Excerpts: Chapter 1 | Chapter 12
Chapter 1 | Back to top
It was February and cold, and I was stuck in school. To make a bad situation worse the heat was broken. At 2:45 p.m., I sat in Mr. Kimball’s English class, shivering and counting the minutes until I could go to my locker, fetch my coat, and clear out.
The minutes ticked by, my teeth chattering an accompaniment to the clock on the wall beside my desk. Mr. Kimball was my least favorite teacher which made ninth grade really hard. In the past, I had always counted on stories to help me escape. And that winter I needed an escape more than ever. But with Mr. Kimball as my teacher, escape was becoming increasingly difficult.
That afternoon, Mr. Kimball decided to tell us about the Chinese philosopher Kong Fuzi, better known as Confucius. It made no difference that we were studying The Awakening, an American novel by Kate Chopin, published in 1899. That afternoon, Mr. Kimball had gotten it into his head to return to 500 B.C., and there was no stopping him. He’d found some strange connection between Chopin and Confucius, and the fifteen girls enrolled in “Women in Literature” had no choice but to listen.
“More than two thousand years after his death, Confucius remains China’s most eminent philosopher,” read Mr. Kimball, bent over a tattered paperback.
“It was Confucius who said, ‘To be able under all circumstances to practice five things constitutes perfect virtue. These five things are gravity, generosity, sincerity, truthfulness, and kindness.’ I’d like you girls to consider how Edna Pontellier’s life might have been different had she heeded Confucius’s words.”
At first nobody spoke. We were used to Mr. Kimball’s tangents. The usual tactic was to stay quiet and wait for them to go away.
Eventually, glamorous Genevieve Flaubert, whose mother had been born in Paris, raised her hand.
“Yes, Genevieve,” he said, his voice wavering a little. Genevieve usually said things that made sense, but she also had a razor-sharp tongue, and this made enemies—fast.
Genevieve licked her lips. “I don’t think we should be reading Confucius when we’re talking about Kate Chopin.”
“No?” Mr. Kimball’s face crumpled like a deflated balloon. “And why not?”
Genevieve did not hesitate. “Because Confucius was a misogynist, and Kate Chopin’s novel is all about a woman’s right to be an individual.”
“Does anyone disagree with this statement?” He looked around hopefully.
At first, nobody said a word.
Mr. Kimball shifted from one foot to the other. I could see the perspiration on his forehead.
Crystal Brown raised her hand.
Mr. Kimball looked relieved. “Yes, Crystal,” he said, “go ahead.”
“What’s a misogynist?”
Mr. Kimball’s relief vanished.
“Well?” Crystal pressed.
Mr. Kimball’s sweating intensified. “A misogynist is a woman hater.”
“And,” Genevieve continued, her eyes feline, “Confucius was a woman hater.”
By this time, the whole class had fallen silent. Everyone’s eyes were riveted on Genevieve who was busy twirling a lock of gold hair around her index finger.
“My mother told me that Confucius said some pretty terrible things about women.” The very tone of Genevieve’s voice was a challenge. “He’s one of the main reasons that women have suffered from inequality in China for thousands of years.”
“What terrible things did Confucius say about women?” Audra Nathan asked.
Genevieve rattled off an outrageous saying: “‘Man is like the sun, and woman is like the moon who shines only in his light.’”
“Genevieve,” said Mr. Kimball, pointing a finger in her direction, “I’ll need some proof that Confucius really wrote those words.”
“I expected you would.” Just then, Genevieve resembled a cat about to pounce on a mouse. “I can bring the book in on Monday.”
***
Half an hour later, the school day came to an end. I ran to my locker, fetched my coat, and fled the building. A few people said goodbye, but most just left me alone. That was fine with me.
Don’t get me wrong. I had friends. But ever since the accident I was having a lot of trouble being around other people. As the months passed, instead of feeling more connected my old friends and I drifted further apart. Dad’s death left a huge hole inside, and that hole changed me. I couldn’t relate to ordinary problems anymore. Boy troubles, bad haircuts, even divorce—none of those things could touch me. The other girls at Friendship Academy seemed to understand. People were keeping their distance, even my best friend, Emily Watts.
Just before I fled the building, I caught sight of Emily standing at her locker midway down the hall.
“Jess—” she called, but I pretended not to hear her.
I knew that was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed the space. True I was lonely, but I wasn’t the best company either. My mind spun with unanswered and unanswerable questions: Why me? Why my family? Why my lovable, loving dad?
