Telling Stories

The making of an orphan

The police come and ask the little girl questions. How did you get here? Where is your mother? Where do you live? She shakes her head, the tears still rolling down her cheeks. She doesn't know the answers.

The police make a phone call. Two women arrive and take the girl to their small apartment. You can stay with us while the police look for your mother, they explain. She nods. Yes, auntie. But two days later they take her back to the police station. She is led to a gray building and put in a large room. People in tattered clothes sit on benches. She recognizes them as the people who follow people on the street, asking to shine their shoes in exchange for a few coins.

She realizes this must be a jail and shivers. She is confused. Can you be sent to jail for shining shoes? If that's why they're there, what did I do wrong? The police bring her a bowl of watery rice. There are black specks in the rice -- dirt? insects? -- and she refuses to eat it. She lies down on the wooden bench and falls into a troubled asleep.

The two women return. They explain that the police have not found her mother. They take her back to their apartment. After a few days they again return her to the police station. Her mother has not been found and she must go to live somewhere else.

The police walk her to a panel truck and instruct her to climb into the back. They set a baby down next to her. The truck drives a short distance and parks on the street. The driver lets her out and takes her though a wrought-iron gate. A sign in gold characters outside the gate says, "Municipal Social Welfare Institute." She walks past rose bushes and exercise equipment and rows of buildings. They come to an office building. A banner across the front of the office building says in Chinese and awkward English, "Help grow for us / Thanks for your love." A large gold Chinese character ai, "love," sits above the banner. 

A pretty woman in high heels greets them. She thanks the driver and takes the girl and the baby inside and down a long hallway.

People in white coats look at the girl and write on forms attached to clipboards. What is your name? they ask. Jia Mei, she says. They talk among themselves and check a list. Hong Rong Mei, they say, writing the new name in their forms. That is your name now. No! she says. My name is Jia Mei! They smile and continue asking questions. How old are you? they ask. I don't know, she says. What month were you born? She answers, I don't know. I've never had a birthday.

More people come and go. Some wear blue masks. They take off Mei's clothes and put her in a cotton gown. They measure her height and weight and look at her teeth. One of them writes a date on a form. This will be her birthday. They stick her in the arm with needles. She scowls at them and they chide her for being naughty. 

A woman takes her to a large tiled bathroom and tells her to get into a deep tub. She washes Mei's hair and body with a bar of soap. The woman hands her a towel and a clean but worn shirt and pants. They could be boys' clothes or girls' clothes; it's impossible to tell. Faded cartoon characters dance across the front of the shirt.

The woman takes Mei to another room and sits her in a chair. Another women has electric clippers in her hand. Mei's eyes well up with tears. No! she pleads. Don't cut my hair! But it is much easier to keep the children clean and free of lice with short hair. In a moment her hair is cut as short as a boy's. Mei hangs her head in shame. She had dreamed of being pretty one day, with long hair and eyelashes like the girls in the advertisements on the buses. Not a ragamuffin in short hair and nondescript clothing.

Mei is now officially an orphan. She has a new name and birthday and home. She shares clothes and a haircut with all the other children, boys and girls. She hears the sound of children playing in another part of the complex. Soon she will join them. No one has explained to her what is happening. She uses her imagination and limited experience to fill in the blanks.

*****

She begins telling me this story a few months after I become her mother, thousands of miles from the orphanage. She pantomimes her mother running for the bus and tells me in Mandarin about the jail and the rice. I write down my best guess for the Pinyin and translate the words online while she watches. Later, when she has enough English, she fills in the details. But I understand enough watching her act out these events. Her eyes are fierce as her hands slice through her hair, showing me how they cut it. She is still indignant that everything she had was taken away.

Bus stop

The little girl gets on the bus with her mother. They ride in silence. She doesn't know where they are going, but she has learned not to ask questions.

The bus passes green fields and yellow-brick buildings with low tile roofs. Water buffaloes stand as still as statues in the grass. After a while, the buildings grow taller and closer together. Clusters of people on bicycles pass the bus as it weaves through the heavy traffic.

The bus stops at a corner and the girl follows her mother out the door. They walk down the crowded streets. The mother stops at a street vendor and buys the girl a paper cup of ice cream. They walk some more. 

The girl finishes her ice cream. Her mother points at the sidewalk and says, Stay here, and I will go get you another. The girl nods and does as she's told. The woman turns and quickly walks back the way they just came.

The little girl waits for her mother to return. People come and go, but she does not see her mother. Has it been minutes or hours? She only knows that it has been a long time. The street lights come on. She begins to cry. Passers-by look at her curiously but no one stops to help. She sits down on the sidewalk. A car stops and a man leans out the window. You look lost, he says. Do you want to come home with me? She shakes her head no. I'll call the police, he says, and drives away. She sits with her head bowed, watching the tears drop in her lap.

*****

Seven years later, I pick her up from dance class and forget that her younger sister is still there playing on the playground. We get home and my husband reminds me that I left someone behind. We have to turn around and go back. On the drive home, she tells her sister, "Now you know how I felt when my mom left me somewhere. Except she never came back." There's no bitterness in her voice. She's just stating facts.