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“China’s a bad place.”
“I know,” she says. “I know.”
“I want Sam. I want Joy.”
“Try to eat your soup,” May says.
“I need to go after Joy,” I announce. “Maybe I can find her in Hong Kong, but I’ll go into China if I have to.”
“China’s a bad place,” Vern repeats. “You die there.”
I put my bowl on the floor. “May, can you lend me the money?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Of course, but I don’t know if I have enough.”
How could she when she’s spent her money on clothes, jewelry, entertaining, and her fancy car? I shove those feelings aside, reminding myself that she also helped buy this house and pay for Joy’s tuition …
“I do,” Vern says. “Bring me boats. Lots of boats.”
May and I look at each other, not understanding.
“I need boats!”
I hand him the closest one. He takes it and throws it on the floor. The model shatters, and inside is a roll of bills held together with a rubber band.
“My money from the family pot,” Vern says. “More boats! Give me more!”
Soon the three of us are smashing Vern’s collection of ships, planes, and race cars on the floor. The old man had been stingy and cheap but always fair. Of course he gave Vern a portion of the family pot, even after he became an invalid. But Vern, unlike the rest of us, never spent his money. I can remember only one time I saw him use money: when he took May, Sam, Joy, and me to the beach on the streetcar our first Christmas in Los Angeles.
May and I gather up the wads of cash and count the money on Vern’s bed. There’s more than enough for a plane ticket and even bribes, if I need them.
“I’ll come with you,” May says. “We’ve always done better when we’re together.”
“You need to stay here. You need to take care of Vern, the coffee shop, the house, and the ancestors—”
“What if you find Joy and then the authorities won’t let you leave?” May asks.
She’s worried about this. Vern’s worried about this. And I’m terrified. We’d be stupid if we weren’t. I allow myself a wan smile.
“You’re my sister, and you’re very smart. You’re going to start working from this end.”
As my sister absorbs this, I can practically see her forming a list in her mind.
“I’m going to call Betsy and her father again,” she says. “And I’ll write Vice President Nixon. He helped other people get out of China when he was a senator. I’ll make him help us.”
I think but don’t say: This isn’t going to be easy. Again, I’m not a U.S. citizen, and I don’t have a passport for any country. And we’re dealing with Red China. But I have to believe she’ll do ever
ything she can to get Joy and me out of China, because she got us out once before.
“I spent my first twenty-one years in China and my last twenty in Los Angeles,” I say, my voice as steady as my resolve. “I don’t feel like I’m going home. I feel like I’m losing my home. I’m counting on you to make sure Joy and I have something to come back to.”
The next day I pack the Certificate of Identity I was given on Angel Island and the peasant clothes May bought me to wear out of China. I take photos of Sam to give me courage and of Joy to show to people I meet. I go to the family altar and say good-bye to Sam and the others. I remember something May said a few years ago: Everything always returns to the beginning. I finally understand what she meant now as I begin this new journey—not only will mistakes be repeated but we will also be given chances to fix them. Twenty years ago I lost my mother as we fled China; now I’m returning to China, as a mother, to make things—so many things—right. I open the little box where Sam placed the pouch Mama gave me. I put it around my neck. It protected me in my travels once before, just as I hope that the one May gave Joy before she went away to college is protecting her now.
I say good-bye and thank you to the boy-husband, and then May drives me to the airport. As palm trees and stucco houses drift past my window, I go back over my plan: I’ll go to Hong Kong, put on my peasant clothes, and walk across the border. I’ll go to the Louie and Chin home villages—both places Joy has heard about—to make sure she isn’t there, but my mother’s heart tells me she won’t be there. She’s gone to Shanghai to find her real father and learn about her mother and her aunt, and I’m going to be right behind her. Of course I’m afraid I’ll be killed. But more than that, I’m afraid for all the things we still could lose.
I glance at my sister, who sits behind the wheel of the car with such determination. I remember that look from when she was a toddler. I remember it from when she hid our money and Mama’s jewelry on the fisherman’s boat. We still have so much to say to each other to make things right between us. There are things I’ll never forgive her for and things I need to apologize for. I know for sure that she was dead wrong about how I feel about being in America. I may not have my papers, but after all these years, I am an American. I don’t want to give that up—not after everything I’ve gone through to have it. I’ve earned my citizenship the hard way; I’ve earned it for Joy.
At the airport, May walks me to my gate. When we get there, she says, “I can never apologize enough about Sam, but please know I was trying to help the two of you.” We hug, but there are no tears. For every awful thing that’s been said and done, she is my sister. Parents die, daughters grow up and marry out, but sisters are for life. She is the only person left in the world who shares my memories of our childhood, our parents, our Shanghai, our struggles, our sorrows, and, yes, even our moments of happiness and triumph. My sister is the one person who truly knows me, as I know her. The last thing May says to me is “When our hair is white, we’ll still have our sister love.”
