Throwaway Daughter Read online

  “I have only one son.” It was one of my father-in-law’s frequent laments over cups of warmed rice wine, when he was inside the walls of his house. “Who will pass on my family’s spirit if I don’t have a grandson?”

  Loyal may be the head of the family in many ways since his father’s retirement, but when it came to the child I am bearing, my husband lost his voice right then and there. True, Loyal treated me with respect. But if I had hoped to be the moon to his sun, my expectation turned to bubbles when he mentioned to me one night that he owed his loyalty first to his father, second to his mother, then to the memory of his two sisters. I came fourth. Secretary Chen has raised his son well.

  One fine spring evening, when the sun had almost vanished below the horizon, illuminating the western sky with golden rays, I was reminded yet again that my life and body were no longer my own. After we sat down for supper, my father-in-law said to Loyal, “I went to see Old Fu this morning. He has agreed to examine your wife tonight.”

  I blushed, quickly lowering my head, putting down my chopsticks. I stared at my bowl of rice, my fingers linked together on my lap, the knuckles turning white. I began to tremble.

  “Yes, Father,” Loyal answered, his mouth jammed full, his jaws moving determinedly, his eyes avoiding me. “We’ll go to Lao Fu straight after the meal.”

  “We must know,” my father-in-law mumbled again, filling up his wine cup. “Chairman Mao taught us that to go into a war unprepared was to be defeated.”

  “Know what?” I heard myself ask. I had always recognized the significance of my baby’s gender, but I had never expected the birth to be compared to a war. What kind of battle was he talking about? And who was his enemy? I sat dumbfounded, hardly touching my food as the others consumed theirs in silence.

  As the night deepened, we left the village. I followed Loyal across the dry paddy dikes, over a stone bridge, along a hard-packed dirt road, heading to the Fu Family village where Lao Fu—Old Fu, Wicked Fu, or “Mr. Wind and Water”—lived. I had never met Fu in person but had heard plenty about him in the past few years after he resumed his old practice. His business, inspired by his so-called talent, or heaven-given gifts as he boasted, ranged from selecting appropriate burial sites for the dead to determining the most auspicious location of new buildings. Like many old habits and traditions that had been condemned by the government as spreading superstition, Fu’s services were in great demand. But I had no idea that Wicked Fu had acquired a new skill, forecasting the gender of fetuses.

  If I had had no grudge against him, Fu would have appeared to be a grandfatherly-looking man. He had a broad face, and round eyes that were sharp and alert despite puffiness and wrinkles. His thin white hair was combed back but refused to stay in that position long. He shook hands with Loyal, nodding and smiling politely in my direction. He looked me over carefully but avoided my eyes.

  Wicked Fu offered us tea. He didn’t insist after Loyal shook his head and said no. Loyal and I had been travelling in silence ever since we left home. His no-discussion attitude filled me with sadness. I would have loved a cup of tea to ease my nerves.

  “I’m honoured that your father has entrusted me with his own son although my poor skills may be inadequate,” Fu said to Loyal with accustomed false humility. The old man might have wasted no time catching up with the new trend of making money, but he seemed to have failed to update himself that false modesty was also on the way out as changes rushed in.

  No wonder Loyal frowned. He seemed about to say something but decided against it.

  “Perhaps your esteemed wife would lie down here,” Fu went on, pointing to a raised brick platform that took up a corner of the small room: an old-fashioned, peasant-style bed. No one was talking to me, so I had a chance to look around. Apart from a three-legged desk beside the bed, the room was bare of furniture. A stack of bricks had been used to replace the missing leg. On the wall beside the desk was a small medicine cabinet with a red cross painted on the door, which reminded me of the village clinic where my pregnancy had been confirmed.

  I walked to the brick bed, which was covered by a thin, grey quilt, as uninviting as the rest of the place, and lay down on it. The bed was cold and hard against my back, as if I was lying in a grave.

