A Free Life

by Ha Jin

  “I shall try.” Nan grimaced.

  “I’ll miss the Gold Wok, you know.”

  They both laughed. “You are always welcahm to eat here. Do come back and visit us,” Nan told him.

  Seeing that Dick didn’t respond and knowing he must be elated to leave Atlanta, Nan added, “Winter is mild here.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure we’ll meet again, one way or another.”

  So in May 1997, Dick sold his condominium and left for New York. After spending the summer there, he started teaching at the University of Iowa. As promised, he kept up a correspondence with Nan.

  PART SEVEN

  1

  JANET and Dave were worried about their daughter’s health these days. Hailee, already three years old, caught cold continually and often lost her appetite. She ate so little that she seemed to have stopped growing. Even when she cried, which she often did, she no longer screamed gustily as she used to, and neither would she kick her legs or flail her arms, where the skin was so pale that the blood vessels were visible. One night her nose bled; the blood stained the front of her wrap-over vest and frightened her parents.

  The next morning Janet took her to the hospital. Dr. Williams, a tall, haggard-looking woman, listened to Hailee’s chest, palpated her abdomen, and discovered that her liver and spleen were tender, probably swollen. Immediately she sent her to the lab to have her blood tested. A nurse drew three tubes of blood from Hailee’s arm and said the result would be available in two days. On her way back to the jewelry store, Janet stopped at the Gold Wok and chatted with Pingping. Pingping held Hailee in her arms, cradling her and cooing at her, but the girl was subdued, her eyes dim, and a line of drool flowed out of the corner of her mouth, which seemed partly collapsed. With tears in her eyes Janet told Pingping, “I’ve prayed and prayed and prayed, hoping she’ll be okay.”

  “Don’t worry before it’s time. I’m sure Hailee will be all right. Babies always have problem. If they don’t get sick often, they won’t be smart.”

  “What kind of logic is that?”

  “I tell truth. My younger sister is always sick when she’s little, so she’s smartest in our family.”

  “I would rather have Hailee healthy than smart.”

  “She will be fine.”

  Hailee looked sleepy, so Janet left a few minutes later. Nan had been busy working in the kitchen and had overheard their conversation; he said to Pingping about the Mitchells, “Now they know what it’s like to be parents.” Over the years Nan had grown to be very fond of Hailee. For some reason, whenever the girl saw him, she’d raise her little arms and cry, “Baobao [Hold me],” as if to claim a special tie with him. And without fail Nan would take her into his arms. If the Mitchells asked him to be Hailee’s nominal father now, he would agree happily, but they never asked him again.

  Dr. Williams called Janet two days later and in a soothing voice told her the result of the blood count. An abnormal number of white blood cells had been found, which might indicate leukemia, but she’d have to give Hailee a bone marrow biopsy to get enough information for an accurate diagnosis. She advised the Mitchells not to panic.

  The next morning Janet took Hailee to the hospital again. A browless male nurse gave the child a local anesthetic on her hip and said she wouldn’t feel any pain, so Janet, who covered her daughter’s eyes with her palm, was not to worry. Then he inserted a long needle into Hailee’s hip bone. Slowly the crimson marrow appeared, filling the syringe. Janet averted her head in terror, feeling as though a hand were yanking and twisting her insides. The girl let out a feeble groan but didn’t kick her legs.

  The result of the biopsy was the same. Dr. Williams told the Mitchells that Hailee had acute leukemia. From now on, the girl would be treated by a group of doctors in the hospital, though Dr. Williams would remain her primary pediatrician. She insisted that the child be hospitalized without delay. She also said that Janet and Dave shouldn’t feel hopeless, because almost seven out of ten leukemia patients had been cured in the United States and the cure rate was even higher among children.

  Still in disbelief and confusion, the Mitchells wanted to consult another doctor for a second opinion. Dr. Williams encouraged them to do that and had the results of Hailee’s blood test and bone marrow biopsy faxed to an expert, Dr. Caruth at Emory Hospital. The following day Dr. Caruth sent back his diagnosis, which was also leukemia.

