The Love Wife

by Gish Jen

  Was it possible to have people stare all day, and not see oneself differently at night? In bed, by the fluorescent ceiling light, I stared too, sometimes. At myself, in the mirror. At Carnegie. At my hand touching his hand, at my feet touching his feet.

  The mosquito coil dropped its ash. The table fan rotated toward us, away, toward us, away. It was far enough from the mosquito coil not to disturb the ash, but close enough to make the tip of the coil flare and darken, flare and darken.

  Carnegie, normally so sensitive, looked perfectly comfortable on the coarse sheets. He was wearing boxer shorts he had bought here—more comfortable in the heat, he said. He had powdered under his arms and behind his knees, as had Lizzy and I. What a great invention, talcum powder, we agreed.

  I got up to check on Lizzy—gingerly inserting my sticky feet into the hotel plastic sandals. I did not like these but wore them to avoid stepping on the mildewed rug.

  Carnegie, when I returned, was exactly the same. His smooth-skinned self, relaxed and sweat-free.

  — We’re going to look so different when we’re old, I said. You’re going to age so beautifully, and I’m going to look so wrinkly. My upper lip is going to look like a vertical blind.

  — Not true, he said.

  — I see these women on the street, and not one of them is baggy. They’re like gymnasts. Even the old ones are like gymnasts.

  — I’ve seen fat ones.

  — But none of them is voluminous.

  How foreign that polysyllabic word, after weeks of Chinese. How amorphous itself. Even when speaking English, I realized, we had taken to speaking in a more succinct way than we did at home.

  — What about Director Wu?

  — We’re going to look even less natural together than we do now, I said. I’m going to look ten years your senior and pasty. Like your third-grade teacher, following you around.

  — Is all this because people stare at you?

  — No, I said.

  — I’ll hold your hand so people stare at me too, offered Carnegie, reaching and squeezing, as if in demonstration.

  — All right, I said.

  Holding hands, sure enough, produced a stir everywhere, but was worth it.

  — We might as well be a person married to a camel, I said.

  — I always wanted to marry a camel, said Carnegie.

  CARNEGIE / We broached with Director Wu the minor matter that was our employment. Vacation policies, we explained. Deadlines. No iron rice bowl, we said. We could get fired. Americans were rich, we explained, except for Americans without jobs.

  We waved in the air such faxes as we’d been able to arrange to receive. The thin coated paper curled around our hands.

  — Also my mother, I said. Alone all this time. And sick. Very sick. Her mind is not right. Her head—you understand.

  — You have bloody work to do, said Director Wu, amiably taking off her glasses. — And your bloody mother’s waiting.

  She nodded sympathetically, then put her glasses back on.

  BLONDIE / We went to an acrobatic show involving feats of great daring. There were human ladders, contortionists, balancing acts. But the most amazing moment of all came when a performer began to throw candies and favors into the audience.

  CARNEGIE / One boy lunged so far over the edge of the balcony that he had to be caught by his feet; we almost thought him part of the act, dangling there, his shirt in his armpits, on the verge of plunging headfirst to the floor.

  — What is the matter with these people? complained Lizzy, fanning herself.

  — People say the accident rate here is phenomenal, I said.

  — In this family, we do not use the expression ‘these people,’ said Blondie.

  BLONDIE / Lizzy complained more and more. Carnegie complained, too. But that didn’t turn them into forks.

  Only I could be a fork.

  When I was in college, I did a summer of intensive Chinese in Hong Kong—the same summer Gabriela was studying in Florence. What grand adventures we were both on! Mine the more exotic, perhaps. But as the letters accumulated, I began to feel that while Hong Kong was dramatic, Florence was superb. How disloyal! In my letters, of course, I wrote of the food and shops and discos my friend Linda and I were loving. It was easy. For I did love parts of it. The temples, the markets. The views, the boats, the energy. The fruit—I had never eaten so much fresh fruit. And so many kinds! I did love that. But I could not revel in the rest the way Linda did—with a shiny, bright love undimmed by the heat, the smog, the traffic. The humidity. I had never seen so many people. It was like a subway at rush hour, only you never got off. At night you could see right into people’s apartments; you could see how whole families squeezed into a single room. To think that wasn’t even crowded for Asia! How much worse the conditions in places like Bangladesh. Linda and I both felt for the hordes living this way.

