Falling Leaves: The Memoir of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter Page 7

  So I studied hard, not only to please my aunt but also because this was the only time I could lose myself, forget my fears and momentarily escape from this home so full of sinister manoeuvrings and hidden machinations.

  At school I gained the nickname ‘genius’ because I came top in every subject except art. My classmates sensed my vulnerability and yearning for acceptance behind the irritatingly perfect scholastic record. They must have realized that there was something pathetic about me. I never mentioned my family. I possessed no toys, trinkets or pretty clothes. I had no money to spend on sweets or excursions. I refused all invitations to visit anyone outside the school and never asked anyone to my home. I confided in no one but went to school every day carrying inside me a terrible loneliness.

  At home, I did my homework, invented my own solitary games and read Kung Fu novels.

  It must have been awkward for twenty-three-year-old Niang to acknowledge the presence of five stepchildren in front of Father’s friends. We suspected that she often denied our existence and intentionally gave the impression that little Franklin and baby Susan were Father’s sole offspring. We were therefore pleasantly surprised one day when one of Father’s colleagues came to visit and brought a gift in a large box in which we found, to our delight, seven little ducklings. As usual, Franklin and Susan chose first. Lydia, Gregory, Edgar and James then took their pick. By the time it came to my turn, I was left with the smallest, scrawniest and weakest little bird with a tiny head but soft, fluffy, yellow feathers. I fell in love with it at once and named it Precious Little Treasure, or PLT for short.

  PLT soon meant everything to me. I must have been about eight. I used to race home from school to take PLT in my hands and lovingly carry her from the roof terrace into the bedroom I shared with my aunt. I did my homework with PLT waddling between the beds. Aunt Baba never complained about helping me shampoo PLT’s feathers or clean up after her occasional mishaps.

  Sometimes, I explored the garden to hunt for worms for PLT’s dinner. One Saturday, I must have come too close to the domain of Jackie, Father’s ferocious German shepherd. He rushed over, barked his terrifying bark and bared his sharp teeth. I tried to calm him by reaching out to pat his head, whereupon he sank his teeth into my outstretched left wrist. I got away and ran up to my room. I was washing off the blood when Aunt Baba entered. At the sight of her, I burst into tears.

  Aunt Baba held me and rocked me, dried my tears and understood. Jackie was their favourite pet. It would be best to say nothing, cause no trouble, draw no attention. She dressed the wound with mercurochrome, cotton wool and a small bandage. We then comforted each other in our usual way: by looking at all my report cards from kindergarten to the most recent times.

  In these records lay our secret weapon, our ultimate plan. One day, I was going to be a famous writer? Banker? Scientist? Doctor? Anyway, a famous ‘something’. And the two of us would leave and set up house on our own.

  Meanwhile we had to have good grades. Aunt Baba was inordinately proud of my success at school. She pored over each card, touchingly enraptured. ‘Oooh! Look at this! A in four subjects and B+ in drawing! We’ll top the class again this year, I’m sure.’

  She made me believe I was brilliant. Her pride in my small achievements was truly inspirational. She filed each report diligently in a safe deposit box and wore the key around her neck, as if my grades were so many priceless jewels impossible to replace. When things were bad, she consoled us by taking them out and looking at them. ‘See this one? First grade and all of six years old and getting As in everything already. My! My!’ Then ‘I’m certain nobody going to university could have a more perfect record.’ Or ‘We’ll be the most successful banker yet, just like your Grand Aunt, and we’ll work together in our own bank.’

  That Saturday as we read our report cards together I forgot the pain in my wrist and we were happy… until dinner-time.

  It was a warm, humid summer evening and Father decided that we should cool off on the lawn in the garden. Jackie had been receiving obedience training lessons from a German dog trainer, Hans Herzog. Father wanted to check on his progress.

