The next woman was robust, almost mannish. The following woman looked slow and unresponsive when Yilan’s aunt asked her questions about her family. The fourth woman was tidy and rather good-looking, but when she talked, Yilan noticed the slyness in her eyes. The fifth woman was on the verge of tears when she begged Yilan to choose her. She listed reasons for her urgent need of money—husband paralyzed from an accident in a nearby mine, aging parents and in-laws, two children growing fast and needing more food than she could put in their mouths, a mud-and-straw house ready to collapse in the rainy season. Yilan thought about all the worries that would distract the woman from nourishing the baby. Yilan was ashamed of her selfishness, but she did not want her child to be exposed so early to the unhappiness of the world. Not yet.
At the end of the morning, Yilan decided to look at more women instead of choosing one from the first batch. Even though Luo had explained to her that the baby would be entirely their own—they were the providers of her genes and the surrogate mother would only function as a biological incubator—Yilan worried that the baby would take up some unwanted traits from a less than perfect pregnancy.
When Yilan and her aunt exited the teahouse, a woman sitting on the roadside curb stood up and came to them. “Auntie, are you the one looking for someone to bear your child?” she said to Yilan.
Yilan blushed. Indeed the young woman looked not much older than Jade. Her slim body in a light-green blouse reminded Yilan of watercress; her face was not beautiful in any striking way but there was not the slightest mistake in how the eyes and nose and mouth were positioned in the face. “We’re looking for someone who has had a child before,” Yilan said apologetically.
“I have a child,” the woman said. From a small cloth bag she wore around her neck with an elastic band, she brought out a birth certificate and a household register card. The birth certificate was her son’s, four years old now, and on the register card she pointed out her name, which matched the mother’s name on the birth certificate.
Yilan studied the papers. Fusang was the woman’s name, and she was twenty-two, according to the register card, married to a man twenty years older. Yilan looked up at Fusang. Unlike the other married women, who wore their hair short or in a bun, Fusang’s hair was plaited into one long braid, still in the style of a maiden.
“Young girl, nobody’s recommended you to us,” Yilan’s aunt said.
“That’s because I didn’t have the money to pay the matchmakers,” Fusang said. “They refused to tell you about me.”
“Why do you want to do it?” Yilan said, and then realized that the answer was obvious. “Where’s your son?” she asked.
“Gone,” Fusang said.
Yilan flinched at the answer, but Fusang seemed to have only stated a fact. Her eyes did not leave Yilan’s face while they were talking.
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Yilan’s aunt asked.
“It means he’s no longer living with me.”
“Where is he? Is he dead?” Yilan’s aunt said.
For a moment Fusang looked lost, as if confused by the relevance of the question. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I hope he’s not dead.”
Yilan felt her aunt pull her sleeve, a warning about the young woman’s credibility or her mental state. “Does your husband know you’re coming to see us?” Yilan said.
Fusang smiled. “My husband—he doesn’t know his own age.”
Yilan and her aunt exchanged a look. Despite the disapproval in her aunt’s eyes, Yilan asked Fusang to come and see them again the next day. By then she would have an answer, Yilan explained. Fusang seemed unconvinced. “Why can’t you tell me now? I don’t want to walk all the way here again tomorrow.”
“Which village are you from?” Yilan’s aunt asked.
Fusang said the village name. It had taken her two and a half hours to walk to town. Yilan took out a ten-yuan bill and said, “You can take the bus tomorrow.”
“But why do you need to think about it?”
Unable to look at Fusang’s eyes, Yilan turned to her aunt for help. “Because we need to find out if you’re lying,” Yilan’s aunt said.
“But I’m not. Go ask people,” Fusang said, and put the money carefully into the bag dangling from her neck.
