Falling Leaves: The Memoir of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter Page 17

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recalled that marvellous photograph of Clark Gable, autographed and sent from Hollywood to one of my Shanghai schoolmates years ago. How we had coveted it! These were the reasons we eventually ended up in southern California: through an ad in the New York Times and the magic of Clark Gable.

  Douglas Aircraft hired him at 800 dollars per month. In order to obtain a California medical licence, I had to take a special exam and do an internship at a recognized Californian hospital. So began my third internship on 1 July 1965, at St Mary’s Hospital in Long Beach.

  Pay was only 300 dollars per month but I was given the use of a separate bungalow adjoining the hospital. Despite Byron’s good looks and fine physique, I continued to feel towards him a profound indifference. Emotionally, he remained a stranger. Whenever he touched me, I seemed to turn into stone.

  Simultaneously, I was guilt-ridden by my unresponsiveness. I had married him for the most practical reasons: companionship, children, emotional security and social acceptance. Naively, I believed that if I tried hard enough, love would follow. It never did.

  Byron and I kept our distance. This was how he wanted the marriage to be. Heart-to-heart conversations made him acutely uncomfortable. He often quoted the Chinese proverb fu qi xiang jing ru bin (husband and wife should respect each other like honoured guests). By this he meant that I was to refrain from any criticisms, negative remarks or intimate tête-à-têtes. I avoided any controversial subjects and tried to be cheerful. There was no conversation and therefore no intimacy.

  The television was his constant companion. He turned it on the minute he came home and sat in front of it hour after hour, compulsively switching channels every few minutes. He would leave it reluctantly when I called him for dinner and rush back to it while I washed up. We ate our meals in silence. Byron read the Los Angeles Times and I read my books. At night, we lay next to each other like two squatters compelled to share the same bed.

  By October 1965, though, I was pregnant. Byron seemed pleased at the prospect of becoming a father. With a baby on the way, I narrowed my career choice down to anaesthesiology, a hospital-based speciality. The practice of anaesthesia has been described as hours of boredom interrupted by moments of panic. Responsibility was onerous. Patients were routinely rendered unconscious and suspended between life and death. Fees earned were proportionately steep. I applied and was accepted for an anaesthesia residency at Orange County General Hospital, University of California, Irvine.

  The baby was due at the beginning of June. Byron and I pooled our income, paid off our loans and prepared to move out of the bungalow. We put a down payment on a new house in Fountain Valley, ten miles away.

  We were both overjoyed by the purchase of the house. It satisfied our yearning to put down roots in America. That evening when the contract was signed, I cooked a celebratory meal. Relaxed by the food, we began to discuss the status of our visas. Byron had received his green card and was already a permanent resident, but mine was still that of an ‘exchange visiting scholar’.

  ‘You should consult an immigration lawyer, and get your status changed as soon as possible,’ Byron told me. ‘If you had started the process when we first met, you would already have your green card.’

  ‘When we first met, you were still on a student visa yourself,’ I said unthinkingly.

  His face darkened. ‘Are you calling me a liar? If I hadn’t married you, you’d never have been able to get a green card.’

  ‘First things first. You know very well you didn’t have a green card when we met at Martin Ching’s house,’ I insisted.

  Suddenly he became enraged. He stood up and began to shout, ‘If you’re secretly hankering after Martin, why don’t you go and find him in New York?’

  To my relief at that moment the telephone rang. The hospital operator was unable to locate the intern on call. Could I come in immediately to assist two patients just admitted after a car accident? Muttering something about being needed for an emergency, I rushed out of the house.

  Four hours later I returned. By then I was exhausted. My large, pregnant belly hung like a sack of stones below what had once been my waist. My ankles were so swollen that I had difficulty kicking off my shoes before turning on the light. What greeted my eyes was an unbelievable scene of chaos. In his anger Byron had ripped out all the drawers from their rails and strewn their contents on the floor in the middle of the living-room. Scattered haphazardly here and there were clothes, sheets, kitchen utensils, books, toiletry and food. In the kitchen, dirty dishes were strewn across the table and in the sink. Byron was nowhere to be seen.

