Mama, Don't Go

Beijing’s lanes stretched astonishingly wide, overwhelming most pedestrians. Crossing from one side to the other took nearly ten minutes. From the overpass, you might be captivated by the grandeur, but also unsettled by its menace. Gazing into the torrent of cars racing across eight lanes could leave you dizzy. At night, when every headlight blazed, the city glowed as bright as day. Only days ago, a man hung himself on this very overpass. Remembering the news, I shivered.

The last bus pulled into the station and I sprinted toward it. When I finally dragged myself aboard, the driver snapped at me. “I can’t wait too long.” He was impatient, just like everyone else worn down by life in this megacity. I thanked him, hoping to calm him a little. At that moment, the bus held only three passengers - myself among them. I felt guilty about Yingying, my ten-year-old daughter, for missing yet her another one of her birthdays. It was already close to eleven at night, and she was surely asleep.

In the night-darkened glass, my face appeared – tired, faint, and drifting with the motion of the bus. The face was emotionless, but my heart was a flood of feelings, rolling and crashing inside me. I gazed at my reflection, and asked myself: Where is my hope?

It was my daughter’s tenth birthday. She had lived ten years already, but I had been absent for six of her birthdays. As a single mother from the countryside, I had no choice but to work in cities thousands of miles from my hometown. Each year, I returned only once, staying no more than a few days. When the firecrackers of the New Year died away, I had to set out again, back to the city in search of whatever temporary work I could find.

I drifted from one job to the next; lately, even keeping a steady job had become difficult. Saving money for my daughter was even harder. Now I worked as a janitor in a shopping mall. Most of the workers were older than me, and their lives seemed better than mine. Some of the older women encouraged me to look for a job with higher pay, but the world was harsher than our hopes.

I went back to my tiny room and video-called my mother in the countryside. “Yingying is already asleep,” my mother said. “I bought her a cake. She is such a good girl - told me to save the leftover slices for you.” When I heard this, my tears escaped before I could stop them. At the age of ten, she was so caring about me, but I could give her nothing. On thinking of this, I wept, a huge wave of desperation surging in me. “Don’t cry,” my mother soothed me. “You already work hard for her. She will understand what you’ve done for her.”

Hanging up, I stared at my daughter’s photo, where she flashed a V with her fingers, but her eyes betrayed nothing. In front of her was a small piece of cake on a plastic plate, and her coat that I had bought two years ago strained against her body, clearly unfit for her frame. She should have been a joyful child like her peers, while much of her time was spent assisting my mother with farming chores - like stripping kernels from corn.

The departure during last Spring Festival felt like it was just yesterday. I wrapped her in my arms, telling her to be a good girl, and promised I would buy her a beautiful dress and plenty of snacks when I return the next year. I held back my tears and dashed onto a small van. My daughters’ desperate cries echoed in the air, tearing my heart to shreds.

“Mama, don’t leave me! Mama, please don’t go!”

I sat in the back seat, without courage to turn around to see her. I knew how small and miserable she looked, running helplessly behind the van. I gave in, and turned around, yet her figure became smaller and smaller, vanishing into the distance. Finally, I stopped holding back my tears.

I went to a job fair where every employer required a college degree, but I only had a secondary education. As I lost hope and turned around to leave, a middle-aged woman bumped into me, knocking me to the ground. A wave of pain spread through me, so I sat on the ground for a moment. The woman felt so sorry, trying to lift me up. When I stood up, she examined me from head to toe and asked if I was looking for a job. Yes, I told her. Then she said she needed a babysitter for her three-year-old granddaughter. I accepted her request immediately. In the backseat of a taxi, she asked me some basic information. As she heard that I came from Henan Province, she praised my people for being hardworking.

As we talked, the taxi drove through a big metal gate, a cluster of villas appeared in my eyes. Block after block, these beautiful houses stood apart, each with a small, elegant garden before its porch. I gasped at the luxury of these houses, each occupying a vast plot of land, while a single square meter in Beijing cost ten thousand yuan. Moments later, our taxi pulled up outside a white house, before which spread a lush, open lawn.

I called her Sister Yang, and she guided me into the house. A long corridor led to a spacious hall. A large painting dominated the wall, a stunning vase stood in the corner, and against another wall leaned a spotless glass shelf filled with bottles of wine. In a box on the kitchen counter, utensils of all kinds - spoons, forks, knives, and a few I couldn’t even name - glimmered under the light. Her granddaughter was sleeping in one room, while her daughter was in another room, their doors locked. My work as a babysitter began the next day, including taking care of her granddaughter, cleaning the house and cooking for the whole family, with a daily routine running from seven in the morning to eight at night.

