China Ghosts Read online

  CHINA GHOSTS

  My Daughter’s Journey to America,

  My Passage to Fatherhood

  Jeff Gammage

  For my daughters,

  Jin Yu

  and

  Zhao Gu

  CONTENTS

  1. A BUS TO CHANGSHA

  2. CHILDREN LOST AND FOUND

  3. NEW PARENTS, NEW DAUGHTER

  4. THE XIANGTAN SOCIAL WELFARE INSTITUTE

  5. “REMEMBER, THIS IS FOREVER”

  6. IN CHINA-LAND

  7. POLITICS AND CHRISTMAS CAROLS

  8. HOME

  9. THE PRESENCE OF THOSE UNSEEN

  10. CHASING THE PAST

  11. EVERY CHILD MY OWN

  12. A MEETING IN CHINA

  13. CELEBRATIONS

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  The city of Changsha, as seen from our hotel room

  1 A BUS TO CHANGSHA

  AS SUMMER drifted toward fall, and long months of waiting dwindled to weeks and then to days, I began to dream of her.

  This stranger, small and far away. This unknown child.

  I didn’t yet know what she looked like, had no idea where or how she lived. I didn’t know her name. Yet in those final days she came to me every night, her appearance as certain as the moon.

  It was always the same dream. A winter night, cold and clear. I’m alone, hurrying through a series of alleyways, moving past darkened homes and shuttered stores. I can see my breath in the frozen air. Farther and farther I go, deeper into the labyrinth of narrow streets. I know she is here, somewhere. I can sense her in the darkness. I’m nearly running now. I can’t see her, but I know I am close. And she knows it too. She knows I am coming, and she is pleased.

  In my dream, she is willing me forward, faster and faster through the night to her side. She is happy. She is well. In my dream we will be together soon, and we will rejoice, father and daughter.

  In my dream, it is all so simple.

  THE RICE fields stretch in every direction, an endless patchwork of marshy paddies containing an infinite number of sprouts, all the identical shade of radiant green, all illuminated by the glare of a fierce summer sun. It is like arriving in Oz, a place where even the ground is the dazzling color of emerald.

  The bus bounces and dips, groaning as it parts this shimmery ocean of green from atop a ribbon of new, hard blacktop, pushing on toward the city of Changsha. People in the middle rows make polite small talk—where they’re from, what they do, who they know.

  Not me.

  I’m too tired. And too nervous.

  I’m sitting in the back, trying to stay alert after days with little sleep, trying to stay calm despite the anticipation of all that awaits. My wife, Christine, sits on the seat beside me, the two of us grouped with thirty other Americans, people we don’t know, all of us thrown together to witness some of the most intimate moments of each other’s existence.

  I’m looking out the window, trying to take in the sight of all that surrounds me, certain that later on I will be questioned about the details of this day, these last hours, before everything changed.

  There will not be much to tell.

  Today, a Sunday, the highway is all but deserted, and the fields are empty of people and beasts. The jade gloss of the rice paddies rushes to the horizon, where it collides with the royal blue of the sky. The only signs of life, one every couple of miles, are the soaring spires of smokestacks, the flues of small, hand-fed kilns that fire bricks from clay dredged from the fields. The chimneys spew plumes of thick black smoke, inky smudges on the two-color tableau of sky and land.

  Changsha is the capital of Hunan Province, the local center of politics, education, trade, and most important for my wife and me, government. The city rests in a valley along the lower length of the Xiang River, a principal tributary of the mighty Yangtze. Most of the province stands south of Lake Dongting, a Yangtze flood basin, and its name means exactly that, “South of the Lake.”

  Humans have lived here for millennia. Settlers came to this region some three centuries before the birth of Christ, many of them Han Chinese from the north, farmers who set about clearing the forests and woods to grow wheat and rice. Within a hundred years, Changsha had become a fortified city—some of the old walls survive today. During the Han Dynasty, Changsha served as the capital of its own kingdom. During the Song, it gave birth to the famed Yuelu Academy.

