Paper Daughter

by Jeanette Ingold

  Her face tightened, and the cords in her neck strained taut. She set out a cutting board and washed a tomato. Then she turned to me. "I know. And I want to hear. It's just hard."

  "Why?"

  "Because you sound so much like your father. Because you are just like him."

  She continued making salad, shredding lettuce, slicing a cucumber. Chopping green onions so fast it sounded like mahjong tiles clicking.

  Then she said, "I'm sorry, Maggie. That was selfish. I'm proud of you and your story. I only wish you'd stay a kid a while longer. I'm not ready to lose you, too."

  "It's just a job, Mom."

  "The internship is. But the news? I know you as well as I knew your father, and that means knowing it can consume you." She managed a small laugh. "Not to be melodramatic."

  I laughed with her. "Not to worry. I have another year of high school, and I promise to enjoy it."

  But as I set out place mats and water glasses, I went back over what she'd said, focusing on a different part from what she'd meant me to. Her words reminded me about Dad's unknown family, and how I'd decided to find it for myself. Despite how my work at the Herald had made him feel close, the Galinger story had driven that project from my mind.

  Friday, I thought. I'll be off. I could get back to it then. At least start brainstorming how I might find a record of one boy in all California.

  Unless, of course, things were breaking so fast on the Galinger front that maybe Harrison would need my help. If they were, Fran might let me work an extra day, since it was my story, too.

  "What are you smiling at?" Mom asked.

  "Nothing. Just thinking."

  Actually, I was picturing the next morning's paper. I would get it from the front door. Unfold it. See right there in print the jeanette ingold same words thousands of other people were seeing: "with contributions from Margaret Wynn Chen."

  That, at least, would tell the world one undeniable fact about who I was. I was someone who had helped find the lies and the truth behind a story.

  FAI-YI LI, 1934

  Li Dewei takes me with him the day he goes to meet his family at the docks, so that I can help with their belongings. We go to a ship, where we watch people stream off, but we cannot get close enough for him to pick out his wife from the others who plod toward the reception center that Sucheng and I went through.

  "There will be many questions," I tell him. "It may take a long time."

  "That is all right," he says. "I will tell the authorities I am here, and then I will wait."

  Still, I am the one who waits outside the building for hours and hours. And when Li Dewei finally emerges, he carries his small son in his arms and there is no woman with them. In silence we return to the laundry, where he leaves the child before going back out, somewhere.

  "His wife got sick on the ship. She died a week away from land," I tell my sister.

  Sucheng shrugs. "How soon do we leave?"

  "Not today! Li Dewei needs our help."

  The little boy, whose American name is Philip, tugs on her. He is so young his walk is still unsteady, and I tell myself that surely she must see that Li Dewei cannot care for him alone.

  She keeps asking, though, day after day, and her pestering irritates me.

  "There is no hurry," I tell her more than once, watching the angry gestures with which she changes little Philip's soiled clothing or pulls him from the stove.

  And finally I lose patience. "If you did not wish this life, you should have thought better when you demanded to come to America!"

  My voice is harsh, covering the truth that more and more I am glad to be here. And covering, too, my regret that I have not found a safe way to let our parents know where we are and why we left.

  Besides, I tell myself, she should see that her life is not so confined now that she has a household to care for.

  In the early morning she goes out, buyingfood from the vegetable stands that line the streets and from meat and fish shops where chickens hang in windows and shining salmon lie on tables in overlapping waves. And all day she has little Philip to keep her company.

  Some days I have company, also.

  For by now Li Dewei has needed more medicines, and An and I have had more occasions to talk. And some late aflernoons I go out even when there is no errand to do, and Li Dewei does not ask why, as long as my work is done. He appreciates that I am trying to learn the ways of my new country, and perhaps he thinks that is my intent.

  But I go to meet An, as often as she lets me know that a meeting is possible.