Mom and I lived two miles from school. I used to ride the bus, but during the past year I’d started walking everywhere. I liked moving. It helped me forget what hurt. It helped me escape. For a little while.
On Nineteenth Street I walked straight into the wind. I could have taken the cutoff and found shelter among the trees, but I was determined to reach the reservoir. The Canada geese that wintered in Lubbock, Texas, hung out by the water, and I wanted to see them. Ever since my dad was a little boy, he had loved birds, and thanks to him, I had learned to love them, too. Now that he was gone, remembering the birds had become more important than ever. The birds felt like a connection to him so I held on.
I admired Canada geese in particular. They flew great distances together and could be found in places as far apart as Iceland and California. Some nights,
I’d look up at the sky and see a V-shaped flock of hundreds of birds flying through the darkness. The geese, with their six-foot wingspans, awed me.
They possessed strength and determination, things I couldn’t find in myself anymore.
I reached the reservoir and spotted about forty geese roosting along the water’s edge. A few slept, their strong-necked heads tucked alongside their wings. Others preened. There were feathers everywhere. Dad didn’t believe in feeding wild things, but since the accident, he was no longer around to tell me not to feed them. Although they gleaned the fields around Lubbock, I felt that nine-grain breadcrumbs would give them a bit of an advantage in a rugged world.
Baby, you need all the help you can get.
I pulled a plastic bag of breadcrumbs out of my coat pocket and began sprinkling the ground with stale bread. The geese swarmed around the food instantly. I watched them feed, marveling at the strength of their necks and wings, at the sturdiness of their legs.
Some days I brought my sketchpad with me and drew the geese. The long, sleek lines of their powerful necks mesmerized me. Besides, drawing helped me relax. When I sketched a picture, I lost myself. Suddenly, it was just me and the picture in my mind’s eye, all my concentration focused on getting that vision down on paper. Getting it right.
But that afternoon, the wind picked up and blew through my body. I nearly fell over backwards. The temperature was dropping fast. This was not drawing weather. As soon as I’d emptied the bag, and the geese had finished eating and dispersed, I left the reservoir. Ten minutes later I was home.
Mom and I lived in a two-bedroom house about a mile from Texas Tech University where she taught painting. She loved her job even though it was Dad’s work that had brought us to Texas. My dad was a veterinarian. More than two years ago, a big clinic in Lubbock hired him as the director. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Jess,” he told me. “If I turn this job down, I don’t know if another like it will ever come my way.”
I was in seventh grade at the time, and I didn’t want to leave the friends I’d known all my life. But I knew that Dad wanted this opportunity badly. And I knew I’d make new friends.
“What do you say, kiddo?” Dad asked, eyes bright.
“All right,” I said, “go ahead and take the job.”
And he did. And we moved. And for a little while, life was okay.
Then in December, a little more than a year after our arrival, Dad was killed in a car accident just across the New Mexico border. A drunk driver hit Dad’s Subaru station wagon head on. Dad and the driver were both killed instantly. A week after my father’s funeral I turned thirteen.
***
I found my mother out front planting tulip bulbs. She was wearing her thick down jacket and the handmade wool cap and mittens Aunt Theresa had given her for Christmas. Two of our dogs, Jake, the golden retriever, and Pokey, the Dalmatian mix, were curled up at her side.
“What are you doing out here?” I called. “It’s ten degrees. With the wind chill, it’s positively arctic.”
Mom turned around and smiled. Her face was bright red, and tears shone in her eyes—was it the wind?
“Thank goodness you’re home.” Her breathless voice radiated excitement.
“I’m planting flowers because I had to get out of the house. I haven’t been able to sit still since I got the news.”
I took a step away from her. That familiar, anxious feeling took hold. “News? What news?”
“The adoption—it’s finally gone through! The Chinese government has granted us permission to adopt a little girl.” Mom’s face positively glowed. She reached out a hand to me. “She’s waiting for us, Jess.”
Chapter 12 | Back to top
The next day, nobody lingered at breakfast. A few people, including my mother, weren’t able to eat at all. I was ravenous. Having discovered that the hotel served waffles, my favorite food in the whole world, I ordered a plateful and made a mental note to fix Xiao Ting waffles as soon as we returned to Texas.
At eight o’clock sharp, we were on the bus en route to the Guanyin Child Welfare Institute four hours away, where eight girls, age four months to three years, were waiting for their new families. Guanyin, Sam said, was the Chinese Goddess of Mercy, Giver of Children, Protector of Women. When Chinese women prayed for a son, they prayed to her.
