Luck Times Two, An Adoption Memoir

Prologue:

An Orphanage in Northern China

Fu Shuang only remembered certain events from her childhood. She knew that she didn’t have parents or a biological family, but she felt that she belonged where she was, at her orphanage in Benxi. The orphanage was small, but comfortable. It was a place that she called home and meant it. The caretakers and workers were good to her and she loved the other orphans.

Her home was part of a larger institution, the Benxi Social Welfare Institute, which included administrative offices and housing for elderly and disabled adults as well as the orphans. It was surprisingly picturesque, with a pond across the street, terra-cotta tile pathways, and a playground that she and the other children liked to visit. The playground, which was covered in thick grass, had a teeter-totter, monkey bars, and a curvy slide. If the children fell, the bushy grass cushioned their tumble. The emerald-green mountains behind the institution were pure beauty and the weather was cool and crisp most of the year. The section of the institute that included the office and the adults was tan with a red-tiled roof; the building that housed the orphans was scarlet red and was located to the right of the larger administrative building. It was a place of nurturing and it had positive energy that touched the children and the adults. Fu Shuang felt fortunate to be living at the orphanage with good people who cared for her. She was at peace.

Fu Shuang didn’t know her birth parents or any family members. An elderly lady had dropped her off at the doors of the orphanage when she was a newborn. Caregivers at the orphanage told Fu Shuang that the woman found her in a box in the middle of the street and brought her to the institute. Fu Shuang liked to think of the old woman as her grandmother, or Nai Nai. Whether she was truly a relation or not, Fu Shuang would never know.

Nai Nai was a constant in Fu Shuang’s early life. She visited the orphanage often to hold baby Fu Shuang, feed her bottles, and spend time with her. The woman was kind and gentle with Fu Shuang. But one day, when Fu Shuang was a toddler, the woman just stopped visiting. When Fu Shuang was older, the orphanage workers told her the story of the woman who had found her. Fu Shuang didn’t remember the old woman and asked why her Nai Nai had stopped visiting. The caretakers didn’t know the answer. Perhaps my Nai Nai died, she thought.

Years later, Fu Shuang met an orphanage administrator who took a liking to her sunny personality. Even after he left employment at the orphanage, he returned to visit Fu Shuang, and she thought of him as her uncle, or Shu Shu. He brought Fu Shuang presents and gave her money to spend, and once he even took her out to eat at a restaurant, which was a huge treat. He was a constant comfort and he made her feel like there was someone who valued her specifically. But when she was ten, he also disappeared from her life.

The loss of these family replacements – abrupt and without explanation – was always a great blow to Fu Shuang, and she wondered if she had done something that caused them to go away. Like most people, she wanted to be special and to have someone dependable who cared for her. She wanted to matter to someone. Occasionally, the dejection and isolation would settle on her like a dark cloud hangs on a mountain before a storm. But Fu Shuang was naturally cheerful, so such times were always fleeting: the storm clouds would lift, and the sunshine would reappear as her inner joy bubbled up once more.

Despite the periodic bouts of loneliness, Fu Shuang’s early years were pleasant, though poor. The orphanage was small and there were fewer than twenty orphans who shared their home with the elderly, and mentally and physically disabled adults. Money and food were tight, and the institution’s residents were often left without necessities.

The adults and children were housed on separate floors, but Fu Shuang loved to talk with everyone and so would find her way to all the residents, no matter what floor they were on. She was greeted warmly wherever she went, especially by the elderly, who were always buoyed by her sweet nature and high spirits. Later, when the new orphanage was built, the adults were sent to another building. Fu Shuang still visited them, but it was much more difficult, and she missed them. Sometimes extended family members would pick up abandoned children, and the infants and toddlers were frequently adopted. All this meant a continual sense of loss to Fu Shuang.