  ‘After dinner,’ Father announced, ‘let’s all go sit in the garden and test Jackie on one of those ducklings that was given to the children.’ Then, as my appetite vanished and horror gripped me, Father turned to my oldest brother. ‘Go and fetch one of the ducklings from the pen for my test,’ he instructed. Immediately I knew that the doomed duckling would be mine.

  Gregory ran up to the roof garden and came back with PLT. He avoided my eyes. (Afterwards, he told me in private: ‘The sacrificial duckling had to be the one with the weakest patron. Nothing personal, you understand?’)

  Father placed PLT on his palm and strode into the garden. A wave of nausea swept over me. PLT looked so fragile and alive. Jackie greeted his master joyously. It was a beautiful night. The moon was full. The stars were bright. Father sat down on a lounge chair, flanked by Niang, Aunt Baba and Ye Ye. We children squatted on the grass. I shuddered as Father positioned PLT gingerly on the lawn and felt my heart breaking.

  Jackie was ordered to ‘sit’ about six feet away. He panted and strained and fidgeted but he sat. PLT suddenly spotted me. She chirped softly and moved towards me. At that instant, Jackie sprang. In one powerful leap, Jackie had PLT’s left leg between his powerful jaws. Father rushed over, enraged by Jackie’s disobedience. Immediately, Jackie released my duckling, but the damage had been done.

  I ran over and picked up my pet. Her leg was dangling from her body, her tiny webbed foot twisted at a grotesque angle. A desolation swept over me more intense than any I had ever known. Without a word, I carried her back to my room, placed her gently on my bed, wrapped her in my best school scarf and laid down next to her. The night I spent with PLT was a night I never forgot. I lived through a crushing sadness of which I was unable to speak about to anyone afterwards. There was just no one who could possibly have understood, not even my aunt.

  PLT refused to eat or drink and died early the next morning. Aunt Baba gave me an old sewing box for a coffin. James and I buried her together under the magnolia tree with all its flowers in full bloom. Even today, I’m unable to smell the sweet fragrance of magnolia blossoms without experiencing the same awful sense of loss. We arranged a bouquet in a milk bottle in front of her grave, as well as a shallow dish containing a few grains of rice, some water and the worms PLT used to love.

  As we stood side by side mourning her, James glanced at my tear-stained face and murmured sympathetically, ‘It won’t be like this all the time. Things are bound to get better… Suan le!’

  I was grateful but found it difficult to thank him. Instead I replied, ‘It’s Sunday and everyone is still sleeping. I don’t know why, but right now it feels like the two of us against the whole world!’

  The wound on my wrist healed, but the scar lingered like a memorial to a beloved fallen friend, accompanying me wherever I went, whatever I did.

  When I was ten years old, two events occurred within a few days of each other which substantially worsened my relationship with Niang. One of my classmates invited me to go to her birthday party, which happened to fall on a Catholic feast day: a special holiday for the nuns at Sheng Xin but not for the other schools. Though I knew I was forbidden to visit my friends in their homes, I thought I could avoid detection if I planned it very carefully.

  On the morning of the party, I dressed in my school uniform and carried my book bag as if I were going to school. Aunt Baba had given me a silver dollar which I carefully saved. I placed it in my pocket, intending to buy my friend a birthday present after lunch. We met at her parents’ house, a short walk from my home, and spent a wonderful morning playing with her enormous collection of dolls. Noon soon arrived. (By then, American C-rations had run out and I was expected to go home for lunch. I was given a tram fare but only for the round trip at noon.) I told my playmates I had to rush home for an errand but would be back within the hour. They asked for my ho
me phone number, and I gave it to them without thinking.

  I ran home in high spirits and bounded into my bedroom. There, unexpectedly, I came face to face with Niang. What she was doing there, I never did find out.

  She was startled and caught off guard, as I was. ‘Why are you home so early?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I got off a little early,’ I lied, adding stupidly, ‘from school, I mean.’

  ‘Come here!’ she commanded suspiciously. I remember my heart pounding as I approached her. She was flawlessly coiffed, immaculately dressed: a panther about to pounce for the kill.

