A Free Life

by Ha Jin

  So they skipped the urine and blood tests and went to the doctor’s office. Dr. Smith, a portly black man with an amiable face and a graying mustache, said to Pingping in a soft voice, “I’m sorry about the loss. This often happens with women your age. It’s hard to explain why nature does this.”

  Nan felt sobs rising in his throat but he choked them down. He glanced at his wife, who somehow looked emotionless, though more pallid than a moment before. She seemed too benumbed to say anything and just nodded at Dr. Smith as he was telling her to go home and wait for her obstetrician to call. “Dr. Walker will let you know what to do next,” he said.

  The Wus thanked him and left for the garage.

  On the way back they were silent, their car zooming down the bypass. In the blue and cloudless sky, a blimp was sailing, dragging along a Coca-Cola ad. Nan was stunned by the sudden descent of death in the family. Now and again he felt a wave of nausea surging in his chest, but he was driving carefully, his hands in the ten and two positions on the steering wheel. His mind couldn’t focus on any thought, yet he tried to remain calm and avoid saying anything that might trigger an outburst from his grieving wife. Meanwhile, Pingping looked distant, her face stony, as though she were oblivious to things around her. Before they reached the junction of I-85, she said finally, “Let’s go to the Korean supermarket.”

  “Why?” He was amazed she felt up to doing some shopping.

  “I promised Taotao to get garlic stems for him.”

  Nan got off I-85 and pulled onto Buford Highway. In the half-filled parking lot before the store, a pigeon dropped a load on the door of their van, and Nan didn’t bother to wipe off the two white stains. As he and his wife headed for the entrance, he wanted to hold her arm to support her, but he couldn’t do that, hardly able to lift his own hands. His legs were so weary that he was afraid they might give way at any moment. He had to exert himself to follow her.

  13

  ONCE HOME, Pingping broke down, sobbing wretchedly and blaming herself for the loss of the child. She went on saying, “Our baby sacrificed herself for me, because she was afraid I couldn’t survive the childbirth. She didn’t want to put my life in danger.” The more she raved, the harder she cried.

  Nan could no longer control himself either and wept too. He felt a numbing pain sinking deeper and deeper in him and squeezing every ounce of his strength out of him. If only he had thought of the possibility of such a loss. If only he hadn’t raised his hopes. Now his world was upside down.

  Pingping lit two squat white candles and placed them on the bar table in the living room, on either side of a large yellow chrysanthemum stuck in a cylindrical vase. Not absolutely sure of the result of the sonogram, Nan phoned Dr. Walker at the medical center. The bad news had already reached there, and the obstetrician wanted Pingping to come that very afternoon for another checkup, but he told Nan that the accuracy rate of the ultrasound was more than ninety-nine percent. Nan called the Gold Wok and asked Niyan and Shubo to tend the restaurant for the rest of the day. In the afternoon he took his wife to see Dr. Walker. The result of the reexamination was the same. Now that it was beyond any doubt that the baby was lost, the dead fetus would have to be aborted soon, for which Nan agreed to take his wife to Northlake Hospital three days later, on Monday morning.

  Although she sautéed the garlic stems with slivers of pork for Taotao, Pingping couldn’t help lashing out at the boy at dinner. She declared that only Nan had been good to the baby and that both Taotao and she herself had been heartless and selfish. She said to her son, “You never want baby sister. Now we lost her, you’re happy.”

  “Mom, I’m sad too,” Taotao wailed.

  Nan intervened, “We shouldn’t blame each ahther. We have to live on, zat’s what our baby wants us to do.”

  That evening Janet came. She had heard the bad news from Niyan. She embraced Pingping and wiped away tears from her own cheeks. “This is too cruel,” she said, shaking her roundish chin. Pingping took her friend into her bedroom and showed her the clothes she had made for the baby: a miniature jacket, two bibs, a pair of woolen socks, a silk quilt, and a cotton mattress that was yet unfinished. Janet stayed until ten o’clock.