  By the 1850s, word of the area’s fertile fields and abundant harvests had circulated far and wide, attracting waves of new settlers. Soon the province was home to more people than it could support. And soon the rich soil was sown not just with dung but with blood. Landowners began to force out tenant farmers in the early 1900s, bringing death by riot and famine. In 1927 the peasants rose up—not for the first time, but this time with arms—in a battle that became known as the Autumn Harvest Uprising. The man who led the people in that fight was a headstrong Hunan native named Mao Tsetung, who was born not far from Changsha. It was from the Hunan-Jiangxi-Province border that Mao and his loyalists later launched the Long March, the storied, strategic retreat to Shaanxi that allowed the Communists to regroup and, ultimately, to conquer China and establish the People’s Republic.

  Today Hunan’s capital is known for its ancient tombs, its Neolithic pottery and bronzes, for the scenic appeal of Mount Yuelu, which lies like the profile of a sleeping giant, a natural barrier to the west. But Changsha is no tourist haunt. And it’s not a pretty city. During the 1940s, the nationalist Kuomintang Army burned parts of Changsha to the ground as the soldiers tried to root out the Japanese. Much of what remained was cleared during more recent modernization campaigns that have turned Changsha into a nondescript capital of gray governmental buildings, big white-tile offices, and incessant smog.

  As I stare out the window, I wonder if my daughter will care. About this place. About these people.

  I wonder if it will matter to her that the people here take great pride in their tongue-scalding, chili-pepper cooking, and in their local style of opera. That their hand-stitched, double-sided Xiang embroidery is regarded as among the most exquisite in the world. That monuments to Mao can be found across the region, his office in Changsha a museum, buses and trains running daily to the shrine of his birthplace in the mountain village of Shaoshan.

  I wonder if she will care that people here followed the chairman with heart and mind, that they were slow to embrace the economic reforms that followed his death. That today, Hunan ranks among the poorest provinces in China. That, despite the passage of long centuries in which dynasties rose and fell and even Mao himself passed from the scene, most people here do what their families have always done: grow and harvest rice. The breakneck speed of modernization in other parts of China has done little to free them from backbreaking labor.

  Slowly, over miles of fresh highway, the rice fields give way to low-slung brick houses, and then to more modern buildings and office towers. Tall apartments appear on either side. The sidewalks grow crowded with people. The bus brakes as it’s absorbed into the swarm of downtown traffic. We Americans draw stares and pointed fingers. A woman on the back of a motorcycle flashes the peace sign. A laborer, his face smeared with dirt, waves hello from his seat in the bed of a pickup truck. A man in a dark suit, behind the wheel of a fine car, looks up at us, unsmiling.

  I study the faces of the people on the sidewalk and in the street, searching for a resemblance to the small face on the photo in my wallet. But I see no one I recognize. And no one recognizes me. I’m a stranger here, a visitor to this land of rice and revolution, come halfway around the world to make good on an offer and a promise.

  F
ive weeks ago, representatives of the Chinese government sent me a letter and a photograph, a snapshot of a little girl. They said they had chosen her to be my daughter.

  The bus bounces across a rough patch of sidewalk and up a paved entryway, stopping outside the translucent glass doors of the Xiangquan Hotel on North Shaoshan Road. One by one, bleary-eyed travelers file off the bus, led by two adoption agency guides, the leader a smart young woman from the city of Xian, home of the famous Qin terra cotta warriors. Like many contemporary Chinese, she has taken an American first name, Mary. She is shortish, of medium build, neither fat nor thin, commanding of a certain authority. In a brief time she has molded a crowd of flustered, jet-lagged Americans into something resembling a cohesive travel group, marrying the skill of someone who has done this a thousand times with the enthusiasm of someone who is doing it for the first.

