Picture Bride

by C. Fong Hsiung

  “Jillian, I am so sorry to have to let you know that Papa has once again forbidden us to communicate with you. Of course, that will not happen. I will continue to write to you, as will Robert.

  “I know this is hard for you. Please know that we love you and support you.”

  When I first read the letter, I had buried my face in my hands and wept. But I realize now that I cried not because Papa had spurned me once again, but for all my wasted effort in seeking his approval, and for living a life subverting my identity to obey him. When I had looked at my puffy eyes afterward, I’d known then that I had shed my final tears of the disowned daughter.

  I have tried to be the daughter that my father wanted. Lee-Lan had been free-spirited, chasing her own dreams, while I had lived my parents’ dreams. Today, all that will end. From now on, I will focus on building a life with Daniel. I will no longer ask for forgiveness where no wrong was done.

  ·18·

  Saturday morning at Dominion, a few minutes’ drive from home, is usually not an adventure. Daniel orders ham and pastrami at the deli counter, while I browse the produce section. I hold a green pepper, turning it one way and then another, checking for blemishes. Satisfied, I throw it into a plastic bag. As I stroll over to the fruit tables, I sense someone staring at me. I look up, and my gaze locks with a pair of stern eyes below fierce dark eyebrows.

  My heart beats frantically as I turn away. In the brief look that Peter and I exchange, there is an unspoken acknowledgement of our past together. From the corner of my eyes, I see a young man sidle up to him. I push my cart away in the opposite direction.

  “Hey, wait up, Jill,” Daniel catches up to me. “What’s the rush?”

  “Just keep walking, please.”

  He scratches his chin and glances around. “What’s wrong?”

  We hurry into the next aisle and I slow down. I look behind me and whisper, “I just saw Peter and maybe his new boyfriend.”

  Daniel stops his cart. His jaws tense. When I first told him about what Peter did to me he had reacted furiously. It was the only time I have seen him lose control, swearing and pounding a fist into his palm. He swore he would punch the man silly if he ever saw him. Then he had hugged me so hard that I had to gasp for air. Now I reach for his hands and unclench them one at a time. He takes a deep breath and says, “He can go to hell. Forget him. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  Peter can’t hurt me now, but my knees still quiver at the reminder of our last encounter.

  “Do you want to leave now?” Daniel asks gently.

  I shake my head and square my shoulders. “I’m going to have to get used to bumping into him sometimes. I won’t let him get to me anymore.”

  A few days later the phone rings, with an insistence that’s like a warning. I have a premonition. It’s Mandy, and from her breathless hello, I can tell that she is bursting to reveal some major news.

  “Are you sitting down?” she asks.

  “Why? Do you really want me to sit?” I laugh.

  “Yes, yes, you’ll be shocked beyond belief. Are you sitting?”

  I pull a chair towards me and sit down. “Okay, so what’s the big news?”

  “Peter is dead—Bobby killed him.”

  The phone falls from my hand with a loud thud on the kitchen counter. Quickly I retrieve it. “How did that happen?” My chest tightens and I’m breathless.

  “It happened yesterday. Bobby has been bitter about Peter dumping him for another man. He walked in on them while they were in the new lover’s apartment, and stabbed both men. Peter died in the hospital, but his partner is only slightly injured.”

  Bobby must have been in such a rage to have summoned the kind of strength he needed to kill Peter. I can still recall his slender body, tight-fitting clothes and effeminate movements.

  “I just saw Peter and his new friend last week. I can’t believe he’s dead.” The phone, pressed hard against my ear, is the only thing that feels real at this moment.

  “It’s in the newspaper.” Mandy seems to relish her role as my informant.

  “What happened to Bobby?”

  “The other guy, Peter’s new friend, managed to disarm and restrain Bobby until the police came.”

  Although I am not religious, I cross myself. I can’t even begin to think how Peter’s death will affect me—my brain cannot process the news yet. It can’t be real.

  Peter’s death blows open all the holes in his stories about his marriage to me, in a way I could never have done. Although I cringe at the manner of his death and sympathize with his family, I take guilty pleasure in my own vindication. I am no longer a pariah in the Hakka community, but a woman who has been wronged—if I do not marry a fankwei.

  I try not to pay attention to the gossip. If not for Mandy, I would be blissfully unaware of the goings-on in that world. Just when I think I will never hear Peter’s name again, another painful reminder has surfaced.

  A few days after Mandy’s revelation, I open the door to Kathy’s round face—framed by the perpetual permed curls—looking pinched as she tries to force her lips into a garish smile for my benefit.

  “Jie-Lan, I’m sorry to intrude. I was in the neighbourhood and decided to drop by.”

  She is lying.

  “Uh, how did you find me?” My ears pick up the unintended hostility in my voice. Perhaps it’s because I’d asked myself how much she suspected about her brother’s homosexuality, but hoped I would somehow turn him straight.

  “I asked Mandy,” she says, holding out a lumpy object inside a plastic bag. “I brought these for you. I believe they’re yours.”

  “What is it?”

  “They’re the gold jewelry that you left behind with Peter. They’re yours.”