Leaving her house, I hurried toward the front gate - a walk that took nearly half an hour. As I approached, the security guard thrust his head out of the booth and waved.

“You’re new?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Hang on. It’s a tough job.”

I offered a polite grin and slipped through the gate.

I went back to my tiny room in an apartment crammed with eight renters. Each day, people argued over who got to use the toilet and the kitchen. After everyone else finished using the kitchen, I prepared my food - something that would fill me up so I would not starve. One night, I boiled noodles with vegetables and eggs. I put a pot of water to boil on the stove, but when I came back from my room, the water had been poured away. I was so irritated, and I didn’t know who I should argue with. Swallowing my anger, I refilled the pot again. These were minor disputes among the renters, but occasionally a big conflict broke out, even drawing police.

Cockroaches - every renter’s nightmare – seemed to crawl everywhere. More than once, I woke from a dream in which they were creeping into my mouth. In box-like rooms divided by thin boards, every word could be heard clearly. I screamed out of my dream, and then I heard someone in my neighboring room punching on the wall, shouting. “Are you crazy? A crazy woman.” I wiped my sweat from my forehead, yet could not sleep anymore, then I scrolled in my phone to see my daughter’s videos.

“Mama, today I helped with grandma stripping kernels. She praised me as a well-behaved child. Mama, when will you come back? I already can cook. Grandma taught me to cook, but I accidentally burned my finger. I miss you, Mama. I asked grandma if you would buy me a princess dress. She said you would. But Mama, I know it’s expensive. Mama, I don’t need it, I just need you. Mama, I miss you.”

I promised to buy her a princess dress. She had never had a princess dress. My daughter was only ten years old, but she already helped her grandma to do the farm work.

The next morning, I took three buses to arrive at the villa. Although my own clothes were not filthy, my sleeve edges were frayed. Sister Yang prepared me a new set of corduroy clothes. In a small changing room, I held the clothes close, their lavender fragrance filling my lungs. The warm sun poured into the room, drawing me into a fantasy. How happy Yingying would be if she were in this house. In this room, several rows of clothes racks stood against the window. Each rack was crammed with dresses, full to the point that not a single more could fit.

After changing into my uniform, Sister Yang introduced me to her granddaughter Huahua, who was hiding behind her leg. She clung to her grandma’s trouser leg, peeking out at me. I smiled at her and told her my name, then started to get familiar with where everything was kept. After knowing about my tools, the lunch preparation was my first job. Sister Yang told me her daughter’s favorite food is Western food, like toasted sandwiches and baked eggs with sausage. I had never cooked the style of food, but working as a waitress in a western food restaurant allowed me see how a brunch looked like.

Lili, Sister Yang’s daughter, stepped out of her room. She had the presence of an actress: slender, her chest rose like a pair of gentle hills, and her glossy hair cascaded to her waist. I put her lunch on the dining table, and then retreated to the kitchen.

Huahua began smiling at me, and sometime she led me into her room and showed me her toys. She had a beautiful unicorn, which dressed in a purple cloak. Her toys were everywhere, on the bed, in a basket, on a shelf, or in a closet. Her birthday was the following Friday, even we still had one week, we began preparing for it. Sister Yang booked a three-layer birthday cake, and bought a stack of elegant birthday invitation cards. She even hired a company to decorate the whole house.

In the afternoon, I heard Lili quarreling with someone on the phone.

“Friday is your daughter’s most important day,” she cried. “Celebrating your daughter’s birthday is hardly an exaggerated request.”

She paused a second. “Your work, your meeting, your business…yes, yes, your family is much superior to ours. I know. I always know it. You don’t need to remind me again and again.”

She hung up the phone. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop on their conversation, but her voice was so loud, everyone could hear it. She stormed back into her room, the door slamming shut behind her. Sister Yang told me that her daughter struggled with postpartum depression.