  Yet only I shrank from them. Linda traipsed everywhere in her embroidered Chinese shirt, its high collar unfrogged. She wore old silver peasant earrings, with a bat-and-cloud design and wires so thick her ears bled. When there was a typhoon, she insisted on experiencing it live, in the streets; she almost got hit by a flying street sign. She made friends with people and went to visit them in their rooms. And how she loved the night market! Dismayed as she was by the slitting of live snakes right before her eyes, she loved its authenticity.

  — Don’t you see, it’s so real, she said. That’s so rare these days. Don’t you see?

  Linda had grown up in a suburb where wall-to-wall carpet muffled every sound and every meal came out of the freezer. The land of pink and green, she called it.

  — Don’t you see? Don’t you see?

  As the summer went on, Linda ate more and more daringly. She would ask to sit as close to the air conditioner as possible, and then, minidictionary in hand, she would order squab, sea cucumber, gooey duck. Things with XO sauce. One night she ordered a turtle soup that came with the turtle in its shell. Of course the turtle’s head was still on—the Chinese liked everything whole.

  — Delicious! she cried.

  The turtle had not been declawed. The curved nails looked as though they might fan out in another moment, as the turtle’s feet found the bottom of the bowl, and the turtle began to crawl.

  — Try closing your eyes, said Linda. Think of it changing shape, like something Daoist. You have to bypass your mind.

  I closed my eyes.

  — You can use the air conditioner. I find the noise of the air conditioner helps.

  I tried using the air conditioner, and did get down a mouthful. But when I opened my eyes and looked past the turtle—I had to look past the turtle—all I saw in the blue fluorescent light were stains on the tablecloth, three of them. Deep brown in the center, with light brown halos.

  How I wished I had not grown up putting the tablecloth in to soak right after Thanksgiving dinner! But this was my heritage, if I was honest about it. The Chinese had special strokes for painting pine trees and rocks; I had a faith in household order.

  Bus dread. I did not write to Gabriela how I suffered from rush-hour bus dread. Before I went to Asia I did not understand why tranquillity was so prized—in painting, in poetry, in architecture.

  Now I knew the meaning of peace.

  I loved the ferry.

  I loved the hotel lobbies.

  I loved the mountains ringing the city; I went hiking as often as I could. I loved taking trips out to the islands. The seafood markets there! How gorgeous the shells of the flowered crabs, so extravagantly patterned; there was nothing like them at home. And how artistically bound up, those crabs, with red twine. I loved the knots. I wrote to Gabriela about the knots.

  What I did not write even in my own journal was that I thought I had the wrong skin for the climate—too fair. Too delicate.

  When I got home I switched my major to graphic design. My Chinese teacher tried to dissuade me; I’d picked up the tones so easily, she said. I had an ear. I was a natural. Still, I switch
ed. Gabriela became my best friend; I more or less lost touch with Linda, though I did hear, years later, that she too adopted two girls, both from Asia. Of course, she was ecstatic. She took teaching jobs abroad whenever she could. I saw her picture several times in the alumni magazine—in each her face was more radiant. She was always wearing indigenous clothes of one kind or another; her girls were fluent in Mandarin.

  CARNEGIE / Finally, finally we had her! Wendy was ten months old—or so we were told—when she was placed in our arms. Or dumped, actually; such being the emotional state of her conveyor. Wendy herself was the picture of calm. With what perfect wondering composure she stared up at us! For a full moment.

  Then she started bawling too.

  Still—bawling ourselves—we adored her every particular.

  How she could touch the soles of her feet together without bending her knees, for example, and how full of intelligence her feet were, still, like hands. She had a black buzz cut tied up in a red bow; a fat face; bright slit eyes; four teeth; and many chins, past which we hypothesized a neck.