  “Oh . . . thank you. Would you like to come inside?”

  I had liked Kathy well enough before, but what has prompted her to do this?

  “No, I can’t stay. I just want you to know that I’m grateful to you for not going public with my brother’s story. You didn’t deserve to be treated so badly. I feel bad that you are estranged from your parents.”

  “I’m sorry about Peter’s death.”

  “Thank you. I hope your parents forgive you now that everyone knows about Peter and what he did.” Kathy sniffs, and brings out a tissue to dab her eyes. “Peter’s funeral is on Saturday in case you are interested. Goodbye, Jie-Lan.”

  She turns and leaves before I can say anything more.

  “What was that all about?” Daniel had hovered behind me while Kathy and I spoke in Hakka.

  “That was Peter’s sister. She’s returned the jewelry that I received as wedding gifts from my side of the family. The question is why.”

  Daniel brushes back some hair from my brow and tucks them behind my ear. “If you frown any harder, you will turn into a wrinkled old lady.”

  I ignore his attempt at levity. “I suppose it doesn’t matter why I got them back, but I’m glad I did, especially those that Mama and Ah-Poh gave me. I want to pass them on to our children.”

  “Speaking of children . . . maybe some practice would help.”

  Daniel laughs and pulls me toward him.

  Indecision plagues me the day before Peter’s funeral.

  “If you’re agonizing over your decision, then don’t go,” Daniel says from the couch, putting the newspaper down on his lap.

  “Peter was not a nice person when he was alive. I can’t bear the thought of meeting all those people who will gossip about me. I don’t owe him anything, but there’s a voice in my head that says I should go.” I pace the floor in front of the glass coffee table.

  “You’re making too much of this. Why are you afraid of these people and what they think?”

  “You’re not helping at all.” I look at him. The mockery I see bothers m
e.

  “I’m right, you know. These people’s opinion shouldn’t matter to you.”

  I know that he is right, but hearing him articulate what should be logical to me is like admitting I’m self-absorbed. My Hakka upbringing urges me to attend the funeral, but an inner voice revolts at the idea.

  “You have no idea what it’s like to grow up surrounded by an entire neighbourhood that knows you. Private matters pass on from one person to the next like the common cold—if someone sneezes, everyone is infected.”

  I don’t know how else to describe to Daniel the environment I grew up in. I feel overcome with frustration at the differences in our cultures, never more apparent than they are now.

  “No, I don’t know what it’s like to live in your world, but I do know that at some point you have to move on and not let others’ opinions always dictate how you behave. For goodness sake, has it occurred to you that you’re worrying about your reputation the same way your father has been carrying on about not losing face?”

  This is about to become a full-blown argument—our first one. I bite my lower lip. He is right.

  I make up my mind to pay my respects to the dead—even if he wasn’t a nice person living. I need to do this for me. Let gossip be damned.

  A few weeks later a letter arrives. I recognize Mama’s handwriting on the envelope, and I am not surprised. Since the news of Peter’s death broke open, Papa has been under pressure to look favourably upon my divorce.

  I finish reading the letter, fold it, and say loudly with a tremor in my voice, “Papa wants me to go home for Ah-Poh’s birthday celebration at the end of December.”

  Daniel stops pouring orange juice and stares at me with slack jaws. “It’s almost mid-November—can you even get tickets to go to India this late? What has prompted this change of heart?”

  I read Mama’s letter again—the part where she writes that Papa has forgiven me. He does not want me to miss such an auspicious occasion as Ah-Poh’s seventy-first birthday. She says that he can see no point in punishing me any longer. I do not translate the entire content into English—especially the part regarding Papa’s concerns about my fankwei fiancé. Damn Papa, I will never let him change my love for Daniel.

  I reply casually, “Peter’s death—and possibly Ah-Poh—may have had a hand in changing Papa’s mind. She can be very persuasive when she wants something.”

  He puts the orange juice back inside the fridge, turns around and hands one full glass to me. “Does that mean that we can now go visit together?”

  I cast a dubious glance at him. “Hmm . . . I’m not sure if that’s wise, but I also don’t want to go to India without you. We don’t even know if there’ll be any airline tickets available.”

  “If you don’t think I should accompany you, it’s all right with me.”

  “I do want you to come with me, but I’m worried about how Papa will react.”

  “Then you go ahead and take this opportunity to make up with your folks. Your papa has extended a peace offering to you—you should take it. Maybe this is not the right time for me to meet them.”

  “No, I won’t leave here without you.” A chill enters my heart at the thought of being separated from Daniel.

  He squeezes my shoulders. “Listen to me. This is a great opportunity to reconnect with your parents and see your family. We can go together another time after we are married.”

  After weighing all the possible outcomes that could result from my reuniting with my family, I agree, with some misgivings, to go to Calcutta alone.

  Letters now fly back and forth between my family and me, openly and without fear of repercussions from Papa. I throw myself into preparing for the trip while also studying for my accounting exam. I shop for gifts.

  After the exam, Daniel accompanies me to the mall for one of my shopping excursions. He chuckles when I toss three multi-pack boxes of spearmint gum into the shopping cart. My cousin, Amy, has specifically requested for them. “You sure you’ve got enough chewing gum there? The cashier might think you’re in business to re-sell these.”