  After I cleared the kitchen, I made myself a cup of tea. Then I started tackling the mess in the living-room, mechanically putting everything back in its proper place. ‘In the face of utter disaster,’ I told myself, ‘everyone feels better with positive action. It could have been worse. At least he didn’t burn the place down.’

  Towards six in the morning, when the cleaning was half finished, a key turned in the lock and Byron entered. I was on my hands and knees. Something in my abject posture must have touched a chord because he did not disturb me. He strode into the bedroom, packed a small bag and hurried out again without a word.

  He was gone for five days. I believed my marriage to be over. The baby was due in two weeks. My work routine became my refuge, creating an illusion of order and normality. It was comforting to feel needed by my patients even though my own world was crumbling.

  Then suddenly he came back. I returned home from the hospital at around six one evening to find him watching television and switching channels as if he had never been away. I cooked dinner and we ate in silence while he scanned the Los Angeles Times.

  Labour pains started at seven in the morning of 8 June 1966. Byron was solicitous. He walked me to the hospital, took the day off, and sat at my bedside in the labour room. Our son, Roger, was born that evening, beautiful and healthy.

  Towards our adorable baby, I lavished all my tenderness. I would rush home from work to bathe and feed him. I felt incredibly lucky to be able to give him all the love I had been deprived of during my own childhood.

  Though the marriage was a complete sham, outwardly we gave the appearance of a nice, wholesome Chinese-American family.

  CHAPTER 18

  Zhong Gua De Gua

  You Plant Melons, You Reap Melons

  South Coast Plaza, an ultra-modern, regional shopping centre, had just opened its doors in Costa Mesa about fifteen miles away. Byron and I were both eager to see it. We set off together bright and early on New Year’s Day, 1967, to buy a new suit for Byron. Traditionally in China, new clothes are worn on 1 January to symbolize a new beginning. That same evening, Byron had invited four of his college friends from the University of Taiwan to come for dinner with their wives.

  It was a gorgeous morning, sunny, breezy and smogless. As we drove south on the newly extended stretch of the San Diego Freeway, we could see the snow-capped mountains etched against a cloudless sky. The air smelled clean and fresh. A jaunty tune came over the radio. We were both in excellent spirits when Byron drove into the enormous parking lot, locked the car and handed me the keys to carry in my handbag. He looked dashing in a thick woollen pullover over his shirt. We walked into the men’s shop at Sears Roebuck. While he was selecting his suit, I sauntered to the baby’s department to choose a toy. On my return, I saw a salesman helping Byron put on a jacket.

  ‘You really should take that bulky sweater off before trying on these jackets,’ the salesman was saying. ‘This is the fourth one you’ve tried. It’s not going to fit because it’s not your size. The sleeves are too long because the garment is simply too big.’

  Byron was gazing into the mirror and adjusting the lengthy sleeves. Ignoring the salesman, he turned towards me. ‘How do you like the colour? What do you think?’

  The salesman now appealed to me. ‘You see, ma’am, over here, the collar even hangs wrong. This is a size 44. He’s really a
40. At most a 42.’

  Without thinking, I said to Byron, ‘I think he has a valid point. Why don’t you take your sweater off as he suggested and try on a 40?’

  He glared at me. Then, without a word, he took off the jacket, turned abruptly and walked out of the room.

  I hung about looking foolish, then went to the car and waited for two hours. I phoned Mrs Hsu, Roger’s nanny, but she told me he had not returned. It was almost one. I drove home.

  Mrs Hsu helped me decorate the house and prepare a few dishes. Three o’clock rolled around and there was no sign of Byron. I began to worry about him not showing up at all. I hardly knew the names of his Taiwan friends, let alone their wives. What would I do when they all arrived and there was no Byron? Finally, I could stand it no longer. I phoned his guests one by one, told them that Byron had come down with food poisoning and cancelled the dinner party.