  “When I was in the city last year, I heard of this method people use in the West,” Fu said to Loyal. “I was skeptical at first, but after I tried it a few times, I am pleased to tell you that the method is foolproof. Now, if your wife will kindly bare her abdomen.”

  With a tenderness that was unusual for him, Loyal unbuttoned my shirt a few inches from the hem to reveal my stomach. When he reached to undo my trousers I grabbed his hands.

  “A palm-width below the navel will suffice,” Fu instructed, stern faced. “This is no time for her to be modest.”

  I watched Loyal move away, until I could no longer see him. I then clamped shut my eyes but quickly opened them again. I took a deep breath, drawing into my lungs the stale odours around me—cooking oil, coal smoke, and dampness. Beside me, the old man stood, leaning on the edge of the bed, threading a needle with his bony fingers.

  “It’s as simple as it is accurate.” He turned to Loyal, clearing his throat noisily. “If the needle rotates to the right, it’s a boy; if to the left”—he shrugged—“then your esteemed wife may have to pay a visit to the clinic. Now—” he paused for a second, “let’s see.”

  Pinching one end of the cotton thread between the thumb and finger of his right hand, Old Fu held the needle above my lower abdomen. I lifted my head as far as I could while trying to keep my body still, and watched him clasp the thin thread with the thumb and index finger of his left hand, drawing downward to the needle to steady it before he let it go.

  Three pairs of eyes locked on the tiny needle. It hung motionless for a second, then slowly began to rotate.

  “The needle has turned right! It’s a male!” Loyal exclaimed, joy in every word. “Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes. Yes,” the Wind and Water man responded, winding the thread around his finger. “Your father will be pleased.”

  “And generous, too, Old Fu,” Loyal added. “Your service to our family will be rewarded.”

  Fu showed us out, an unctuous smile plastered across his face.

  As we made our way home, Loyal chattered cheerfully on, as if a heavy load had been suddenly lifted off his shoulders. “I am going to have a son, a grandson for my father. All the sacrifices have finally paid off.”

  My mind, meanwhile, was miles away. From where I had lain I had had a clear view of the old man’s hand. Just as he released the needle he had almost imperceptibly turned it to the left, ensuring the hoped-for sign.

  Listening to Loyal talk on and on about the past and future, I didn’t have the stomach to tell him what I had seen. Revealing Fu’s stunt would cause turmoil, and I wanted peace.

  PART THREE

  Milford, Ontario

  JANE

  (June 1989)

  Friday is usually Kevin’s day to mow the grass. He comes home a bit early—there isn’t much insurance business on Fridays—and puts on his work clothes, does the lawns, and putters about in the garden until dinner. That way the outside chores are done and his weekend is free. He hasn’t gone into the office on a Saturday for years.

  So when I called the girls to the table for a supper of barbecued veggie burgers, chicken breasts, and roast corn on the cob, Kevin was relaxed and refreshed after a hot shower and enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail on the patio. Megan was in a grouchy mood, having spent a beautiful afternoon working frantically on an English essay, which was, if I knew her, late; and Dong-mei was chirpy, since it was her weekend to command the television.

  As soon as we sat down the phone rang. As usual, Kevin suggested we let the answering machine pick it up, and as usual we ignored him. Dong-mei jumped to her feet and grabbed the phone.

  “Oh, hi, Grandpa,” she said cheerily as a sour look passed over her face. “Hold on. Mom’s right here.�
� And she tossed the cordless phone to me as if it was a hot iron.

  Neither of my daughters liked to talk to my father on the phone. Megan and Dong-mei enjoyed Dad’s company and his stories, but they tried to avoid one-on-one occasions with him, when, they complained, the librarian in him shuffled out of its cave. He meant well, but sometimes he turned the conversation into an interrogation about school, unsatisfied with vague answers like “okay” or “fine.” He would ask Megan what she was reading, then quiz her about the book. He questioned Dong-mei about books he had bought for her or loaned her. Poor Dong-mei. At eight she had no sophistication to fend him off gently. She would admit that she forgot where she had left the unread books.