  The hotel lobby is a cavernous, U-shaped sweep of cream-colored tile, the shiny squares continuously washed and wiped by rotating teams of workers. You can see your reflection in the floor. A small gift shop sells jade and porcelain, and the guest services office offers access to the Internet. Unlike the stolid, Soviet-style hotels of the old Eastern Bloc, this residence could fit comfortably into any midsized city in the United States. It even has Western toilets.

  Still, it’s an odd place to become a father. It’s not a hospital. Or even home. Home is a northern suburb of Philadelphia, where I write for a newspaper, the Philadelphia Inquirer, and where Christine mends children’s psyches as a school psychologist. Home is an old, rambling Colonial Revival near a train station. Home is a place that needs a child.

  But what had been advertised as a breezy, nine-month jaunt to parenthood has, after a slowdown by Chinese officials, turned into a grueling eighteen-month marathon, one that’s pushed both our patience and our government approvals to the edge of expiration. In the past three days, we have flown seven thousand miles, hiked the broad thoroughfares of Beijing, whisked from the Forbidden City to the Summer Palace, hopped on another plane and flown nine hundred miles more to the Huanghua Airport near Changsha. We’ve smashed through eleven time zones—losing twelve hours, ten pounds, and one very expensive camera.

  At the front desk, check-in takes forever. None of the hotel staff speaks English, none of the Americans more than a few words of Chinese. There’s confusion over room assignments. Christine and I are well traveled, having been to Germany and Switzerland, England and Austria and France, but this is different. The language is more than a barrier. It’s a wall. If there was a fire, we wouldn’t even know how to shout for help.

  Mary instructs all of us to go to our rooms and wait—she’ll call when the children arrive, delivered from an orphanage in the city of Xiangtan, an hour’s drive south of here. My fatigue is not distracting. It’s disorienting. The upward glide of the hotel elevator induces vertigo. When the car stops on the twenty-third floor, I need to steady myself against a wall before undertaking the forty-step walk to our room.

  Our quarters are small, and made smaller by the bulk of an empty crib. For a moment I think there has been a mistake. What do Christine and I need with a crib? Then I remember.

  After eighteen years together, we are down to our last hour or so as a couple. By dinner we will be a threesome. The time does not feel precious. But it does seem strange to stand so firmly atop a generational fault line, to know for sure that in an hour you’ll be a parent, to understand that your old life is disappearing before your eyes, that a new one is about to begin.

  Mary told us to stay by our phones. And no one can stand it.

  Up and down the hallway, doors are propped open, anxious about-to-be parents wandering in and out of their rooms. Each distant jangle of a telephone jangles nerves as well, driving the people in the hall into their rooms and the people in their rooms out into the hall. I restlessly join the back-and-forth parade, reporting each new nondevelopment to Christine, who sits serenely in a wooden chair, her legs tucked beneath her, finishing the last pages of a novel.

  After forty minutes of pacing, I notice the couple across the hall heading for the elevator. They seem to be moving with a certain assurance. And they’re carrying a diaper bag. Down the hall a door claps shut. Then another.

  That’s good enough for me. I’m not waiting any longer.

  “Let’s go,” I say to Christine.

  We’re halfway out the door when our phone rings. I rush back and grab the receiver.

  “William?” a voice says. It’s Mary. Who else would be phoning us in China? She calls me by my legal name, the name I’ve typed or printed onto countless government forms and applications during the last two years. In the United States, the only callers who ask for William are hoping to sell me new rain gutters.

  “William?” she repeats. I hadn’t answered the first time. “Your baby is here.”

  “We’ll be right there,” I say. As if waiting was an option.

  A little more than a month ago, well over a year after we had sent a thick dossier to the China Center of Adoption Affairs in Beijing, a FedEx envelope arrived at our front door. It contained three pictures of a girl, age two. She had eyes colored dark brown, almost black, and a mouth shaped like an upside-down Valentine’s heart. An accompanying letter said her name was Jin Yu, and her health was “normal.” It said she was frightened of people she didn’t know. And that she loved the color red.