  Because now, when she walks by with her girlfriends, sometimes there is a quick nod—no more—a nod that means Meet me.

  Li Dewei is too preoccupied to notice. And if my sister, bringing in a bundle of folded shirts, Philip hanging on her clothing, happens to see, what does it matter? She cannot stop me from going out. An is no concern of hers.

  And if I do not understand why An should wish to be with me, if only for the fifteen or twenty minutes that she can slip away unnoticed, that does not matter, either. It is enough that she does.

  We have found a small lot where no one but a few old men go, and we sit on the far side, sheltered by a tangle of wild shrubbery so they cannot spot us and then tell her father.

  The first times we go there, I worry that we will have nothing to talk about, but after that I worry that our short visits will never provide enough hours for all we have to say. An has so many questions, and she helps me find the words to answer them so that she can know what I know.

  She asks about my home in China, and I tell her about lying awake listening to the pigs and chickens of the family next door, who seemed not to be aware—not the people nor their animals—when daylight was done.

  She wants to know how the days went in my village, and I tell her how a man as strong as two men sweated to turn the huge stone that ground corn.

  She wants to know about my voyage coming over—what the ocean looked like and if I think I will ever go back

  "Cold and big," I tell her. "Yes, if I can. At least, that is what I think."

  And then I say, "Now you talk to me," and she tells me about something that has happened at school, or about some funny person who has visited her father's shop. Sometimes I listen to the words and sometimes only to the music of her voice saying them. And if I ask questions, sometimes it is because I want her stories to go on.

  One day she throws up her hands, laughing, and says, "I can think of no more to tell you."

  I tell her, "Then say the same thing again. I will enjoy it as much."

  If I dared, I would touch the pink that rises in her cheeks.

  Another day she brings two photographs to show me. "Since you want so many stories," she says, "and since I have no more of my own!"

  She tells me the man in the first photograph is a relative who came to this country, but to San Francisco, a long, long time ago, and who has been dead a long time, also. He has a goatee, he wears a satin coat and a round satin hat, and he sits very straight in a heavily carved chair.

  "He was a merchant," An says, and I think he does look like a man of wealth.

  The other photograph is of his wife. She also wears satin, and her still face bears no expression.

  "This picture is all I know of her," An says, "except for one story, and it is this. It is said she came to this country from China as a bride when she was only sixteen years old. She saw the streets of San Francisco from the horse-drawn cab that took her to her new home above the store her husband owned. And what is significant about this is that she never saw those streets again. For the rest of her life she stayed inside those rooms above the store."

  An waits for what I will say, but when I have no response, she says, "I asked my father once, 'Do you think that story is true?' I couldn't imagine it, a girl the age I am now, shut up inside a few rooms for the whole rest of her life. He told me to enjoy the story and be glad I'm young now."

  Now I have a reply. I tease, saying, "I think you
are just the right age for now."

  ***

  One day I tell An about little Philip trying to help me move a heavy washtub, and how I let him believe that he had. An says, "You care a lot for your little brother, don't you?"

  "For Philip," I say, not wishing to lie, but not correcting her, either, because to her, I am Philip's brother. "Yes. He has become my shadow, even when I work."

  "And Sucheng's, I suppose?" An asks. "She must love his company."

  "They are together much," I answer, again threading between lie and truth.

  Yes, he is her responsibility. No, she does not like it.

  It is always so when I talk with An about my sister—wanting there to be nothing held back between An and me. Feeling that I must not diminish Sucheng.

  So often I wish I could tell An how Sucheng was when we were growing up, when she was little. Petted and loved, in return she had scattered warmth like the sun.

  And even more often I wish I could tell An about me—say that I am not Fai-yi Li at all, but Wu Fai-yi. I would trust her with knowing. But I think of Li Dewei and Sucheng and remember that the secret is not mine alone.

  And for that reason, also, I cannot tell An of my gratefulness that Li Dewei more and more relies on me as if I were his son. Nor can I tell her of my frequent arguments with Sucheng, who grows more strident with her demands to leave.