  She searched me and found the silver dollar Aunt Baba had given me. ‘Where did this come from?’ She asked.

  I lied and squirmed and felt like a worm. I would not, could not, implicate Aunt Baba. The inquisition went on and on.

  She slapped me hard. Once, twice, three times. The inquisition continued interminably.

  ‘From whom did you steal this?’ No reply.

  ‘Did you sell something you stole from the house?’ she asked.

  I was considering admitting to theft as a way out when we both noticed the new maid timidly standing at the door.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Yen tai tai (Mrs Yen),’ she said. ‘There is a telephone call for her…’ She pointed at me.

  I suddenly remembered my friends waiting for me to continue our game. They must have become impatient and decided to phone me. Niang hurried to the phone at the stairwell landing, and I could hear her voice, now transformed into a sickeningly sugary tone.

  ‘Adeline’s busy right now. This is her mother. Who is calling, please?’

  Slight pause…

  ‘I’ll tell her you are waiting for her. What are your names and where are you waiting?’

  Another pause…

  ‘But don’t you have to be at school today?… I see. What’s the occasion? A holiday! How nice! And what are you all doing?’ Then the ominous, the inevitable, ‘Adeline won’t be able to return to your house this afternoon. I’ll tell her you called but don’t wait any more.’

  She came back and glared at me. ‘You’re not only a thief and a liar, but manipulative as well. The problem is that you have bad blood from your mother. Nothing will come of you! I don’t think you deserve to be housed and fed here. I think you belong in an orphanage!’

  As my world crashed around me, she added, ‘Stay in your room until your father comes home. You’ll have nothing to eat until this matter is settled.’

  Frightened and miserable, I sat alone in our room on the second floor looking down at Jackie restlessly pacing the lawn in the garden: back and forth, back and forth. The sound of tinkling plates and laughter rose from the first-floor antechamber where afternoon tea was now being served. Soon Franklin appeared on his balcony carrying a plate of assorted goodies. Nonchalantly, I saw him tossing chestnut cake, sausage rolls and chicken sandwiches over the railing while a delighted Jackie jumped to catch the delicacies between his powerful jaws. And I remember wishing fervently that I could become Jackie, if only for a few hours: so carefree, merry and well-fed.

  Later, Father came into my room in a sombre mood, carrying the dog whip Hans, the dog trainer, had given him the Christmas before. When he questioned me about the silver dollar, I could not lie.

  He ordered me to lie face down on my bed, and he whipped my bottom and my thighs. As I lay there trembling with pain and shame, I saw a rat scurry across the floor, its pointed ears alert and its long tail flicking from side to side. I wanted to scream out my terror, but remained silent throughout the beating.

  Father then looped the whip over his arm and announced that Aunt Baba was a bad influence and that we would have to be separated. The thought of such a possibility filled me with unspeakable dread.

  Two days later, while I was still under a cloud, the second catastrophe occurred. After having topped my class for the past four years, I was elected class president. On the afternoon of my triumph, I walked home from school elated, momentarily forgetting my troubles. A large group of my classmates, led by my campaign manager, numbering perhaps twelve girls, had decided secretly to follow me home to give me a surprise celebration party. Five minutes after I entered the house, the doorbell rang. The maid opened the door to a bevy of high-spirited, giggling little girls dressed in identical uniforms, all clamouring to see me. Aware of my home situation and my state of disgrace, she hesitated, then admitted them to the formal living-room and quietly climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  I no longer remember the maid’s name, but I recall distinctly the expression of alarm on her face as she whispered to me, ‘A crowd of your little friends has come from school to see you. They’ve asked for you.’

  I blanched with consternation. ‘Is Niang home?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. So is your father. They are in their bedroom.’

  ‘Can you tell my friends that I am not at home?’ I asked desperately.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I tried to say something to that effect when I first opened the door, but apparently they followed you home and saw you enter the house. They want to give you a surprise party for winning the election for class president. They mean well.’