  BLONDIE / We tried to comfort her. This was tricky as, despite the heat, she was dressed in several layers of slippery acetate. She was surprisingly heavy, too; her thighs were like hams. And how she arched her back! With such strength. It was everything I could do to hold on to her.

  The foster mother touched her several times, and each time she stopped crying. But when the foster mother took her hand away, Wendy started crying again. It was hard not to wonder whether we were doing the right thing—if the natural thing wasn’t to leave her with the foster mother. Send money for her support, if we were so concerned about her welfare. Were we adopting this child for her good or for ours?

  Full of doubt, I gave Wendy my pinkie to suck, as Carnegie had once done with Lizzy. She made a face—the taste of the hand wipes, I guessed—but then accepted it.

  We all relaxed a little.

  — Do you want to hold her? we asked Lizzy.

  Lizzy clutched a stuffed panda she was supposed to give to her new sister.

  — No, she said, but then changed her mind.

  We traded bundles. Carefully—Carnegie and I standing ready to rescue Wendy should Lizzy drop her. But Lizzy did not drop her. And when I gingerly removed my pinkie from Wendy’s mouth—look! She smiled!

  — She loves me! shouted Lizzy.

  We thanked and thanked the foster mother.

  — All my life, I’ve taken care of children, but this one really got inside my heart, she said, covering her mouth as she spoke. — My Mandarin is no good.

  Her cheeks were ruddy, her skin tight and dry. One of her eyes had a sty. She began to cry again.

  — Your Mandarin is perfectly clear, I said. We understand you fine.

  I could not tell whether she understood or not. Neither could the woman be coaxed to say anything more to us, except in dialect through Director Wu.

  — The baby likes bean curd, and needs quiet for a proper nap, said Director Wu.

  — What’s her name? we asked, clutching the panda.

  — You can name her what you like, said Director Wu.

  — But what do you call her?

  — We call her Little Seven, said Director Wu. Seven or Eight?

  She turned to ask the foster mother, but the woman was crying so hard she had to leave the room.

  — Wait—a picture! we said, or tried to say.

  How could anyone have taken a picture, though, of someone crying like that?

  The foster mother shuffled out; the room without her seemed bright and empty. The walls were half green, half bisque, and peeling.

  — Can we get her name and address? we asked. Someday our little girl will want to come back and find her.

  — Not necessary, said Director Wu.

  Later we kicked ourselves that we had not pushed her harder to give us something. But at the time it just didn’t seem possible.

  — You see? said Director Wu. This baby looks like you.

  What did she mean? Carnegie and I agreed later that, if anything, the baby looked like the foster mother.

  That should have been the big moment of our trip. We drove away in a hired car, undressing her—imagining her to be hot, thinking that she might cry less if she was more comfortable. Her pants were slit, the way Chinese children’s pants were, but she was wearing a too-big disposable diaper. A luxury, we’d heard. A way of dressing her up for her big trip. We were in the process of replacing her acetate with an all-cotton onesie, when something bumped the car. It was dusk—still light on the larger streets, but getting to be night in the lanes and alleys. I might not have even registered the bump except that I was in such a protective frame of mind. No seat belt with which to strap in a car seat, Carnegie had commented as we got in. We had had to put the car seat in the trunk.

  CARNEGIE / How we all enjoyed the sensation of straplessness. Lizzy particularly, having never experienced it before we got to China. And in this car, an interesting small freedom: no logo on the horn. It was, at least on the interior, a no-name small car, with a springy ride and torn brown seats. The whole contraption stank of smoke. Still we asked the driver to please put out his cigarette.

  — The baby, we explained.

  A truth self-evident, yet he continued smoking until our guide, the humorless Mr. Qian, told him again to put his butt out. With a laugh the driver then sidearmed it out the window, still lit.

  Something hit the side of the car.

  BLONDIE / — Was that a rock? I asked.

  — Something on the road maybe, said Carnegie.