  Dad’s call was abrupt for him. “Turn on the TV,” he said. “Right away. It’s about China. Talk to you later.” I got up from the table and went into the family room with the phone still in my hand.

  “Mom,” Dong-mei yelled from the table. “Supper’s not over yet.”

  She couldn’t resist the jab. Our firm rule was, no TV until supper was finished and the dishes cleared away. Kevin says I have a thing about families that eat in front of the TV, or don’t have meals together at all—and he’s right.

  On the TV screen was a photo of a cityscape.

  “That’s Beijing,” Kevin said, leaning against the door jamb. “Tiananmen Square.”

  The girls followed him into the room.

  “Nice going, Dad,” Megan said. “It says so on the bottom of the screen.”

  “Why are we staring at some stupid picture?” Dong-mei grumbled. “This is a waste of time.”

  “Be quiet, Dong-mei,” I said.

  The girls were allowed an hour of TV per weekday, and they had to have a reason for watching a show; no sitting-and-surfing allowed. On alternate weekends, Megan or Dong-mei had first say in what we should watch. While Kevin and I had been weeding the flowerbeds, Dong-mei had regaled us with the lineup of shows she planned for the weekend, starting at eight o’clock that night. She was grumpy and impatient because she was afraid her plans were unravelling.

  I wasn’t surprised to see the report from Beijing. All spring, it seemed, I had been reading newspaper articles about growing student unrest in China, and when Russia’s President Gorbachev paid his much-anticipated state visit to the capital city, press from around the world were there, and it wasn’t long before they trained their cameras on the protesters who occupied Tiananmen Square. The still photo on the screen showed what looked like a vast, messy campground. It appeared more festive than threatening.

  “This is boring,” Dong-mei tried again. “A picture of buildings and crowds.”

  “Be patient,” Kevin told her, sitting down in his favourite chair. “Jane, should we bring our supper in here?”

  “Okay,” I said, but, distracted by the commentary, I didn’t move. The girls looked at each other in amazement.

  “The protesters are trying to force the government to stop corruption in the Party,” the reporter said. “The army has surrounded Beijing, waiting for the call to move in and clear them out.”

  “Hey, that’s the Forbidden City in the background,” Megan cut in. “We read about it in Politics this year. That’s where the emperor and his family used to live. No one else could go in. Or something like that. Now it’s open to tourists.”

  “Why can’t those students stay where they want?” Dong-mei asked. “It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  “Grace, you can be so out of it sometimes,” Megan replied in the superior tone she knew her sister hated. “China, a free country?”

  Kevin said, “Let’s hear what the reporter has to say, girls.”

  The journalist, whose photograph was on the screen—there was still no video—said that the students were highly organized and had been joined recently by factory workers. The government was raging mad because China had lost face in front of the entire world. As soon as Gorbachev had gone home the army had been called in.

  “This looks bad,” I murmured. “Dad says some China experts are predicting a civil war.”

  The photo was replaced by live video. Stiff-faced soldiers in olive drab, with bags criss-crossed on their chests and rifles in their hands, stood tightly packed together on the bed of a truck. The camera zoomed out to show a long line of trucks stretched down a wide avenue, swamped by a sea of people, women and men who looked as if they had been coming home from work or the market. The trucks weren’t moving. A young woman climbed onto the front fender of one of the trucks and shook her fist, shouting something at the soldiers.

  Another shot, this time showing the students massed in the square.

  “How can the soldiers possibly move all the protesters out?” Megan asked. “Even if they could make it to the square?”

  Dong-mei continued to fidget. Our supper grew cold in the kitchen. Finally, the voice on the TV announced, “We now return to our regularly scheduled program.”

  “Hooray!” Dong-mei shouted.