We kept preparing for the incoming party. In the afternoon, a financial interview was aired in television. At that moment, Huahua clapped her hands, cheering. “Papa, he is my papa.” Then I glimpsed toward the TV, then understood everything. The host interviewed the man, Mr. Jiang, who was an entrepreneur and financial investor, and asked him a lot of questions about economy. At the end, the host complimented Jiang’s analysis. I was in kitchen and heard the entire interview. That kind of successful man must be married early, but of course, his wife was not Lili. I caught a glimpse of Jiang. A few silver strands of hair slipped from his slicked-back dark hair. His pale-yellow suit complemented his fair skin, and even seated, he looked to be in good shape.

After a long day of work, Yingying called me just as I returned to my small room.

“Mama, I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Yingying,” I whispered. “Now you can count down the days. After ten months, I will see you again.”

Suddenly, she lowered her head.

“Yingying, why are you unhappy?”

“Mama, a boy in my class dislikes me because he thinks my skin is dark.”

I saw her in the video call, and heard her faint sigh.

“Yingying, you don’t need the boy to like you. In my heart, you’re the most beautiful girl. When mama brings you a princess dress, you’ll be the most gorgeous princess in the world.”

My heart tightened for a moment as I thought of the man who abandoned me, the one who also mocked my dark skin. I realized he had no love for me only when he married another woman. At a cold night of January, I gave birth to Yingying at the town’s clinic. The wind sept through the sills, and even two quilts couldn’t stop me from shivering. The nurse boiled pot after pot of water, filling glass bottles with the steaming heat and arranging them around my body. Yingying’s loud cry burst in the room, breaking the silence and thawing the cold, in the air and in my heart alike.

As usual, I arrived at Sister Yang’s house around seven in the morning. As I opened the door, a man bumped into me. I lifted my head, and saw the familiar face. He was Jiang, who appeared in the interview. He fled the house immediately. Friday had arrived, and many mothers were invited along with their children. They all looked like Lili - young, beautiful, with good figures, wearing delicate makeup. Their boys wore little suits and their girls shimmered in satin dresses. Most of the children looked older than Huahua. The girls were obsessed with unicorns and princesses, and the boys were busy with Lego - something I only learned after working in Yang’s house. The big three-layer cake arrived at our house, and on the top tier stood a beautiful princess figurine in purple dress, posed in a ballet stance. Sister Yang held Huahua in her arms, after making a wish, Huahua blew off the candles. Then each one was given a slice of cake. One mother said that she couldn’t eat sweets, because she was on diet. Another one said that she was exercising to maintain her figure. At the end, the half of the cake was left. I thought of Yingying, who had never seen a cake with three layers.

All the mothers sat together chatting while I prepared plates of fruit for them.

“Lili, you need to push harder. Men are always reluctant to change – they’re afraid of it. But Lili, if you don’t push him, he ‘ll never take a single step,” one mother commented.

“Jiang is better than my man. At least, he bought her this big villa. He’s generous,” another mother remarked, envy in her voice.

“Don’t be silly! This villa is only for her to use – it isn’t actually Lili’s property,” the third mother teased.

From time to time, I saw Jiang sneaking out of the house. He was like a shadow moving between his official home and this secret nest. Yet as autumn turned to winter, Jiang rarely appeared in this house, and Lili became more silent. One night, I heard noise coming from Lili’s room - glasses crashing to the floor, then a sudden burst of crying, her wails and screams echoing through the house. Sister Yang dashed to her room, calling for my help. Together we grabbed hold of Lili, who was trying to climb up the window. On the floor lay scattered magazine clippings of Jiang’s portraits. Huahua sobbed beside us, her face swollen like a red balloon. Sister Yang called a psychiatric hospital, and soon three men arrived. They restrained Lili and wrapped her in a large sheet. Lili screamed and struggled, her hair tangled and wild. She had already lost her mind.

Sister Yang gave me my salary for the last month. She promised to recommend me to other families, but in the end she didn’t. I guessed she was worried I might let her family’s secrets slip. It was another December, and that day I went to a shopping mall - the first time I had ever wandered through one as a customer. The salespeople lifted their heads, then lowered them again as they sized me up from head to toe. Their eyes were as sharp as eagles’, able to judge your worth in an instant. As I walked out of the mall, I saw a large screen on which Jiang’s face appeared. He was talking with the host, but this time the topic was his family. The host praised him as a good husband and a good father.

The wind blew hard, snowflakes drifting down from sky and thawing as soon as they touched the ground. I walked to the transit station to take the bus. “I hate snow. The traffic will be as jammed as jelly,” the bus driver grumbled. I sat by the window, watching the world outside. It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.