  “Do you have any idea how popular they are back home? Only the black markets in Calcutta carry this particular type of chewing gum.”

  With a glint in his eyes and a mocking grin, he says, “Black market . . . uh-oh, what kind of racket are you into now?”

  “Don’t laugh. Some things that you see here every day are not available there. If they want foreign goods, they have to go to this special market to buy them.” I smack his arm and then reach for some shampoo bottles.

  “And the shampoo is another contraband item too?” He tugs my hair playfully.

  I giggle. “I’m not sure. I know that Mama likes this one.” I am like a kid wandering through a toy store. Now that I’ve gotten past my initial reluctance to leave without Daniel, the anticipation of seeing my folks fills me with sheer joy.

  Daniel pushes the cart with one hand and wraps an arm over my shoulders as we continue slowly through the aisle. “I’ve never seen you so cheerful.”

  I reflect on his words.

  “Nothing could ever top the moment you proposed to me. I’m happy that I’ll be seeing my family soon. This thing with my papa had me on edge and miserable for so long. Now I have to tell myself not to take too much pleasure in my new situation. I’m afraid to tempt fate in case I jinx my luck. I worry—”

  He places a finger on my lips. “Shh . . . you deserve all the good things in your life. You’ve never done anyone wrong.” He adds in an undertone, “If anyone should ask for forgiveness, your father is the one.”

  His last remark floats away unanswered. I understand his opinion—although I struggle to acknowledge its truth. Some words are better left unspoken.

  · 19 ·

  Like a drowning victim, I cling to Daniel. He crushes me in his arms where I want to stay forever. Neither one of us can bear to break this last embrace.

  “Madam, you must go inside,” a voice behind me says.

  He relaxes his hold and whispers in a hoarse voice, “I love you. I’ll see you in three weeks.”

  As I exit through the gate, I turn around. Daniel has not moved from his spot. I give him one more tremulous smile, straighten my shoulders and walk through to the plane.

  Nervous excitement stirs at the pit of my stomach. Two-and-a-half years ago, I had taken the reverse journey—a picture bride—betrothed to a stranger I had yet to meet. This trip is bittersweet, because the family that anchored me for twenty years had cut me loose and set me adrift. A voice inside my head always called Tangra home, and I yearned for the familiar look, touch, and feel of my ancestral home. My heart knows better now—wherever Daniel is, that is my home.

  Early in the morning, London doesn’t show much of itself, shrouded behind wet blankets of dark fog. We disembark at Heathrow Airport, and after clearing immigration and customs, I head straight for the toilets. My mouth tastes gritty and I can only imagine what the rest of my face looks like.

  Cleaned and refreshed somewhat, I pick up breakfast at an eatery and eat it in the cavernous passenger lounge with a book for company. Soon my eyes droop. My head nods, startling me awake. Although the flight from Toronto to London was comfortable, my hyperactive brain did not allow me to sleep. I glance at the board listing upcoming flights. Another nine hours before I board my flight to Calcutta.

  I stroll over to a row of empty seats, drop my overnight bag on one, lay my head on it, and stretch out my legs. My hands hug my purse and I turn on my side to face the aisle. Across from me, a young couple stares out vacantly while their small daughter lies fast asleep beside the woman.

  I allow my eyelids to drop and fall asleep.

  Lee-Lan’s chubby little hands pull me towards the street vendor. I have twenty-five paisa in my pocket. That should be enough for two servings of aloo muri—rice puffs wit
h bits of boiled potatoes, onions, cucumber, and yellow peas, flavored with hot spices and mustard oil. Mama will never find out, because the tannery workers always need her attention after her midday nap. Lee-Lan and I, clutching our aloo muri, wander over to the field of wooden planks where some kids are playing.

  “JIE-JIE . . . ” Lee-Lan’s scream stops me in my tracks. I turn around just in time to see her head disappear below the edge of the planks. I lean over on my knees and see her clinging to one of the bamboo poles driven into the pond to support the boards.

  “Help me up,” she cries, tears streaming down her four-year-old face, while the contents of the aloo muri float around her.

  I lie down on my stomach and stretch out one arm. Lee-Lan curls an arm tightly around a pole and reaches up with the other. It’s no use—our hands do not meet.

  Someone yanks me to my feet. Confused and scared, I cower at the side as Papa takes over. I watch him lower himself down to the murky pond and hoist Lee-Lan out. He drops her onto the plank. He glares at me. No doubt I will be punished.

  With a start I swing my feet down and sit up, my eyes taking time to focus as the fog in my brain clears. A toddler withdraws her hand from the bottom of my shirt and watches me, her cherubic face lighting up in a mischievous grin. As I watch her a shiver runs up my back. The girl could be my sister, so remarkable is her resemblance to Lee-Lan.

  “Come back here, Laura,” a young woman calls.

  I look towards the voice. I smile at the little girl. A wisp of black hair strays over her forehead and dark brown eyes. I stroke her face and brush the hair aside. She doesn’t run away. Instead she touches my knee.