a few words to a small boy who waited outside, and come back in again, latching the door from the inside.

  Those few actions gave her time to regain control. She stood very straight in the middle of the room, regal. May thought, in spite of the surroundings. She bowed her head slightly, as if she were about to say something.

  May waited. The silence began to gather. "Why did you say I was from the North?" May finally asked, to break the growing awkwardness.

  "I am told your traveling companion is from the North," she answered in a halting voice, "and your height. But now I understand . . . the height . . . your father . . ."

  "Thank you," May said simply, "for admitting that you are my mother."

  Ch'ing-Ling moved to take a seat on a small bench, sitting with her back very straight. Her eyes did not leave May's. They sat facing each other, in the manner of a doctor and patient, hands folded. May looked at her mother's hands. They were long and slim and strong
, the nails short and blunt. They said nothing, only waited, as if words were rationed. The gulf between them was too great, May thought. They could never bridge it, it was wrong to have come.

  "I gave you life," Ch'ing-Ling said in choked tones, "but I am not your mother. Sister Kit is your mother. I left you with the old Aunties and with Sister Kit, who wanted you as much as any mother could want." Her eyes did not waver, they held May's.

  All the questions that had formed in May's mind rang hollow. She stared at her mother's face, into the dark intelligence of her eyes, and closed her own not to witness the pain and the hurt. "Why did you leave me?" she tried, knowing it was the wrong question, knowing it would not provide the flash of light that would fill the dark place inside of her.

  Ch'ing-Ling stared as if searching for some manifestation of May's illness, of the fever that burned inside her.

  "Reasons are often not what they seem," she began. "You will understand that someday, when you have lived long enough to look back on your life. You will consider the decisions you made, actions you took, and know that the reasons you gave were not the true reasons." A long shaft of last light entered the window and splintered on the gleaming steel instruments, sending flares of light dancing about them.

  The silence gathered. Ch'ing-Ling seemed to draw into herself, so concentrated was her thought. May knew she must wait. She folded her hands in her lap and watched the splinters of light move about the room.

  When Ch'ing-Ling spoke again, her voice seemed almost to echo in the room, and though it was a small voice it carried to the far corners, to the stainless steel containers that held surgical equipment, to the boxes piled against one wall that held her patients' records. Thirty years of records, in this one room. May looked at the peg on the wall, saw the flowered apron, and felt the weight of the years her mother had spent in this place.

  "The Taoist Lao Tsu believed that words were not forms of reality, but symbols only, which always must misrepresent the true, or inner, reality. Words alone can only confuse us. They can never penetrate the essence, they can only warp the reality. But you say I must find the words to tell you, and if that is what I must do, you must first understand how unsatisfactory these words will be. And you must attempt to hear beyond the words, to grasp the reality. Do you know this?"

  May answered with a quotation: "Let the hearing turn inward and let it not be interfered with by the intellect or intelligence."

  Ch'ing-Ling did not smile, but her mouth relaxed: "Even Confucius, at times, agreed with the Taoists. Well then," she went on, "how much do you know?"

  May was cautious. "I know that you felt homesick, I know that my father was not faithful."

  "Yes," she sighed, "I longed for my family and China, and your father had dishonored me. Reasons enough to leave, my family accepted those reasons. I did not tell them there was a child, but if I had they would have thought my judgment correct, leaving the child with the aunts, for this was not a child that would have been welcomed in China. This was not a Chinese child. Yes?"

  I nodded.

  She paused then, deep in thought, searching for the words . . . the symbols . . . that would take May into her mind, her reality.

  "Coming back was failure. The war was over, my family left Shanghai, left China to follow Chiang to Taiwan. They left at night with their gold bars and their jade, and I did not go with them. If I had gone, it would all have been for nothing, can you understand that?"

  She paused, out of breath, as if they had been walking together and now she was waiting for May to catch up. May could not take her eyes from her mother's face; the mask was gone, all the pain was there and it was terrible to see. Pain and disappointment and hurt, buried for all those years.

  "I have ripped away her protection," May thought, "she has had this great wound, and whatever healing there has been, I have come along and opened it up all over again." A wave of remorse washed over her. She began to shiver, her teeth to chatter.

  Ch'ing-Ling rose, walked to a cupboard, and pulled out a thick padded jacket which she brought to put around her shoulders.

  "Put it on," she said, and as May pulled it around her shoulders their hands touched. In a voice that vibrated with warmth, Ch'ing-Ling said, "You are cold, these hills are filled with chill." And then, in the same mesmerizing voice she went on, "In China there are legends. Many legends. Those books on that wall are filled with parables and stories and koans. The rabbit in the moon, pounding the elixir of life, there are many legends about the rabbit in the moon. Once, I took a very small sip of the elixir, and found myself in the place the Chinese call the Land of the Golden Mountain, but I did not drink deeply enough to climb the mountain. I had no bravery in me, and no forgiveness, not then. I longed for the safety of my family, and fled to them, and found that safety to be illusory.