  The car slowed; the street grew crowded. People gawked in the windows—at all of us, but especially, I felt, at me. Or was it at Wendy? For she was still crying when she wasn’t sucking; I rummaged around for a pacifier.

  How large I felt—larger than ever.

  I found a passy. She took it.

  I had snugged Wendy in the sweaty valley between my thighs; my hands cradled her small head, which was tied up in a red bow. Buzz cut, no soft spot—her fontanel had closed up. A bud mouth, with lips so red I rubbed them with a finger to see if they had been rouged. Shiny, shiny eyes—all those tears. They caught the light blackly. Her long eyelashes, clumping, gleamed too. We mostly registered the bump because it caused me to move my forearms in closer to Wendy’s small body. Keep her from rolling.

  — Bump! I said softly, playfully, moving my nose in toward hers as the car stopped. I was trying to establish contact without excluding Lizzy. — Look, I said. That’s Lizzy. That’s your big sister.

  Wendy blinked and spat our her passy, which tumbled, before we could catch it, onto the car floor.

  — She’s going to stick her tongue out! said Lizzy.

  And Lizzy was right! Thrillingly, Wendy opened and closed her mouth, several times, just as some last sun bounced in the window. I could see clear back, for a moment, to her tonsils. Hungry? I wished I could nurse Wendy; Gabriela knew someone who had managed to nurse her adopted child by stimulating her breasts with a breast pump for some months. (An amazing machine, that pump, reported Gabriela, no different than what they use on cows.) The friend’s milk supply was never much—but the bonding!

  Wendy began crying again. I rummaged in the diaper bag for some formula and a bottle as Carnegie leaned toward us. He peered between the front seats, down the notch between the driver and Mr. Qian.

  CARNEGIE / The driver had hit someone—a tiny, wiry man in one of those ubiquitous saggy undershirts, his blue pants cinched around his nothing waist via an overlong black belt. His baskets and shoulder pole had fallen to the ground. Now he crouched beside them, whether out of pain or concern for his goods was hard to tell. I started to get out of the car to help him.

  — Please stop, said Mr. Qian. We don’t want to have incident. Number one important point is to avoid incident. Bring a lot of trouble.

  — To hell with that, I said, getting out of the car.

  The driver also got out—to check the car, it turned
out. Squatting, he ran his hand over the bumper. He spit on one spot and rubbed it, then examined it again.

  With characteristic alacrity, Mr. Qian got out last.

  BLONDIE / The slamming doors shook the car.

  — This car is made of tin, I told Wendy, even as I tried to see how badly the man was hurt. —Yes it is! This car could be a cat-food can.

  Wendy cried.

  — You’re hungry, aren’t you, I said. I can tell. Mommies know everything, you know.

  — They do not, said Lizzy in a stage whisper, already in league with her sister. — They do not know everything. She’s just saying that.

  People stopped to stare, at the accident and at us. I caught an occasional Mandarin sentence through my open window.

  Sile ren ma?—Did anyone die?

  An argument began.

  I jiggled Wendy, looking for another pacifier. How fat she was! What with the extra creases on her upper and lower arms, she looked to have three elbows on each arm. And the texture of that fat—so silken.

  I rolled my window up and told Lizzy to do the same.

  — Also the front windows, I said. And lock the doors, please.

  I worried she was going to complain that it was too hot to close the windows, but thankfully she just dove into the front seat and then back again.

  People began to press their faces to our window glass. Wendy cried. In the half dark I could hardly make out more than the gleam of eyes and teeth, but Lizzy seemed able to see fine.

  — What are you staring at? she demanded, making faces at the people. She hit the glass with her hands, scaring a few away. — You are so nosy!

  I found another pacifier. A different type than the first, but Wendy took this one, too.

  Mostly the argument involved Mr. Qian and the driver. I couldn’t follow exactly what was being said, especially with the windows up, but stiff Mr. Qian seemed to be blaming the seething driver, who in turn, between shouts, jabbed wildly in Carnegie’s direction. The argument was in dialect. I wished I were not upset; my comprehension of dialect was at best a guess, but my guesses were better when I wasn’t distracted.