  GRACE

  (June 1989)

  Of all days, I liked Sunday best, especially in the morning, and I still do. It was the only time I could while away a few hours free from the watchful eyes and supervising ears of my parents and my big sister. I would wake up early and go downstairs in my PJs, park myself in the centre of the family-room floor or curl up in the leather easy chair, usually the turf of my father, and turn on the TV with the volume low because my parents’ bedroom was also on the ground floor. As I watched my favourite shows, I would have a picnic—a bag of potato chips, some candies or a chocolate bar—content and master of the house.

  This Sunday morning I checked the clock on the mantel as I passed the fireplace: ten past seven. I was up earlier than usual because my parents had stolen my TV time watching the news. I settled in the chair, pulled a blanket over myself, and turned on the TV, ready for some solitary quality time watching music videos, which were against the rules because I was “only eight and a half,” as my sister loved to gloat. But no music could be heard, no rock stars pranced across the stage. A movie was playing instead. A murky evening sky filled the screen. A wide avenue, dimly lit by amber street lights. But this was no movie. It was Tiananmen Square again, and its tent city and confusion of people and buses and barricades. In the darkness, people running in all directions, fleeing in waves. Their fear and desperation were obvious. I turned the sound up a little and got out of the chair and onto my knees, close to the TV. Panicked screaming rose up, more real than any movie I had ever seen.

  Then the street lights went out. The sudden darkness seemed to bump up the sound. I could make out the shadowy forms of thousands of people, a burning bus in the distance, then trucks and a tank moving quickly down the avenue as people dashed out of the way. A man and woman on a bike didn’t make it. My stomach churned as the tank ran over them and sped on.

  A second column of trucks appeared and soldiers spilled out of the backs, lining up in formation. More screams, more panic as people tried to run away. Then came the gunshots. The camera zoomed in on a white object that jerked and fell to the ground. The man or woman—I couldn’t tell—lay twitching. A dark stain spread across the shirt front as the twitching slowed and stopped. More gunfire. More bodies hit the ground.

  I was never so sure in my life that everything that appeared on the screen in front of me, the blood, the shouts, the gunshots, the bodies, and the death were as real as the screams I heard in my ears. My own screams.

  “Mom! Dad! They’re killing people!” I yelled, backing away from the TV. Suddenly the room shook with the deafening roar of the crowd, the hammering of machine-gun fire. I had fallen back on the remote and boosted the volume.

  As I scrambled backwards from the horror on the screen, Mom and Dad rushed into the room, pulling their robes on. Dad picked up the remote and muted the TV, then turned it off.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

  “What have you been watching?” Mom said sternly.

  “I don’t
know. It was the same place we saw last night,” I told her, my voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to see it, honestly. I wanted to watch my show. But they put something else on instead. A war.”

  I began to cry, still unable to believe or understand what I had seen. I hated fights and violence, real or acted. The sight of blood, mine or someone else’s, sickened me. Killing or deaths on TV or in movies repelled me. What I had just seen was far worse; it was real.

  “It sounds like live coverage from Beijing,” Dad said quietly to Mom. “God. Murders on Sunday morning.”

  Mom put her arm around me. “Come on,” she said gently, “let’s go make some tea and we’ll talk about it.”

  As soon as we left the room, I heard the TV go on again. When the tea was made and Mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table, Dad came in.

  “It’s on almost every channel,” he said. “They’re already calling it the Beijing Massacre.”

  Mom looked up at him and pointed her chin at me.

  “I won’t go into detail,” he said.

  “It was real gunfire, wasn’t it, Dad?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “And all those people were really shot?”

  He nodded.

  “The army must have gone mad,” Mom murmured, staring into the cup between her hands.

  For the rest of the day I stayed away from the family room, on orders from my parents—unnecessary orders. Either Mom or Dad would be in front of the TV and would bring updates to the other. At noon, Megan got up, had her tea and toast while Mom told her about the events of the morning, and joined the “team” that monitored the reports.