FUSANG HAD BEEN
sold to her in-laws at the price of two thousand yuan. Their only son was a dimwit whom nobody wanted to marry, and they had to buy a young girl from a passing trader, one of those moving from province to province and making money by selling stolen children and abducted young women. Luckily for the old couple, Fusang was docile and did not resist at all when they made her the dimwit’s wife. When asked about her previous life, however, her only answer was that she had forgotten. The in-laws, for fear she would run away and they would lose their investment, kept her a prisoner for a year, but the girl never showed any sign of restlessness. The second year of the marriage, she gave birth to a son who, to the ecstasy of the grandparents, was not a dimwit. They started to treat her more like a daughter-in-law, granting her some freedom. One day, when the boy was two, Fusang took him to play outside the village, and later came home and reported that he was missing. The villagers’ search turned up nothing. How could a mother lose her son? her enraged in-laws asked her. If not for her dimwit husband, who had enough sense to protect Fusang from his parents’ stick and fists, she would have been beaten to death. In the two years following the boy’s disappearance, both in-laws had died, and now Fusang lived with her husband on the small patch of rice field his parents had left them.
This was the story of Fusang that Yilan’s aunt had found out for her. “Not a reliable person, if you ask me,” her aunt said.
“Why? I don’t see anything wrong.”
“She lost her own son and did not shed one drop of tear,” Yilan’s aunt said. After a pause, she sighed. “Of course, you may need someone like that,” she said. “It’s your money, so I shouldn’t be putting my nose in your business.”
Yilan found it hard to explain to her aunt why she liked Fusang. She was different from the other village women, their eyes dull compared to Fusang’s. Young and mindlessly strong, Fusang seemed untouched by her tragic life, which would make it easier for her to part with the baby—after all, it was not only a service Yilan was purchasing but also a part of Fusang’s life that she was going to take with her.
The next day, when Fusang came again, Yilan asked her to sign the paper, a simple one-paragraph contract about an illegal act. Fusang looked at the contract and asked Yilan to read it to her. Yilan explained that Fusang would stay with her through the pregnancy, and Yilan would cover all her living and medical expenses; there was not any form of advance, only the final payment that Fusang would get right before Yilan and the baby left for America. “Do you understand the contract?” Yilan asked when she finished explaining it.
Fusang nodded. Yilan showed Fusang her name, and Fusang put her index finger in the red ink paste and then pressed it down below her name.
“Have you had any schooling?” Yilan asked.
“I went to elementary school for three years,” Fusang said.
“What happened after the third grade?”
Fusang thought about the question. “I wasn’t in the third grade,” she said with a smile, as if she was happy to surprise Yilan. “I repeated the first grade three times.”
LUO ARRIVED TWO
days before the appointment for the in vitro fertilization. When he saw Yilan waiting at the railway station, he came close and hugged her, a Western gesture that made people stop and snicker. Yilan pushed him gently away. He looked jet-lagged but excited, and suddenly she worried that Fusang might not arrive for the implantation of the embryo. It had been two months since they had talked, and Yilan wondered if the young woman would change her mind, or simply forget the contract. The nagging worry kept her awake at night, but she found it hard to talk to Luo about it. He did not know Fusang’s story; he had approved of her only because she was young and healthy and her body was primed for pregnancy and childbirth.
Fusang showed up with a small battered suitcase and a ready smile, as if coming for a long-awaited vacation. When Yilan introduced her to Luo, she joked with him and asked if it would be hard for him to be separated from his wife for a year. It was an awkward joke, to which Luo responded with a tolerant smile. He acted deferential but aloof toward Fusang, the right way for a good husband to be, and soon Fusang was frightened into a quieter, more alert person by his unsmiling presence.
The procedure went well, and after two weeks of anxious waiting, the pregnancy was confirmed. Fusang seemed as happy as Yilan and Luo.
“Keep an eye on her,” Luo said in English to Yilan when they walked to the railway station for his departing train.
Yilan turned to look at Fusang, who was trailing two steps behind, like a small child. Luo had insisted that Fusang come with them. “Of course,” Yilan replied in English. “I won’t let our child starve. I’ll make sure Fusang gets enough nutrition and sleep.”
“Beyond that, don’t let her out of your sight,” Luo said.
“Why?”
“She has our child in her,” Luo said.
Yilan looked again at Fusang, who waved back with a smile. “It’s not like she’ll run away,” Yilan said. “She needs the money.”
“You trust people too easily,” Luo said. “Don’t you understand that we can’t make any mistakes?”