  I must have dozed off in the living-room when I heard Byron’s key in the front door. He had walked home from the shopping plaza. It had taken him three and a half hours.

  ‘Where are my guests?’ he asked, taking a sideway glance at the food we had prepared and laid out on the kitchen table. I looked at my watch. It was after six.

  ‘Since I didn’t know whether you were coming home,’ I replied groggily, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, ‘I cancelled the party.’

  ‘Who gave you permission to do that? They are my guests! That was my party!’ he exploded.

  I didn’t answer, for fear of provoking him further. I rose from the couch and walked into the bathroom.

  The next minute I heard the loud bang of a bedroom door being forcibly thrown open, the breaking of furniture and the terrifying wail of my baby. I ran into the nursery and saw Byron standing arms akimbo over the screaming six-months-old infant in his collapsed crib. I was seized with murderous fury. I picked up my crying son, marched into our bedroom and locked the door.

  Next I heard a tremendous crash from the kitchen. Then the front door banged shut and Byron was gone. My baby would not stop crying. I examined him carefully, noting with relief that there was no serious injury. In the kitchen, I saw an alarmed Mrs Hsu surveying the broken crockery and spilt food splattered everywhere. Byron had simply lifted the edge of the table laden with dishes and thrown the whole lot overboard.

  Mrs Hsu was an educated widow originally from Beijing, then in her seventies. I had grown very fond of her and was deeply ashamed that she should have witnessed such an ugly scene.

  We cleaned up the mess in silence. Then we ate the longlife noodles we had prepared to bring in the New Year.

  ‘There are lots of men like your husband in China,’ Mrs Hsu said. ‘In the old days, men routinely mistreated their wives. Now he’s doing the same to you. The more you put up with it, the more savage he will be. If you have no other rice to eat, then you must swallow this bitterness. But, in your case, you have your profession.’

  Byron stayed away for a week. On his return, he placed his salary cheque on the table after dinner as a peace offering. I was touched but could not shake off the loathing I felt.

  Unwilling to face him, I wrote him a note: ‘For the time being, please sleep in the guest room upstairs. I’m leaving your cheque on the table. I shall understand perfectly if you prefer to spend your money separately.’

  When Byron understood that this time I would not attempt a reconciliation he became more aggressive. To my shame, he often expressed his frustration by physical violence towards me and our baby. I suffered guilt and humiliation whenever I lied about my black eyes and bruised face to my colleagues, unwilling to air my domestic problems in public. I endured his blows because I could not bear the shame of divorce and the subsequent dishonour it would bring on my family.

  I worked harder than ever, taking a shift in the emergency room whenever the opportunity arose. Byron and I ceased to have any social life together. At weekends, he dined with fellow-engineers from Taiwan University and colleagues from work while I took my baby and Mrs Hsu to amusement parks and Chinese restaurants. After Mrs Hsu’s retirement I was enormously lucky to find a Caucasian widow in her fifties, Ginger Morris, to be Roger’s new nanny. Ginger came to us in 1968 and stayed with me for eleven years.

  My residency was completed at the end of June 1968, by which time I had my green card. Jobs were plentiful. By doing locums and volunteering to take extra night and weekend calls, I soon built up a thriving practice. My income for July alone equalled my salary for a whole year as a resident. Byron and I led our separate lives but kept a joint account. A substantial balance was being built up.

  Towards the end of 1968 Byron decided to buy a Chinese restaurant in Costa Mesa. He came home early one evening and presented me with some papers for my signature. Byron was at his most charming. ‘You probably don’t know this,’ he told me, ‘but I used to work like a slave in various Chinese restaurants in New York. Now that I can afford to buy one, I want to run it the way it should be run.’ I shrugged and signed the papers.

  After his restaurant opened, I noticed that our joint account was being quickly depleted to support the new venture. He engaged a young man, Lee Ming, as manager. Every day after work, he drove directly to his restaurant, eating all his meals there and coming home after eleven. Weekends were particularly busy and he was away from ten in the morning until midnight.