  Nan wanted to inter their child in their backyard; so did Pingping. He planned to lay her down beside the large Russian swan that had died two years ago in the lake, buried under the tallest sweet gum. He had marked the spot with a brown boulder. Now they must bring their baby home after the abortion. But how? They were unsure whether there was a coffin made for such a tiny body. It was already the weekend, and the funeral home on Lawrenceville Highway was closed. Nan went to the Korean supermarket again and bought a large jewelry box. He dismantled its tiny drawers and made it empty, like a casket. He planned to take their daughter home in it, and when the funeral home was open the next week, he’d go buy a real coffin for her, which should be large enough to contain this makeshift pall. Meantime, Pingping finished sewing the little cotton mattress. She made the bed for the baby inside the box with the clothing she had prepared. In a way, the interior of the container resembled a tiny, comfortable cradle.

  14

  ON MONDAY MORNING Pingping didn’t eat breakfast, as the doctor had instructed. The Wus arrived at Northlake Hospital before nine o’clock. Dr. Walker wasn’t there yet, but a Filipino nurse in scrubs led Pingping into a curtained area in a large room. Pingping undressed and lay down on a gurney; then the nurse covered her with a sheet, checked her vital signs, and gave her an IV. An anesthesiologist came and began administering an anesthetic to her. He said to Nan, “My wife lost a baby last year too. It was hard. I know how you feel.” As he spoke, his large Adam’s apple was joggling.

  Nan said, “Doctor, we would like to take our baby home.”

  The stumpy man looked surprised, but told him, “You should talk to her obstetrician. To my knowledge, this hasn’t been done before.”

  Pingping said in a frightened voice, “We want her stay with us forever.”

  “I understand.”

  The man’s eyes dimmed, and he turned and hurried out. Nan kissed Pingping and said, “Don’t be scared. Everything will be all right.”

  She nodded, smiling a little. Then the nurse unlocked the wheels of the gurney with her toe, pulled it into the hallway, turned it around, and pushed it away. As they were moving toward the operating room, Pingping still fastened her eyes on Nan as if eager to pull him along. His stomach lurched, though he forced a smile, waving to assure her that she’d be fine.

  Nan was pacing up and down along a wall in the lobby with a canvas bag containing the casket slung over his shoulder. He was worried about his wife and prayed that she would come out of the operation safely. At last the warty-faced Dr. Walker appeared and hurried up to Nan. He said in an adenoidal voice, “We have everything in place. Pingping will be all right.” But when Nan said he wanted to take the baby’s body home, the obstetrician looked away. His blue eyes were downcast, but then they turned back to look at Nan. Dr. Walker told him, “I can feel your pain, but the baby would look very messy, an awful sight.”

  “Can you let us have her?”

  “I have no objection to that, only because people usually don’t do this. In any case, don’t worry about the baby. We have to focus on the mother now.”

  That was true, so Nan didn’t press further. Dr. Walker headed away and disappeared past the red-brown door to the operating section.

  Nan resumed pacing the floor while thinking about the obstetrician’s words. The thought grew clear to him that the baby would be shapeless, maybe torn to pieces in the operation. That might be why people didn’t take the fetus home after an abortion. All the same, he hoped Dr. Walker could let him keep his daughter’s body, broken or intact. If only Nan had given him the casket. Yet he didn’t blame himself for not having handed it to Dr. Walker, who might have refused to take it even if Nan had insisted. The doctor was right—what was at stake now was Pingping’s safety. Her life might indeed be in danger. That thou
ght frightened Nan. He tried to imagine how she was suffering on the operating table. Were the doctors using all the blunt metal instruments to open her and tear out the dead fetus? Could the anesthetic they’d given her suppress all the pain? That was unlikely. However effective the drug was, she must have felt she was being butchered.

  A full hour passed, and still there was no word about Pingping. Nan asked the old woman at the information desk how his wife was doing, but she had heard nothing from the operating room yet. He got so tensed up that he couldn’t stop walking back and forth at the end of the waiting lounge. People sitting in the scooped plastic seats glanced at him from time to time. Something stirred in his gorge and set him hiccupping. He pressed his fist against his solar plexus, but the visceral spasms wouldn’t stop. If only his parents-in-law were here. That would have made Pingping feel protected. When she had given birth to Taotao, her parents, both retired then, had taken care of her during her two months’ maternity leave because Nan had to stay at school attending seminars. Her father, a skinny chain-smoker despite his hacking cough, cooked special meals for her every day so that she could have enough milk for Taotao. Her parents nursed her so well that most of her small illnesses, such as a weak bladder and occasional light-headedness, were cured when her leave was over. In addition, her hair had grown thick and abundant. Never had she felt so healthy as when she rejoined her husband in Harbin. Recently Pingping and Nan had talked about asking her parents to come and stay a few months, but they dared not invite them, afraid Nan’s parents would be jealous and make trouble, at least wanting to come as well. It would be impossible for Pingping to get along with Nan’s mother, who was too manipulative and would boss her around.