Shocked by his stern tone, Yilan thought of pointing out that she could not possibly imprison Fusang for the whole pregnancy, but they did not need an argument as a farewell. She agreed to be careful.
“Be very vigilant, all right?” Luo said.
Yilan looked at him strangely.
“It’s our child I’m worrying about,” Luo said, as if explaining himself. And after a moment, he added with a bitter smile, “Of course, for a loser like me, there’s nothing else to live for but a child.”
Yilan thought about the patients he had once saved, most of them victims of traffic accidents, when he served at the emergency center that belonged to the traffic department. They used to make him happy—since when had he lost faith in saving other people’s lives? “We can still think of coming back to China,” Yilan said tentatively. “You were a good surgeon.”
“It doesn’t mean anything to me now,” Luo said, and waved his hand as if to drive away the gloom that had fallen. “All I want now is a child and that we give her a good life.”
THE FIRST FEW
days after Luo left, Yilan and Fusang seemed at a loss for what to do with each other’s company. Yilan made small talk but not too often—they were still at the stage where she had to measure every word coming out of her mouth. The only meaningful thing, besides waiting, was to make the flat more comfortable for the waiting. A shabbily furnished two-bedroom unit in a gray building indistinguishable from many similar buildings in a residential area, it reminded Yilan of their first home in America, with furniture bought at the local Goodwill store and a few pieces hauled in from the dumpster. Jade, twelve and a half then, had been the one to make the home their own, decorating the walls with her paintings, framed in cheap frames bought at the dollar store; Jade had always been good at drawing and painting, which baffled Yilan, as neither she nor Luo had any artistic talent.
Yilan had brought with her a few books of paintings that Jade had loved, and now, when the stay in the flat was confirmed, she took them out of her luggage and put them on a rickety bookcase in the living room. “I brought these for you,” Yilan said to Fusang, who stood by the living room door, watching Yilan work. Clueless like a newborn duckling, Fusang had taken on the habit of following Yilan around until Yilan told her that she could go back to her own bedroom and rest. “When you are free,” Yilan said, and then paused at her poor choice of words. “When you’re not tired, spend some time looking at these paintings.”
Fusang came closer and wiped her hands on the back of her pants. She then picked up the book on top, paintings by Jade’s favorite artist, Modigliani. Fusang flipped the pages and placed a hand over her mouth to hide a giggle. “These people, they look funny,” she said when she realized Yilan was watching her.
Yilan looked at the paintings that she had tried hard to like because of Jade’s love for them. “They are paintings by a famous artist,” she said. “You don’t have to understand them, but you should look at them so the baby will get a good fetal education.”
“Fetal education?”
“A baby needs more than just nutrients for her body. She needs stimuli for her brain, too.”
Fusang looked perplexed. Yilan thought about Fusang’s illiterate mind. Would it be an obstacle between the baby and the intelligence of the outside world? Yilan did not know the answer, but it did not prevent her from playing classical music and reading poems from the Tang dynasty to Fusang and the baby. Sometimes Yilan looked at the paintings with Fusang, who was always compliant, but Yilan could see that her mind was elsewhere. What did a young woman like Fusang think about? Jade used to write in journals that she had not thought to hide from Yilan, so Yilan at least got to know the things Jade had written down. Fusang, however, seemed to have no way of expressing herself. She talked less and less when the increasing hormones made her sicker. She spent several hours a day lying in bed and then rushing to the bathroom with horrible gagging sounds. Yilan tried to remember her own pregnancy; Jade had been a good baby from the beginning, and Yilan had not experienced much sickness at all. She wondered how much it had to do with a mother’s reception, or rejection, of the growing existence within her body. She knew it was unfair of her to think so, but Fusang’s reaction seemed unusually intense. Yilan could not help but think that Fusang’s body, without any affection for the baby, was suffering intentionally. Would the baby feel the alienation, too?
Such thoughts nagged Yilan. No matter how carefully she prepared the meals, with little salt or oil or spice, Fusang would rush to the bathroom. Yilan tasted the dishes—tofu and fish and mushroom and green-leafed vegetables—which were perfectly bland; she did not see why Fusang would not eat.