Fu Shuang was friends with all the children at the orphanage because she was gregarious and kind. But Fu Shuang was a tomboy and she enjoyed being rambunctious with the boys. While she liked the girls, she rarely played with them. She thought their games were boring and she was much more interested in physical activities. Her best friend was a boy named Fu Lu. Fu Lu and Fu Shuang were inseparable, like brother and sister. The caretakers even dressed them in similar clothes: Fu Shuang’s favorite shirt was a white sailor-like hoodie, while Fu Lu had a navy hoodie. Both had identical white-and-navy striped trim and sleeves. The two children ran, jumped, and played outside in the surrounding area whenever they were allowed, getting into mischief and generally being kids. Fu Shuang and Fu Lu were a team, and Fu Lu was always there for his sister, even as the adults and the younger children came and went.

The orphanage administrators spent a lot of time soliciting donations, and had regular visitors and donors who brought clothes, food, and money to help improve living conditions in the facility. Once a month, Fu Shuang and Fu Lu would put on a show for the guests. These performances were meant to illustrate that the children at the center were happy and well cared for, which might bring in more donations. Both Fu Shuang and Fu Lu loved to perform, and it was a pleasure for everyone to see them on stage. They danced, sang traditional folk songs and current hits, and just generally entertained the visitors. After the show, the two mingled with the guests. As Fu Shuang floated about the room, she told the adults what a wonderful home the orphanage was, and Fu Lu talked about how all the kids and staff were like family. The cheerful, smiling kids helped the guests open their wallets; it was an effective fund-raising technique that the orphanage came to depend on.

Of course, not every day at the orphanage was joyful. In fact, many days the children were sad and lonely, and felt their poverty keenly. Life was difficult and unpredictable, and despite her young age, Fu Shuang was intimately familiar with hunger, illness, and death.

One morning she found a baby boy outside the door of the orphanage. He was very thin and appeared to be sick. She rushed him to the nursery and watched as the caretakers examined, fed, washed, and dressed him. The next day, when she went to nursery to feed the babies (the older children were largely responsible for the care of the younger ones), she picked up the infant she had found the day before. He wasn’t moving. He was cold and pale, and his eyes wouldn’t open. He was so fragile and weightless in her arms, like she was carrying a cotton ball. She took him to the caregiver to ask what was wrong with him and was told he had died during the night. Death was common in the orphanage, but that didn’t mean she was used to it, and Fu Shuang was heartbroken. A beautiful, innocent child had lost his life. Fu Shuang didn’t understand why the world was so cruel and she knew that this fate could’ve happened to her when she was a baby. She wondered – not for the first time, or the last – why some children lived, and others left the earth so soon.

Hunger was a daily component of life for Fu Shuang and her friends. The children were fed three times a day, but the meals were meager and didn’t begin to fill their small bellies. If they were still hungry after a meal, it was unfortunate, but second helpings were out of the question. There were simply too many orphans and not enough food.

But kids are resourceful, and Fu Shuang was no exception. She offered to help in the kitchen after dinner, cleaning tables, washing dishes, and putting food away, because she received additional rations from the cook. When she wasn’t working there, Fu Shuang and her friends simply stole from the kitchen when they were exceptionally hungry. The chef seemed to like Fu Shuang, so whether this thievery went unnoticed or the woman turned a blind eye, the girl and her friends were never punished and were occasionally able to supplement their sparse rations.

At an early age the older orphans were required to help with the babies. Feeding and changing the diapers of infants was routine. Fu Shuang was so hungry one day that she drank a bottle of milk that had been made for an infant when she found the baby sleeping. She was ashamed of her action, but her instinct for survival was strong.

One solution to the hunger pangs came on a day when Fu Shuang, Fu Lu, and their friend Sheng were out scavenging in the mountains surrounding the orphanage. The area was beautiful, with lush grass, stately ginkgo and pine trees, and steep hills dotted with snow-white rhododendron bushes and wild pink peonies. The kids climbed up into the mountains and came upon a Buddhist temple – a black pagoda-style building with red columns. They didn’t know anything about Buddha except that they needed to be reverent and honor him at this spiritual site.