  After crying in each other’s arms, Janet and Dave took their daughter to Gwinnett Hospital, where the child went into chemotherapy. A transparent tube was put into a vein in Hailee’s chest, through which anticancer drugs were pumped into her bloodstream. Her initial response to the treatment frightened her parents. Her face turned greenish and she often vomited, unable to stop groaning. She seemed too tired to cry loudly. No matter how Janet and Dave coaxed her, she’d hardly eat any solids, though she still drank fruit juices and milk. Then the girl’s hair began falling out, but Dr. Williams said this was normal. She assured the Mitchells that these side effects would go away and that her hair would grow back once the chemotherapy was stopped.

  Pingping and Nan went to see Hailee one morning in mid-March, bringing along a jar of fresh fruits for Janet, who often forgot to eat these days. Hailee smiled at Pingping and called her “Aunt” then she called Nan “Uncle,” but was too ill to raise her arms to let him hold her.

  “Do you still feel pain here?” Pingping asked, and patted her forearm, pricked by needles.

  “No,” she mouthed.

  Nan was about to stroke her cheek, but Janet stopped him—the girl’s immune system had been so weakened by the medication that nobody was supposed to touch her face without wearing a glove.

  Despite Hailee’s good spirits, she looked withered and had lost weight, her skin tight over her strong bones. “Eat more food,” Pingping told her. “You will recover soon, like new.”

  The girl smiled again, as if she had grown a few years older in just two weeks. Her mother told the Wus that Dave would come in the evening to attend to Hailee. They had a foldaway cot in the closet, so Dave could sleep beside their daughter at night. Before coming to the hospital he had to change and shower at home, as the doctor had instructed.

  An old nurse came in to put some medicine into the intravenous line. The Wus took their leave, having to get to the Gold Wok before ten a.m.

  Afterward they called the Mitchells now and then to see how Hailee was faring. Three weeks after the chemotherapy had started, another blood test showed a remarkable reduction of white blood cells. Apparently her leukemia was in remission. The girl was regaining her strength and began to eat solids; her pulse was stronger and even her voice sounded lively again. Both Janet and Dave were grateful and hopeful, though they were told that it would take a long time for their daughter to recuperate fully.

  Once in a while Janet would come to the restaurant to talk with the Wus about Hailee, asking them how to locate the child’s biological parents so that she could know something about her family’s medical history. Pingping even called Seattle and talked to Ruhua, the fruity-voiced agent, and begged her to help the Mitchells. Ruhua promised to inquire into this matter, but she phoned back a week later, saying there was no way she could find any trace of Hailee’s biological parents—the Chinese side had just hemmed and hawed without answering her questions. On behalf of the Mitchells, Nan wrote directly to Mr. Peng, the head of the orphanage in Nanjing. The man replied in less than a month and apologized for his inability to assist the adoptive parents, because the baby girl had been found near a local pig farm and there was no way they could identify her biological mother, who could have lived in any one of the two hundred villages in the county. He expressed the solicitude of the orphanage’s leaders and staff, saying Hailee was still their daughter.

  2

  NAN had read and reread all the poetry books recommended by Dick. He liked them but felt Robert Frost and W. H. Auden were more to his taste, so these days he resumed reading Frost. In addition, he had been
writing poetry in English whenever he could. Lately he had focused on a longish poem entitled “Heaven,” which he planned to dedicate to Dick, as a surprise. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t produce anything he liked. His lines were devoid of gravity and verve, and he could tell he was getting nowhere if he continued this way. He had to find a different angle from which he could reconceive his project, which had the ultimate goal of making his poems dark, luminous, and starkly elegant, a quality he vividly remembered from the paintings by Kent Philips. He knew that, living in Georgia, he couldn’t possibly present that kind of landscape in his poetry, but he didn’t have to avail himself of the physical world. What he should have was a restless soul from which vibrant lines might originate.