  ‘I know.’ I had no choice but to go and greet my friends. As I crept slowly down the stairs behind the maid, I could hear the unsuppressed merriment of a dozen ten-year-old girls echoing through the whole house.

  The next few minutes are a blur in my memory. My classmates were too happy and excited to notice my white-faced silence. They surrounded me, shouting out their congratulations, full of joy and laughter. My stomach churned. ‘I’m only ten years old.’ I told myself. ‘I didn’t ask them to come here. Surely Niang can’t kill me for this.’

  At that moment, the maid reappeared in the doorway. ‘Your mother wants to see you now.’

  With great determination, I forced my face into the semblance of a smile. ‘Excuse me,’ I muttered, adding with a shrug, ‘Now I wonder what she wants.’

  I slunk up the stairs and stood in front of the closed door of their room, the Holy of Holies. My mind was blank and my eyes were blurry as I knocked on their door. They were expecting me. They sat, side by side, in the little alcove overlooking the garden. Through the sparkling bay windows, I could see Jackie prowling among the bushes, chasing a bird.

  I knew it was going to be terrible as soon as I entered. As I attempted to close the door after me, Niang said, with grotesque sweetness, ‘Leave the door open. There are no secrets in our home.’

  I stood in front of my parents. In the silence all we could hear were the squeals of merriment wafting up the stairs.

  ‘Who are these hooligans downstairs in the living-room?’ Niang demanded loudly, seething with anger.

  ‘They are my friends.’ I clenched my fists and felt my nails dig into my palm. I was determined not to cry.

  ‘Who invited them here?’

  ‘No one did. They came on their own to celebrate my winning the campaign for class president.’

  ‘Is this party your idea?’

  ‘No, Niang. I had no inkling of it.’

  ‘Come here!’ she screamed. Slowly, reluctantly, I approached her chair. She slapped my face so hard that I was knocked off balance. ‘You’re lying!’ she continued. ‘You planned it, didn’t you, to show off our house to your penniless classmates. You thought we would not be home.’

  ‘No, Niang, I didn’t.’ I could no longer hold back the hot tears coursing down my cheeks.

  ‘Your father works so hard for all of you. He comes home to have a nap and there’s not a moment of peace. This is intolerable! You know very well that you’re not allowed to invite any of your friends home. How dare you invite them into the living-room?’

  ‘I’ve already told you that I didn’t invite them! My friends know that I’m not allowed to go to their homes after school, so they probably decided to come here. They did not know it is forbidden.’

  She slapped me again, this time with the back of her hand across
my other cheek. ‘Liar! You planned it all to show off! I’ll teach you to be so sneaky! You go downstairs right now and tell those hooligans to leave our house this minute. And tell them never to come again. Never! Never! Never! They are not welcome!’

  I left their room and trudged down to face my friends. An ominous silence had replaced their revelry. I wiped my streaming nose and eyes with the back of my sleeve and saw blood. To my horror and shame, I realized that Niang’s slaps had caused a nose bleed, and my face was stained with a mixture of tears and bloody mucus.

  I must have been quite a sight when I stepped back into the living-room to face my campaign supporters. Stripped of my defences, obviously unloved and unwanted by my own parents, I could not look them in the eyes, and they could not look at me. They knew that I knew they had heard every word. My friends had had no idea of my family situation. Towards the outside world, I was desperate to present the façade of being part of a loving family. Now, my carefully preserved guise had been stripped away, exposing the pathetic truth.

  I tried to gather a little dignity and said, to no one in particular, ‘I’m sorry. My father wishes to sleep. They ask me to tell you to go home.’

  My campaign manager, Wu Chun-mei, a tall athletic girl whose father was an American-educated doctor, took out her handkerchief and handed it to me. Unnerved by this kind gesture, I attempted to give her a smile of thanks, but somehow found it impossible when I saw the loving compassion in her red-rimmed eyes. With tears now streaming down, I told them, ‘Thank you all for coming. I shall never forget your loyalty.’