  One time, when Sucheng comes upon me practicing my writing, for I am learning to read and write my new language now, she knocks the pen from my hand. "You will never be American. As long as we stay here, you will be nothing but another Chinese!"

  "I am Chinese," I tell her. "That would be true anywhere."

  "I want to go to Los Angeles," she says. "Denver. Chicago. New York." She pronounces the names as she heard them said all that time ago, when we were children and America was only a story.

  "Sucheng," I say gently, the way I speak to little Philip, "this is a good place."

  "Foryou!"

  ***

  She is right. It is a good place for me.

  I begin to pay my sister to do some of my work, besides her own, so that Li Dewei will have no cause to complain, though I am gone more and more. An asks me one time if my sister minds.

  "No," I answer. "He does not pay her the wages he does me."

  "That's not fair," An says. "If you are paid, she should be also."

  I do not know what to answer. So many ideas An has about what is fair and what is not. About how girls should be regarded, and about the things that are all right for them to do.

  She asks if I am not glad she is American. She says it makes her modern and able to decide for herself that it is all right for us to see each other alone.

  But when, one day, I try to kiss her, she stops that quickly enough. She says she is too Chinese to be kissed by a boy who is not her husband.

  The way she says it makes me smile and be glad all over again that she wishes to be with me. An causes me to smile much; and always, when I think of her, I am happy.

  And I hope that perhaps one day she will allow me to hold her hand.

  CHAPTER 15

  Harrison's and my story ran on page 1 above the fold on Thursday morning.

  Mom was making pancakes when I went into the kitchen—something she usually did only on birthdays—and the newspaper was on the counter by a vase with roses so freshly picked there were still dewdrops on the petals.

  "Pretty impressive," she said.

  "Harrison really wrote it."

  "I meant you. Though the article is, too. I wish your father could be here to read it and to ... well, to see you're carrying on just the way he would have hoped."

  ***

  In the newsroom there were lots of "Good jobs!" and some friendly jibes about Harrison letting a high schooler do his work. And what would be our next exposé? Date swapping on prom night?

  The teasing rolled off us. We had follow-up work to do, beginning with another visit to that Eastside city hall.

  The mayor hadn't returned any of Harrison's calls the day before, and now he had his office giving out a "no comment" message. We planned to make an in-person effort to speak with him, and after that we were going to Galinger Construction in search of employees willing to talk.

  We were on our way out when Fran called, "Harrison! Maggie! Wait!"

  She came from Mr. Braden's office to meet us. "Both of you, sit down a sec."

  Then, looking at me, she said, "Sam Braden just talked to your dad's boss, who said that as far as he knew, your father wasn't working on anything local. But the coincidences between the two deaths are enough that once the police resume an active investigation into Landin's death—and they will now—they'll probably take another look at your dad's, too."

  I nodded. "I figured that," I said. "I was thinking that Dad might even have been developing the story and just not told anyone yet. But what—"

  "The thing is," Fran said, "it's going to give you a personal interest in what we report next. Which means we can't have you working on it."

  "But—" I stopped, dismayed. How could she think of pulling me off a story that we might not have even had if I hadn't found the connection between Galinger and Yeager?

  "Maggie," Harrison said, "Fran's right. If I'd stopped to think, I'd have reached the same decision."

  It was hard to hold back tears. I managed to only because I knew that if I did cry, I'd never want to face anyone in the newsroom again.

  And it was even harder to make myself say, "Sure. I understand."

  ***

  Fran arranged for me to go to Lifestyles, and not alone. When I saw Jillian flounce over, I thought, Don't let it be, but it was.

  Deena Craig, the editor in charge of that section, showed us to a table overflowing with envelopes addressed to "Herald Readers Cook!" "We didn't know what we were getting into, putting on a recipe contest," she said. "It will be a huge help if you girls would open and sort the entries by category."