***
The sun shone brightly, and a hopeful, eager energy filled the bus. Even when nobody spoke, the air hummed with anticipation.
About an hour outside Guangzhou, the scenery changed. A gentle, wet, green landscape stretched out around us. Clusters of small houses dotted the endless green fields. Here is where most Chinese people live, I thought, a small part of the great universe.
For much of the journey, we followed the Xijiang River. As I looked out at villages surrounded by rice paddies, I wondered if my sister’s birth parents were farmers. How strange, to know nothing about Xiao Ting’s history. Once she leaves, she won’t remember this place at all. Unless we help her to remember.
***
The bus ride was bumpy, but this time nobody got sick. Kate had given Ivy some ginger tablets before we left—“a Chinese remedy to combat nausea,” she explained.
Then, all of a sudden, a lot of us felt queasy. We had arrived at the Guanyin Child Welfare Institute.
I had expected a sad, somber place, like the poorhouses Charles Dickens writes about, but to my surprise the buildings were bright, and the grounds, lush and green. The place looked almost homey.
Down a white stone path stood a five-story building covered in white tiles, with balconies on every floor. Trees shaded the lawn, among them a few plums full of buds.
To the right of the building, a group of small girls sat under giant, white plaster mushrooms, listening intently as a pretty woman with jet-black hair read to them from a book. As we passed, the girls followed our movements with their eyes but didn’t say a word. I wondered if they knew why we were here.
“Ah, here she is,” Sam called out as a young woman in a brown corduroy jumper stepped out to meet us. She was small and thin, with chin-length hair and wide chocolate-colored eyes.
“Welcome to the Guanyin Child Welfare Institute,” the woman said in clear but formal English. “I’m Miss Li Yu, the director.”
Our usually talkative group remained silent, whether from excitement or anxiety, I’m not sure.
Li Yu, unfazed, led us inside. The interior, too, had been painted a creamy white. The blue linoleum floors smelled of disinfectant. Light pink flowers bloomed in pots in the reception area, their color as delicate as the porcelain vases at the art museum.
“Follow me, please,” the director said as she headed for the stairs.
“Jess,” Mom whispered, “I can hear my heart beating.”
“Me, too,” I whispered back. “Mine sounds like a locomotive.” We both laughed nervously. Mom caught my hand and held it tight.
Li Yu escorted us into a reception room overlooking an interior courtyard. She motioned to us to sit at the long table at the far edge of the room. “Today is a very important day for all of us,” she said, and her eyes scanned every face in the room.
I wondered how much she knew about us. Did she know that Winnie had once belonged to this orphanage? Did she know that my father was dead? Did she know that the Wangs had lost their daughter?
“Very soon,” Li Yu continued, “we will bring your daughters.”
“Please, hurry!” Kate Montgomery blurted out excitedly.
“Shush,” her husband whispered. “We’ve come this far, we can wait a few minutes longer.”
But Kate looked like she really couldn’t wait. She’d been doing deep-breathing exercises on the bus, but the relaxation effect had obviously worn off. Kate was just like the rest of us: the embodiment of un-yoga-like nervous excitement.
Li Yu retained her composure. Like Sam, she’d been through this experience dozens, maybe hundreds, of times. Throughout our visit, her demeanor remained both kind and professional. “In a few minutes,” she explained calmly, “you will be served tea and pastries. Afterwards, your daughters will be brought to you.”
“Is it possible for us to see the institute?” Roger Moore asked.
Li Yu showed no emotion, but her face seemed to close us out. “I’m afraid the institute is private.”
Sam rose and cleared his throat. “I should have explained this on the ride over. As guests of the institute, we are not allowed to tour the facility.”
A thick silence fell over the group. Why not? I wanted to ask. Was the orphanage hiding something? Wasn’t it important to see the place where the girls had spent their first weeks or months or years? My insides burned, and I felt my spine stiffen with suspicion. But the answer was a firm “no,” and there was no further explanation.
Li Yu and Sam left the room.
Soon, a trio of women came in carrying pots of tea and platefuls of fruit-filled pastries. They poured the tea into tiny white porcelain cups and gave each of us tea and a pastry. We accepted out of politeness, but nobody really wanted a snack. We wanted the babies.
Kate carried her teacup over to the window and looked out over the grounds. With her back to us, she assumed a yoga stance called the eagle pose. Basically, she twisted her arms in a corkscrew in front of her, elbows and palms touching, then curved her left leg around her right. I’d seen her strike this pose before. The spiraling effect, she said, helped her concentrate.
