Wish You Happy Forever by Jenny Bowen Page B

were a sad-looking lot. Unrepaired cleft lips and spastic limbs and bad haircuts on misshapen heads. Way too many bruises and scars for such a young crowd. Most of them were foggy-eyed, glazed. But a few watched us—especially me, the foreign freak, the first they’d ever seen. They were curious, and a couple were frightened when I came close. I took any emotion as a sign of life.
    One sweet-faced little girl, maybe three or four years old, sat alone against the wall on a towel-covered stool. She watched me, and when I approached, I thought I saw a tiny fleeting smile.
    â€œHello,” I said, crouching beside her. “ Nihao ma? ”
    I took her hand. Her skin was coarse, dry. She looked down at our fingers touching. She reached up and touched my yellow-brown hair.
    â€œWhy is she sitting here alone?” I asked, trying to sound friendly and nonthreatening. “Can’t she join the other children?”
    â€œShe had a tumor removed from her brain. It was benign, but she lost control of her bladder.”
    â€œBut she’s so young. Can’t she be helped? Can’t she have a diaper?”
    Nobody had an answer for me. Something was growing tight inside me. My eyes were stinging.
    â€œWould you like to see the babies?” Mrs. Li took me by the arm, her grip firm. I wanted to shake her off. I wanted to run away from this place. But I didn’t.
    THEN THERE WERE the baby girls. Rows of them in squat wooden cribs. And these tiny creatures—stuffed two to a bed—they were tied to the railings.
    Where could they go?
    I walked up and down the rows, gazing at each. I tried to count them. I couldn’t focus. I thought of who might have left them. Each one a different story. Each a tragedy that could not be spoken.
    I touched the pale forehead of a tiny child, maybe two months old, with spindly arms and doll-size fists. I stroked her cheek with the back of my fingers. Her mouth didn’t turn toward them. She’d forgotten every newborn’s instinct to suckle.
    I picked her up and held her close. She weighed nothing. The makeshift diaper, a rag really, that was tied to her waist sagged, soaking wet. I must have reacted. An ayi rushed up and snatched her away, then quickly grabbed dry rags to change her.
    To be honest, I can’t remember the rest. I wasn’t really there anymore. I remember in my throat. I remember the tightness inside me, the rush of anger, pushing at my chest. The wanting to scoop them all into my arms and get them out of that place.
    But I can’t remember the faces anymore. Or when I do, when I force myself to remember, those dear little sad faces are multiplied into thousands I’ve seen since, like an impossibly miserable hall of mirrors.
    THAT NIGHT, AFTER the requisite evening banquet with a new set of officials, we finally arrived at a government hotel. The entire troop of hosts insisted on riding the elevator up to our rooms. It seemed as if the party would continue in the hallway, even after we got the bags sorted out and assured everyone that our rooms were just fine. The concept of private time was nonexistent. Finally, I apologized for my unfortunate jet lag, thanked everyone for the hundredth time, and closed myself inside the room.
    I sat down on the rock-hard bed. I stared at the laminated chart on the dresser. It listed every item in the room and what it would cost if you were thinking of stealing it. Starting with the easy (ashtray—1 yuan; towel—2 yuan; tea cup—1 yuan ) and finishing up with the ridiculous (armchair—230 yuan; television—1,100 yuan; mattress—750 yuan ).
    I carefully read the entire list. And then I fell apart.
    I sobbed for those little babies who were in nobody’s arms tonight and the children who’d never touched a toy and the toddlers who always had to wait their turn.
    I thought of the lunch banquet and the dinner banquet, tables heaped with more food than could be eaten,