  My own work schedule was getting more and more loaded. This was the heyday of private medical practice in America. Medicare legislation had recently been implemented. In spite of general misgiving among my colleagues, it turned out to be an open conduit to a seemingly endless supply of government funds for the treatment of America’s elderly during the next fifteen years.

  Running a restaurant proved more difficult than Byron had imagined. Soon he was embroiled in numerous unpleasant confrontations with his staff. One Friday evening the restaurant ran out of eggs. Byron rushed out to the local market and bought ten cartons. During his absence Lee Ming took charge. A rush of customers came in. Lee Ming seated the majority and asked the rest to wait. Byron came back to a packed dining room and half-a-dozen waiting couples. He began aggressively going from table to table, urging those who were lingering over their coffee and dessert to hurry. Overriding Lee’s protestations, he went to the storage area and carried out some spare tables and chairs and seated everyone. The two men had a tremendous row. Lee knew that the restaurant would collapse without him so he offered to buy the restaurant from Byron. Most of the staff had followed Lee from his previous place of employment and were loyal to him personally. They now launched a deliberate campaign to sabotage Byron. The chef claimed sick leave at critical times when the restaurant was full. Dishes were spiked with salt or hot sauce and rendered almost inedible. Key deliveries were not made at crucial moments. Tables were left uncleared with plates and glassware unwashed in the sink.

  One day in June 1969, Byron left a note on my pillow. He was planning to sell the restaurant to a man whom he had met the previous night at a party. What did I think? I wrote ‘yes’ at the foot of his message and placed it on his bed upstairs, reflecting sadly that our communication had dwindled to notes scrawled on the backs of tattered envelopes. To my astonishment Byron’s buyer was serious and the business was actually sold for cash soon afterwards. According to Byron we recovered most of our investment because of tax write-offs. Lee and his team agreed to stay on and I heard later that the restaurant prospered and was resold at a great price a few years later.

  We now had 20,000 dollars in our joint account. For the first time I had more money than I knew what to do with. One August afternoon after giving seven anaesthetics, I drove to a car dealer and bought a brand-new white Mercedes, registering the vehicle in both our names.

  Returning home I placed the registration papers on Byron’s bed for his signature. He signed without comment but from then on no longer contributed any part of his salary towards our household expenses.

  At the end of 1969, he suddenly departed for a position in Hon
g Kong, leaving a farewell note on my pillow, telling me that he would return within the year. I read his message with relief, content that I could now channel all my energy into my son and my career.

  While in Hong Kong, Byron went with his father to pay a social call on my parents on Chinese New Year, traditionally a time for family reunion. Their visit was not a success. They brought a large basket of fruit and arrived fifteen minutes early. Niang complained that ‘being early was as impolite as being late. In both cases the guests were inconveniencing the hosts.’ Niang insisted on speaking English and later commented on their ‘poor grasp of the language and atrocious accents’. When my parents unwrapped the colourful cellophane paper enveloping the fruit basket, they found that many of the fruits were rotten, from which Niang assumed that the basket was well past its sell-by date and had been purchased cheaply.

  Byron returned from Hong Kong after an absence of seven months. He took up his job at Douglas Aircraft again and we resumed our separate lives under the same roof.

  In October of that year, 1970, Father and Niang were on a world trip and decided to pay us a visit. Throughout the last six years, I had hidden from them the truth about my dismal marriage. My letters were limited to milestones, achievements and glowing reports of the Californian weather. On their arrival, Byron and I took Roger to meet them at the airport. Niang insisted on staying in Universal City, fifty miles from our home, at a hotel owned by their rich American friends, the Jules Steins. Between them they had brought six suitcases. During the long drive from the airport to their hotel, I was desperately keeping an awkward conversation going. Niang was wearing her usual perfume, familiar to me since childhood. I knew that Byron was unacquainted with the complicated maze of freeways in that area. While trying to decipher the road map in the dim car light, I was terrified of giving the wrong directions and causing Byron to throw a temper tantrum. When we finally arrived, I rushed to the bathroom and vomited.