  For months he couldn’t feel excited about what he wrote, as if his mind hadn’t wakened from a dormant state yet. He rented some movies and watched them late at night, but they didn’t help create any poetic impulse either, and he got tired of them soon. He went to downtown Atlanta on a Saturday afternoon in April to attend a celebration of the imminent reversion of Hong Kong to China, but he felt more lonesome among the large crowd, though a soprano, singing at the proscenium with the curtain behind her, moved him to tears with two songs that brought back the memory of his childhood. He wondered whether this inert state of his mind might be connected to the fact that for many years he hadn’t met a woman he loved wholeheartedly and with the passion from the depths of his soul. Of course there was Beina, who still bewitched him. But he had no idea where she was now, perhaps still in Harbin. If only he knew how to get in touch with her.

  By now he honestly loved his wife, but in a steady and mundane way. With Pingping he felt peaceful. He took care of the restaurant and the yard work while she spent more time with Taotao, cooking breakfast for the boy and supervising him in his study. What’s more, she kept their books, wrote checks, went to the bank to deposit or transfer money every day, and paid taxes by the end of each season. Their solitary life had strengthened their mutual dependence and emotional attachment, which had ripened into love and trust. Still, the marriage didn’t offer the kind of excitement that Nan hoped could spur him into song. He imagined that what he needed was an overpowering emotion that could become an inspiration.

  His desire for poetic stimulation often made him think of those women in literature who inspired poets and even became the subject of poetry, such as Petrarch’s Laura, Dante’s Beatrice, and Yuri Zhivago’s Lara. If only there had been such a woman in his life! A woman just the thought of whom would set his soul on fire. He believed that if he had met such a woman, he might have written like a possessed devil and his mind could have turned into a fountainhead from which lyrical lines would overflow. Sometimes he realized this was silly, but he couldn’t help himself and kept indulging in the illusion.

  Out of this secret sentiment he rented the film Doctor Zhivago. He and Pingping watched the movie until two a.m. The picture touched them so deeply that they both felt sick for several days. They recommended it to Niyan and Shubo, who also enjoyed it. It reminded all of them of the life they had led in China, where, similar to the turbulent Russia, human lives had been worthless, where hatred and blind rage had run amok, and where the gun ruled the law. For days Pingping had a stuffy nose, and whenever they talked about the scenes in the movie the Wus would mist up a little.

  Yet they were also moved by the beauty and strength of the film. Nan wished it had shown how Dr. Zhivago managed to write poetry when forced to serve the Bolsheviks. The poet in the story wasn’t shown trying hard to develop his art. Once, in a deserted ice-clad mansion, he did take up his pen and write while Lara was sleeping and wolves were howling. Still, that couldn’t explain how he became an accomplished poet.

  Nan borrowed the novel from the town library. Fifteen years ago he had read it in the Chinese translation and had been underwhelmed, mainly because he couldn’t grasp it structurally. This time he worked through it carefully and found it magnificent. Pasternak wrote as if no novels had existed before. The loose structure of the book seemed improvident, yet after finishing the last page, Nan felt everything hung together, uncannily unified. What an amazing book! Still, he wished it had shown how the protagonist struggled to write poetry, the development of which was hardly mentioned in the novel. He pondered over the poems at the back of the book and couldn’t see how they were related to the content of the prose. He recommended the novel to Pingping. She read a few pages, then gave up. She didn’t like the way the story was told, and preferred Steinbeck, whose books she would read whenever she had spare time. Sometimes even if she didn’t understand a paragraph fully, she still loved to be lulled by that great author’s natural, colloquial voice, just like listening to a wise friend talking.

  Over the years Janet, a big fan of Stephen King and Anne Rice, had tried to persuade Pingping to join her book club, but Pingping wouldn’t participate. She had very little time, and besides, she liked reading older books.

  3

  BOTH Nan and Pingping had gingivitis, a problem common among Asian immigrants because there was little dental care in their native countries. Without dental insurance, the Wus couldn’t go to the dentist regularly. Ever since Taotao came to America, they’d had at most one dental cleaning a year. Recently two molars bothered Nan a lot, and the gums in the back of his mouth were inflamed, giving him a sore throat, though he’d had his tonsils out sixteen years before. He went to see Dr. Morell at Sunrise Square near the Lilburn public library, and the dentist suggested Nan have his four wisdom teeth extracted, or he might lose them and some other molars in the near future. The doctor told him, “They won’t last, to be sure. All have deep pockets, seven or eight. We should take steps to save your other teeth.”

