To leave Three Ox Village, I needed a local-government connection. Most of the local Party officials were no more than scruffy peasants themselves, but I remembered a regional Party secretary from Langxiang, who had come to Three Ox Village to inspect the Sent-down Youths when we first arrived. The official was bald and fat, but well dressed and rumoured to own a car. I was twenty-three and had wasted six years of my life in Three Ox Village. I decided to go to him for help.
On my day off I got up before dawn, hiked three hours to the nearest road then hitchhiked to Langxiang. I went to the town hall and requested an appointment to meet with Party Secretary Lin. His secretary turned me away and, frustrated that I had spent over four hours travelling for nothing, I lost my temper with her, and Secretary Lin stepped out of his office to see what the commotion was. He knew at once what I had come for, and what I had to offer in exchange. The labouring and harsh weather hadn’t quite robbed me of my looks, and I had bathed and washed my hair the night before to make myself presentable. He invited me into his office and locked the door. There was no discussion or negotiation of the terms — we just lay down on the floor behind his desk. Secretary Lin’s round cheeks turned very red during the act, and as he climaxed he grunted like a hog. I remember he was very pleased by the blood, and that it was my first time.
I was Secretary Lin’s mistress for a year before he got me the residence papers and job in Beijing, a year of his sweaty hands groping my breasts and cunt, a year of pretending not to care what the other Sent-down Youth and villagers thought. The official eventually arranged for me to swap papers with a red-category girl my age, willing to sacrifice her life and status in Beijing to move to Langxiang to be with her repatriated fiancé. I was to take her name, Li Shuxiang, and she was to take mine, Yi Moon.
Secretary Lin nearly didn’t let me go. He had fallen in love, and got it into his head to divorce his wife and marry me instead. To become Secretary Lin’s second wife was the last thing I wanted, and I begged him to stay with his wife ‘for the sake of his family’ until his sense of duty was restored. The official said I could come back to him if I was unhappy in Beijing. He said he would welcome me back to Langxiang with open arms. Lying through my teeth, I promised to return one day, and the lovesick man threw his head against my breasts and wept.
Seven years after leaving Beijing, I returned. Secretary Lin had found me a job as a tea lady in the Ministry of Agriculture, and I spent my days pushing a tea trolley about dreary government buildings and pouring hot water out of a thermos for the cadres. At night I slept in a workers’ dormitory in Maizidian. I was only twenty-four, but an old woman inside. I had none of the spark and vivacity of other girls my age.
Your father was just a clerk back then, but ambitious and clever, and certain to rise through the ranks. He was handsome and could have had any woman he wanted, so what did he see in me? Your father saw subservience in the meek way I served him tea. He saw compliance in my diffident smile. I was the only tea lady who didn’t flirt with the cadres, and this led to the expectation that I would be a loyal wife. He saw that I wouldn’t be controlling or demanding and would stay out of his affairs. He saw that he wouldn’t have to sacrifice his womanizing or late nights. And he was correct. I couldn’t have cared less who he slept with or what time he came home. But I was not the sweet and deferential wife he expected.
Pregnancy. The birth of a son. When you were born I was convinced there was something strange about you, that there was a cognizance in your eyes, as though you had been born with prior knowledge of the world beyond my womb. Yet, at the same time, you were defenceless and tiny. You couldn’t stand up, or walk, or do anything for yourself. You were constantly crying for milk, or to be cradled in my arms, or for your vomit or shit to be wiped up. I was twenty-six. I went through the motions of being a mother, but had no maternal instinct or feeling. Your needs were endless and I couldn’t meet them. I was an inadequate mother. I saw this judgement of me in your eyes. Your father knew it too.
‘Shuxiang, you are an unnatural woman!’ he barked on the rare occasions he was home. ‘Pick the damned child up when he cries!’
Was it my lack of maternal instinct that led to the otherness I sensed about you? Or was it your otherness that corrupted my maternal instinct? I told myself the post-natal anxiety was because of my inexperience with babies and, the more time I spent with you, the less strange you would seem. But, instead, time exaggerated my feelings of disquiet until they became an irrational fear that you weren’t my own flesh and blood.
Once, I was breastfeeding you, and as you were suckling I had the uncanny sense that someone other than my four-month-old child was staring out at me from behind your gaze. I pulled you from my nipple, and milk and spittle dribbled from your mouth as I held you at arm’s length. ‘Who are you?’ I asked, my voice shaking, half expecting the imposter behind your eyes to speak. You spoke back in baby babble and I was as embarrassed as I was relieved. Four months earlier I had pushed you out of my own womb. I had seen the umbilical cord being cut with my own eyes. How could I suspect that you weren’t my child?
The next time it happened you were six months old, and we were rolling a ball back and forth on the floor. You smiled and gurgled at the colourful ball, unaware of your mother’s deathly boredom. ‘Back to Mama,’ I said, rolling the ball to you. But a change came over you and you suddenly lost interest in our game. You stared at me with the unmistakable gaze of someone from my past, and my panic was similar to the time I was an hour’s hike from Three Ox Village and realized I was being stalked by a wild and rabid-eyed dog.
‘Liya?’ I whispered.
You stared back with cold, hostile, accusing eyes, still furious that I had betrayed you to the Red Guards, still furious I had taken your mother’s possessions out of the secret hiding place. I couldn’t stand it. I walked out of the living room. I put on my coat and left our apartment. I wandered the streets for hours, thinking, It can’t be. . It can’t be. . It can’t be. Yet it was. How long had Liya been lurking inside you, biding her time? I shuddered to think.
The apartment was dark when I returned, and harrowing with a small child’s crying. I went to the living room and turned on the light. You were a mess, crawling about in a puddle of urine, your cheeks and hands smeared with shit. When you saw me you threw back your head and bawled, your eyes accusing. But this time your accusation was that of an abandoned child. Liya had disappeared. Though I was wary of you still, I picked you up and washed you in a basin of lukewarm water. I towelled you dry and I fed you a bottle of formula milk. The whole time, I was nervous that Liya would reappear.
There were incidents like this throughout your babyhood, when I was overcome by the conviction that Liya, or some other imposter, was stalking me through your eyes. I would walk away from you. I would shut myself in the bedroom or bathroom. When you scrabbled at the door and called, ‘Mama. .’ I covered my ears. Sometimes my panic was so overwhelming I would leave you splashing in the plastic tub, or in the kitchen with pans boiling on the stove, and flee the apartment and walk the streets until my heart stopped pounding and I was brave enough to go back. Fight or flight, that was my reflex when I was menaced by others in your gaze. And though walking out on you was irresponsible, not walking out on you would have been worse. I would have screamed and shaken you. I would have beaten you and staved in your baby-sized skull.
Fortunately, it didn’t last. As you grew up into a chattering child, with a mind and character of your own, Liya and the others went away, and I soon forgot there was ever a time I suspected you weren’t my son. My skills as a mother did not improve, though. I still forgot to cook dinner. I still forgot to tell you to go to bed. Your teachers wrote me notes, saying that your clothes needed washing, and your toes poked through the holes in your shoes. I never beat you or was intentionally cruel. But I didn’t love you as a mother should love her son. And you, who loved me as a son should love his mother, could tell.