Everyone else stayed at the table. Winnie and her father sat together at the far end. I must have been staring, because Winnie looked up and met my gaze. She raised her teacup and smiled. I smiled back.
This is where Roger Moore and his wife first met Winnie.
I couldn’t imagine what Winnie was thinking at that moment. Did she remember anything about this place? Did she have any memories of her birth parents? I was so nervous, but she seemed so calm. As I got to know her better, I realized that tranquility was a deep part of her character. Was she born that way, or was it because she’d already been through so much? After all, wisdom comes with experience, and tranquility is supposed to be a part of wisdom.
Crying pierced the quiet. Sam and Li Yu entered the room, followed by a group of Chinese women holding babies and small children in their arms. Some of the babies wailed. A few squirmed in their caregiver’s arms. One baby slept soundly despite the commotion.
Immediately, we all stood up and moved toward them.
“Hold on, everybody,” said Sam, speaking loudly and clearly. “We need to do this in an orderly fashion. When I call your name, please come to the front.” He paused a moment, then looked at his list. “Kate and Ryan Montgomery.”
Holding hands, Kate and Ryan stepped forward. Kate’s knees were shaking.
One of the caregivers stepped forward to meet them. In her arms, she held a tiny baby wrapped in a white blanket. The woman moved slowly, taking miniature steps. I wanted to scream.
Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it anymore, the woman smiled and handed the baby to Kate, whose arms opened to accept the gift of her child. Immediately, she and Ryan started to cry, their tears falling on their new daughter. They snuggled her and lost themselves in her. I knew they’d tried for years to have a baby, and now, here she was. I felt enormously happy for them, as if someone had released a thousand white doves, and I was watching the doves take flight and soar.
Before my eyes, they seemed to become a family.
Next, Sam called Roger and Winnie Moore to the front of the room. Winnie did not hold her father’s hand, but she walked close to him, her dark eyes shining. Roger put his arm around her small shoulder as the oldest caregiver came forward. Her hair was almost white, her face was wrinkled, and her eyes were focused on Winnie.
The child she carried was two or three years old. The little girl wore a red and white jumper, and her black hair had been combed away from her lovely face. Two red barrettes held the loose hair in place. The little girl was smiling, but she looked scared, too.
When the woman placed the child in Roger’s arms, his face broke into a wide grin, and his whole being radiated happiness. He hugged the little girl.
The little girl did not hug him back. She just stared at him through wide, frightened eyes. I wondered what he would do. Would he stop smiling? Would he let go?
Roger did not let go. With great tenderness, he continued to hold her close. He remained calm and patient, and eventually the child in his arms relaxed a little.
Meanwhile, the old woman had turned to Winnie. Tears spilled down her cheeks. The woman threw her arms around Winnie’s neck and said something in Chinese. Winnie seemed to understand, and soon she was crying, too.
Beside me, my mother squeezed my hand. “I can’t bear this waiting,” she whispered. Still focused on Winnie, I didn’t reply.
“Richard and Gloria Wang,” Sam called.
Husband and wife stepped to the front of the room, and another caregiver holding a toddler came forward. As she placed the child in Gloria’s arms, she said something in Chinese.
Gloria inclined her head and smiled. Richard replied in Chinese. The caregiver stepped away, and the Wangs kissed their new daughter. They looked graceful and proud and happy.
By this time, almost all the adults were crying. Danny Strauss handed around a travel pack of Kleenex. Between tears and laughter, the adoptive families blew their noses.
At last, Sam called out my mother’s name—and mine. As I stepped forward, my heart was pounding so hard it felt as if it might break through my chest. Mom’s face was red, and we were both trembling.
We walked about six feet to the front of the room, but it seemed to take forever. I know this sounds weird, but I felt like I was part of something holy.
The youngest woman stepped forward. In her arms, she held Xiao Ting, my sister. I glimpsed a small, pale, heart-shaped face and large dark eyes, a shock of thick black hair gathered in a rubber band on the top of her head. She looked beautiful and a little silly, with that hair standing at attention.
Xiao Ting’s eyes focused on me. Welcome, little sister, I wanted to say. I’m going to be the best big sister in the whole world. I’m going to love you with all my heart.
The young woman placed Xiao Ting in my mother’s arms. In heavily accented English, she said, “May this child be a blessing.”
My mother struggled to reply, but she couldn’t speak. “Thank you,” I whispered, gazing at my sister. “She is the greatest blessing we could ask for.”