  As Nan was pacing up and down the floor, the old woman at the information desk came up to him and said, “Hey, your wife’s coming out of the operation momentarily. Go to the front door of the medical building and pick her up there.”

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “She’s doing all right. Bring your car there quickly.”

  Before Nan could leave, Dr. Walker appeared, his eyes shifty: he looked rather shaken. He told Nan that Pingping was safe, but the operation had taken longer than anticipated. He didn’t mention the baby’s body and Nan was so worried about his wife that he forgot to ask about the aborted fetus. Handing him his card, the obstetrician said, “Feel free to call anytime you need me. I’ll call this afternoon to check on Pingping.”

  The instant Nan took the card, Dr. Walker turned around and strode away.

  Nan rushed out of the lobby through the side door. He gave the numbered brass tag to a gangly black valet, who hurried away to fetch his car. Several people were waiting for their vehicles at the side entrance too. A bony middle-aged man told everybody excitedly that his wife had just given birth to a healthy boy. He turned to Nan and beamed. Nan managed to say, “Congratulations.”

  “How about you? Gonna be a father?” the man asked.

  “We just lawst a baby girl.”

  “I’m sorry, really sorry.” The man looked a bit abashed. He turned away and gave a tip to a short black fellow who handed over his key.

  “Thank you, sir,” the valet said cheerfully.

  A moment later Nan got his car key from the other valet and tipped him a dollar. He drove to the front entrance of the medical building, where Pingping was sitting in a wheelchair, a young nurse standing behind her with both hands on the back of the chair. Seeing his wife empty-handed, Nan knew Dr. Walker hadn’t let her have their baby’s body, but he didn’t ask her about it. He opened his car door and helped her get in. “She’s very weak. Be careful,” said the nurse, still wearing a pale blue cap.

  Pingping seemed half paralyzed and could hardly move her head and limbs. Nan buckled her up. Without delay he pulled out of the driveway, as there were many cars waiting behind to pick up other patients. He drove out of the hospital and got onto I-285. On the way home he observed his wife now and again. Her eyes were closed, the lids twitching. Apparently she hadn’t fully come out of the anesthesia yet. Her cheeks were swollen with a ghastly pallor and her mouth seemed flabby, reminding him of rising dough. Yet the expression of pain and suffering on her face touched him and made him want to weep. He kept taking his eyes off the road and peering at her. He felt a sudden onrush of emotion, his heart aching. Never had he found her face so ugly yet so moving; he was sure her sorrowful features would be embedded in his mind as one of those images that could always unloose a flood of tenderness and compassion in his heart. He remained silent for a long while lest he might let out the sobs gathering in his throat.

  Having turned onto I-85, he finally asked her, “How do you feel, dear?”

  “I almost died. I’ve never felt so awful, so like death.”

  “Did they let you have our baby’s body?”

  “I don’t remember anything. The drug knocked me out.”

  “I asked Dr. Walker before the operation. He said he’d see to it.”

  “They just tried to keep me alive, I guess.”

  Now Nan understood why the obstetrician had looked so nervous when he handed Nan his card.

  That afternoon Dr. Walker called and asked if Pingping was still bleeding. Nan told him she was not. “Thank God, she’s strong. She lost a lot of blood,” said the doctor. He ordered her to eat a lot of chicken soup and rest in bed for at least two days.