  The authorities said Jin Yu was living in the government-run Social Welfare Institute in Xiangtan, an industrial town about forty miles from Changsha. They said if Christine and I would promise to always love and care for Jin Yu, to educate her, to never forsake her, then she could be ours. We put an “X” in the box marked “accept” and sent the letter back.

  The elevator starts down, bobbing to a stop on the twentieth floor. The doors slide open. The hallway is warm, the air-conditioning weak.

  I feel like an actor in a play, about to walk onstage before a full and expectant house. Except I don’t know my lines. Or even the plot. As if I have boarded a roller coaster, realizing too late, after the shoulder harness has locked and the machine begins to glide forward, that the ride is going to speed higher and faster than I ever imagined. Realizing that, despite years of dedicated effort to get here, to this point, to this place, to a pedestrian hotel in a colorless city, I may not be ready. Realizing that the deadline for such hesitation has long since passed.

  We turn the corner toward Mary’s room.

  It’s a mob scene.

  THE FIRST time I ever thought about China was in grade school when I was assigned to write a class report. It was known as Red China then. Or at least that’s what Americans called it. I chose a sheet of bright red construction paper as a logical cover.

  As an adolescent, I glanced at the television news long enough to notice Nixon plodding along the Great Wall. In my late twenties, I watched a little longer as the tanks rolled into Tiananmen Square.

  After that I didn’t pay much attention. To me China seemed not just foreign but removed, a place of constant internal turmoil and incomprehensible political struggle. And if China was far off, then adoption was a different world, a planet inhabited by another species of human beings, people not like me. My perception of adoption came straight out of a Mickey Rooney movie—healthy, freshly clothed children, plucky if a bit down on their luck, being organized into intramural baseball teams by a benevolent parish priest.

  For people like me, born in the late 1950s near the end of the baby boom, having children was not a duty or even an expectation. It was an option. Children were something you embraced once you had decided you were ready. Once you had concluded that you were mature and independent enough to take care of someone else, someone smaller and weaker. For Christine and me, that moment of clear choice and full preparation lingered always in the distance, forever growing nearer but never quite in sight, a decision delayed and put off and postponed until the day we discovered that, without our ever noticing, the time we had been allotted to bear c
hildren had expired.

  We figured adopting a baby would be fast and practically effortless. We figured that as healthy, law-abiding members of the middle class, a child would be waiting for us, that the friends and relatives who spoke so assuredly of “all the unwanted children who need homes,” knew what they were talking about. We figured there was bound to be a large government bureaucracy that sought to match childless couples with parentless children, that pretty much all we would have to do was phone and put our names on the list.

  We didn’t know anything.

  In the United States there are indeed thousands of children in the foster care system, many of them older. But there are not nearly as many healthy, newborn babies as there are people who want one. People compete for those children, and that competition is intense and expensive and often bruising. Christine and I discovered that by the time a couple successfully adopts, they may have spent years searching across the country for a baby. They may have been interviewed and rejected by pregnant teenage girls seeking just the right couple to raise their as-yet unborn children. They may have had a baby placed in their arms—and then taken away, reclaimed by the birth family after everything seemed final. We learned that for those couples the lost child remains forever on their minds.

  Christine and I didn’t think we could take the emotional beating that domestic adoption seemed to promise.

  We began to consider adopting a child from another country. And at first the prospects overseas seemed equally dispiriting. Romania’s program was stumbling toward collapse. Vietnam was in similar disarray. Cambodia was a purgatory, Thailand unpredictable, Guatemala shaken by accusations of baby trafficking. Poland preferred prospective parents to be Polish, and Kazakhstan wanted them to stay for a month. Russia required two trips overseas, which seemed excessive, even as American newspapers carried accounts of adopted Russian children suffering from harrowing developmental disabilities.