  "And so I came here, to this town which is so poor that no medical doctor would ever want to stay, so the authorities do not disturb me. For thirty years I have worked among these people, they are glad to have me." For the first time she smiled, and May caught a glimmer of her beauty. "My patients pay me in eggs and geese and sometimes coins, and it is enough. I have no wish to leave."

  "Your family, do you ever hear from them?"

  The muscles in her face tightened. "I have no family. I was never brave enough to have a child. That was my great failure. I could not keep you and infect you with my unhappiness. You have come here looking for your mother, but your mother is not here. You are Sister Kit's child. I have always believed this, and take comfort in it."

  She waited, gave me time, but when I did not speak she went on:

  "It is my habit," she said, "on the nights of the full moon to look for the rabbit, and when I see it I think: Mei-jin, Sister Kit's child in America, I hope you have found the elixir, and drink of it in great gulps. Now I look at you, now I see." Her face was filled with yearning, with the need for May to see, to know.

  May searched her mother's face so she would not forget. "All my life," she began, searching for the right words, "I have had you here, inside of me." She placed her hand over her heart. "But it has not been a good feeling," she went on, "I was angry with you for leaving me."

  Ch'ing-Ling bent her head, and for a moment May thought she was crying. To ease the situation, she moved to the dresser to get the photo. "Who is the boy?" she asked.

  Her mother took the picture, studied it as if she had not seen it before. "Only a boy," she finally said. "A poor boy with a damaged spine. His parents were dead, and all of his family, in the war. I tried to cure him, but he died."

  Something in her voice caused May to murmur with sympathy.

  "I know why he died, the medical reasons," Ch'ing-Ling went on, "but I do not know why he had to die."

  "Did you love him?" May asked.

  "Yes," Ch'ing-Ling whispered, "as I loved you, but it did not help him, and it did not help you."

  May stood, shaken. Nothing was as she had imagined, nothing. "Can I have some tea?" she asked, giving her mother a task to take her mind off the pain.

  They drank tea and talked in low, earnest voices. When it grew too dark to see, Ch'ing-Ling lit a lantern and they put it between them and drank more tea and talked through the night. She answered May's questions with the studied thoroughness of a doctor who knows her patient's needs. She told a story of struggle, and privation and pain, and she made May understand that she had finally found a kind of peace in the small village clinic. When May's questions began to lag, she asked some of her own.

  For May, it was as if a long thirst was finally quenched. She wanted to talk about herself, to tell her about Faith and Sara, about her break with Kit and their reconciliation. She told her about Karin and Hayes and about her work with volcanoes. The light outside the window had worked its way through several shades of gray when she spoke, at last, about her father.

  "When he died," she said, "I thought I was loose in the world, that there was no one to hold on to. I dreamed of you every night. In my dre
am you held your arms out to me, and motioned me to follow you."

  In the lantern light she could see her mother's eyes fill with tears. May reached to put her hand on her arm, and felt the frailness under the thin stuff of her blouse.

  As the early morning moved into the room, it illuminated two women sitting together, their heads bowed as if in prayer.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE TELEPHONE RANG and Kit lunged for it, almost knocking over the pitcher of water next to Philip's bed.

  "She's out, she's safe," Karin shouted over the long distance line. "Hayes just called me from Macao. He was waiting when she came through the gate this morning and he says that everything is fine, that aside from being terribly tired May is wonderful."

  "She's all right?" Kit repeated, wanting to be reassured. "Everything is Jill right?"

  "Right as rain. I didn't talk to May, but I could hear her in the background and Hayes was almost giddy."

  "Did he say anything about what happened, did May get to see her mother?"

  "Yes. He said it is quite a story and he's going to stop off in San Francisco for a few hours on his way back to Washington to tell you about it. May kept a journal, and he's bringing it to you. The only other thing he said was to give you a message from May—to tell you that she loves you very much."

  Tears choked her. She had to strain to say, "Thank God it's over."

  To give Kit time, Karin filled the silence with chatter. May and Hayes would be staying in Hong Kong for two days, then she will spend some time in Japan, winding up her work there. Hayes will make a quick official trip to Vietnam before coming back—he said to say it would be about a week before he makes it to San Francisco, he would let her know. Thea was doing just fine, they were looking forward to Dan's coming through week after next, on his way to his first duty post in Saigon. They hoped Philip was doing well. . ."