  15

  THE WUS kept candles burning on the bar table in the living room for a whole month. A bunch of flowers, mums or roses or daisies, constantly stood in the vase between the two tiny halos of candle flames. Physically, Pingping was recovering rapidly, but she often looked absentminded. Sometimes she heard their baby calling her in a cry, “Mommy, Mommy, take me home.” When she stood at the glass door of the living room, she often caught sight of a red-cheeked girl toddling on the deck, as if her daughter, May, were frolicking there. Even the flickering of the surface of the lake in the sunlight would remind her of the blinking star, the baby’s heartbeat in the sonogram. Every night she’d sleep with the empty casket beside her pillow, and at times she woke up hearing the baby prattle to her mysteriously. It would take more than two years for her to outgrow most of the grief and to stop talking to her husband about the child.

  Nan grieved in his own way. He didn’t hear any voices or see any images, but he was depressed. For months after the loss of the baby, he couldn’t pull himself together to do anything other than run the restaurant. A numbing pain was sinking deeper and deeper in him. He felt deceived by fate. Originally he had thought that the arrival of his daughter would bring him a lot of joy and solace and would open a new page of his life. Even though his life had been truncated and enervated by the immigration, even though he had accomplished nothing here, even though he was a total failure in others’ eyes, he’d still have a lovely daughter to raise, to love, and to be proud of. How often he had pictured the girl as good-looking as her mother. He imagined teaching her how to read and write, how to ride a bike, and how to drive, then seeing her dress up for her high school prom, taking her to college, and eventually walking her down the aisle and handing her to a fine young man. Having her would have made his life more bearable and lessened his misery and loneliness in this place. She could have become his American dream.

  Now all the figments of his imagination were gone and he was thrown back to the hard reality again. He realized that he had been selfish in a way, eager to make his daughter’s life a part of his own; that’s to say he wanted her to come into this world for his sake, so that he wouldn’t have to live his life fully or wage the fight against adversity. In other words, subconsciously he wished to use her as a pretext for wasting his life. The truth was that he had been frightened by the overwhelming odds against writing in English artistically, against claiming his existence in this new land, and against becoming a truly independent man who followed nothing but his own heart. To date he had tried every way to wriggle out of the struggle. For several years he had devoted all his e
nergy and passion to the restaurant business and gotten the mortgage paid, but the disappearance of the debt had also ended his excuse for not writing, for not doing something his heart desired. Then he was obsessed with his unborn daughter so as to have his energy and life consumed in another way. Not until now did he understand his mind-set. What a shirker he had been! How disgusted he was with himself!

  His self-hatred paralyzed his will to do anything other than his routine business. For months he was in despair and acted like a robot moving between the Gold Wok and his house. At times he felt the urge to write something, but whenever he took up his pen, his mind remained numb and vacant, a coldness still permeating his being. He knew he had to get out of this lethargic state before long. No matter what kind of destiny awaited him, he’d have to put up a fight. He must resume working on his poetry. By now it was clear that he should write exclusively in English, which was the only way to go. He had been shilly-shallying for too long; it was the radical beginning that had intimidated him. This realization made him loathe himself more, but it still couldn’t motivate him enough for a wholehearted start. These days he thought a lot about writing as if it were a new subject to him.

  “Have you read the novella Good-bye, My American Boss?” Niyan asked Nan one afternoon. The waitress liked reading popular magazines, and her husband would write short articles for some Chinese-language newspapers every now and then.

  “No, who wrote it?” asked Nan.

  “Danning Meng. It’s a very interesting story that shows how badly some Americans treated the Chinese in Philadelphia. You should read it. It’s in the last issue of October Quarterly.”

  “I know the author. We’re friends.”

  “Really? He’s famous.”

  “I got a letter from him two weeks ago.”

  Nan had noticed several new titles by Danning in the World Bookstore. He had read two of them, but was underwhelmed. Danning, despite his fame as the leading figure in the overseas student literature, pandered too much to the Chinese readers’ taste and depended too heavily on exotic details and on nationalistic sentiment to make his stories work. That in effect made his fiction simplistic, glib, and even clunky in places. Nan didn’t mention to Niyan that he disliked his friend’s work. If he went on to write, he’d emphasize similarity instead of difference. He imagined a kind of poetry that could speak directly to the readers’ hearts regardless of their cultural and ethnic backgrounds. Above all, his work should possess more strength than beauty, which he believed often belied truth. He wanted to produce literature, or else he ought never to bother about writing at all.