  She launched into instructions while I watched Harrison leaving the newsroom on his own. I saw others watch him leave and then look over at me, probably wondering why I wasn't with him.

  "Any questions?" Deena asked.

  "I guess not," I answered.

  "Yeah, a few!" Jillian said once Deena had moved out of earshot. "Like, for starters, what is the point?" She ripped open an envelope. "Camp Delights? People need a recipe for's'mores? And from a newspaper?"

  She tore into another one. "English muffin pizzas? Please!"

  I grabbed a stack of envelopes and started sorting.

  She went on. "I know why I'm here instead of with Lynch, who really needs me, despite that the doctor let him ditch his crutches and he can carry his own gear now. It's so I can make you feel better. About being pulled off your own assignment, I mean."

  She scanned a recipe. "Buttermilk pie with a pecan crust. I'll mark this one 'Looks promising.'"

  "We're supposed to be sorting, not judging," I told her.

  "So we can't multitask? Anyway, I was saying that there is no way Lynch wouldn't rather have me working with him. He relies on me. I suggest camera angles, shots he hasn't thought of, sometimes even exposure settings. Not that he takes my advice, probably because there's some professional pride involved. But I've caught him listening once or twice. Actually, one time yesterday he did explain why he was going with his own settings, and it made sense."

  The sorted piles grew higher while Jillian babbled on.

  "Working with Lynch has given me a whole new outlook. Did you ever think, Maggie, just how much information a good photographer can pack into one picture? Or, I suppose, how much information a bad photographer can pack in, if he gets lucky? The point is, it's true that a picture is worth a million words."

  "Jillian! Thousand!" I said. "The saying is 'A picture is worth a thousand words.'"

  She frowned only momentarily. "That was probably from when we had lower resolution cameras. Anyway, what I think..."

  ***

 
; After lunch, the Metro staff disappeared into the conference room with Fran, and I wondered what new developments Harrison would report. I wished he'd at least come tell me if he'd talked to the mayor and Galinger's employees.

  The staff meeting broke up when a tanker truck collision on one of the floating bridges sent the environmental reporter and a photographer running for their cars. Jillian and I knew only because a local television station carried the scene live. I thought that—probably for the first time—she and I were thinking exactly the same thing. What good was being in a newsroom if you got your news from a TV?

  And then in midafternoon Tonk came over and set a large Starbucks cup in front of me.

  "From Sports," he said. "We know you don't do coffee, so it's a white hot chocolate steamer, with some caramel and hazelnut added. Jake says to tell you congratulations on the story this morning, he's sorry you had to be pulled off it, and if you want back on Sports, he'll beg Fran for you."

  Jillian, returning from the women's restroom just then, asked, "How about me? Latte? A job offer?"

  Tonk looked at her blankly and then said, "Sorry. We didn't even think. Because Maggie's kind of one of ours..."

  "Go," Jillian said. "I'm teasing."

  As soon as he was gone, she took a long pull on the steamer. "You know," she said, "he's kind of cute. Too old, but cute. You want some?" She pushed the drink over. "So do you have a boyfriend?"

  I shook my head.

  She took the drink back.

  "I meant, no, I don't have a boyfriend," I said, pulling the cup back to me.

  "Oh! Well, it's a little on the sweet side, anyway. Not any? Not ever?"

  "I didn't say that," I answered, my voice a bit sharp, but I was annoyed. "I had a boyfriend where I lived before, but we broke up when I moved here. Which was okay. I'd outgrown him." I felt myself flush with embarrassment. "Not that I'm so perfect," I added. "But he didn't know how to be serious."

  Jillian planted both hands on the table and studied me intently. And then she announced, "Don't get me wrong, but maybe you come on a little too serious. I mean, take that outfit you're in."

  Not wanting to wear all my new things one after another, I was back in my linen pants and Mom's cream-colored shirt.