  “I don’t have dental insurance.”

  “I’ll charge you only two hundred dollars for it.”

  “Let me talk wiz my wife.”

  “Sure. Give me a call if you want to do it.”

  Nan didn’t agree on the spot because Pingping disliked Dr. Morell, a pudgy man in his mid-thirties. In the beginning the dentist hadn’t been good to the Wus. Once, right before he performed a minor surgery on Pingping’s gum, he had said, “So, thirty-seven, eh?” He smirked, his face rippling with flesh. Apparently he’d gotten the information from the form she had just filled out. She angled her head in disgust but said nothing. Throughout the procedure she shut her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see his ugly face. Despite that bad experience, she admitted that Morell was skilled, so she would let her family see him once a year.

  This time Pingping urged Nan to have his wisdom teeth drawn without postponement. She feared he might fall ill, since the bad teeth often gave him a low fever. He went to the dentist a week later. The extraction wasn’t very painful and took less than an hour. Dr. Morell told Nan that his teeth had unusually deep roots. That was why the last tooth alone had taken him almost twenty minutes to pull. Gingerly the tip of Nan’s tongue probed the holes left in the back of his mouth, each of which reminded him of a smoldering bomb crater or volcano. Before leaving the dentist’s, he asked for his teeth, which a nurse wrapped for him in a wad of gauze.

  Coming out of the office and still in a haze, he looked at his four molars, each of which was ringed with tartar and stained with blood. One still had a tiny piece of flesh attached to it, and another had split in two along the middle, thanks to the force used to extract it. As Nan’s tongue searched the cliffs and valleys in the back of his mouth, a warm pain filled his mind with a strange sensation, which reminded him of a passage in Nabokov’s Pnin. Pnin did the same after his dental surgery. The author described his tongue as a fat, sleek seal “plunging from cave to cove” under icy water. In an endnote to the novel provided by the Chinese translator, Nan had read that this passage reflected Nabokov’s own experience of having his teeth pulled. Somehow the memory of that passage distressed Nan and made him feel more wretched.

  Having parked his car behind the Gold Wok, he unwrapped the gauze and observed t
he teeth again. Should he keep them? What for? To show them to his wife and son and later to his grandchildren?

  Strangely enough, his mind went off on a tangent. He remembered the hearsay that Sakyamuni, the founder of Buddhism, had left two of his teeth on earth. In fact, their whereabouts were still discussed and disputed today. Every few years someone in Asia would proclaim a new discovery of the relic. In China some pagodas were erected to store the sacred teeth said to be Sakyamuni’s.

  Then Nan’s anesthetic-inspired reverie ran wilder. He envisaged that teeth left by Nabokov, Joyce, Yeats, Frost had all become relics displayed in libraries together with their manuscripts and letters. How precious would their teeth be? How many visitors would pay homage to those tiny things? Some might even touch them in hope that the divine inspiration might rub off on them. This bizarre vision brought tears to Nan’s eyes. He remembered that Keats died at twenty-five, but his gorgeous poetry was still read today. By comparison, he himself had lived only in the flesh. Why should he live like this? What was the meaning of an existence that was altogether bodily?

  The more he thought, the giddier he got, something hammering his temples without letup. He looked pale and ill, and he leaned his shoulder against a bit of graffiti on the back wall of the restaurant, a circle of red hearts with a huge lip print in the middle. How valueless his rotten teeth were, because he had accomplished nothing in his life! How ludicrous and megalomaniacal he was to think of the value of his teeth!

  Beside him a black lizard with a blue tail zigzagged down the wall and got into a hole beneath the back door of the Gold Wok. A moment later, Nan curbed his teeming mind and warned himself, “This is crazy. Stop this self-pity! These teeth are no different from a dog’s.” He walked across to the Dumpster and tossed them into it, then went into the restaurant.