I think we should investigate, Fu Lu said. This looks like a place that might have useful stuff.

We need to be careful and respectful, said Sheng.

I know we’re going to find something we can use, Fu Shuang said. I can feel it in my very soul. I think we’re supposed to be here.

They went into the temple and found fresh water, oranges, apples, and peaches that worshippers had left for Buddha. The children eyed this bounty hungrily.

It’s wrong to steal, Sheng said. We need to leave now. I hear someone coming. When they listened, they heard distant footsteps making a soft, consistent drumming on the pavement.

I’m too hungry to leave without food, Fu Lu said. I’m going to take an apple.

Sheng, Buddha wouldn’t want us to be hungry, Fu Shuang said. He wouldn’t be mad that we took a little of his food. It would make him happy to make us happy. I’m taking an orange. Here, you take a peach.

Just then, a monk appeared in the distance, striding quickly up the path to the temple. He was silent but his step was determined, and his face was stern. The children took the fruit and immediately began to run.

Go, go, go and don’t look back! Fu Lu said.

They ran down the hill and when they did look back, they saw the monk, who smiled and waved at them, not in the least upset. They let out a collective sigh, knowing they not only weren’t in trouble but had the monk’s blessing.

From then on, whenever they were outside running and playing in the hills surrounding the orphanage, they would visit Buddha and take a small amount of food. Not only did these snacks ease their own persistent emptiness, but sometimes they’d bring the food back for the smaller children at the orphanage. Fu Shuang always gave thanks to Buddha for providing food for her and her friends. Buddha is definitely someone we need to know and respect. He is great and kind, she said. Each time they visited, they made a tradition of kneeling, hands in the prayer position, and giving him their petitions and gratitude.

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Despite the constant hunger and occasional sadness, Fu Shuang was comfortable and content at the orphanage. She could play with her friends and visit with adults, and the staff was generally kind.

Then she turned eight.

When children reached that age, they were required to go away to a boarding school with other older orphans, so Fu Shuang and her friends left the only home they’d known and headed to boarding school. Ten grade-school children slept in a dormitory room with one high school or college student bunking with them as their room monitor. The school operated seven days and six nights per week. The kids were given one night off per week to rest. Class was from 7:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. with an hour break for lunch, and another hour break for dinner. Oftentimes, the kids would be required to jog first thing in the morning, even when the weather was extremely hot or cold.

Fu Shuang had one main teacher who taught most of the day, but a different teacher for science and history. The academic day was long, tedious, and filled with challenging work. The last hour of every school day was spent in the classroom completing homework. The children were required to do this in the classroom and did not have the opportunity to do it in their dorms. This scholastic structure may have forced a concentration on learning, but it also meant little joy for the children. Daily, they found themselves exhausted from the mental and physical rigor of the routine.

The children were expected to wash their own clothes, linens, and towels. The orphanage provided their clothing and gave the boarding school a small stipend for each child. These funds were held in trust for the children in case of emergency, and very occasionally released to them for toiletries and snacks. A convenience store next door to the school was the only place outside the grounds the kids could venture.

Fu Shuang hated the boarding school. It made her feel hopeless and dull, so unlike her active and cheerful self. She didn’t like the rigorous school schedule, the food, or many of the teachers and caretakers. Her free time and autonomy had been stripped from her and she felt her enthusiasm for life drain away, like water flowing down a sink. She still had Fu Lu and the other kids from the orphanage, but now they had little time for play or creativity.

The food was an especially big issue for Fu Shuang. Though it was more plentiful at the school than it had been at the orphanage, Fu Shuang couldn’t bring herself to eat most of it because she had saw it being prepared. There were always butchered pigs laid out on the floor in the cafeteria, split in half and left to drain of blood, which flowed from the animals into the open gutters scattered throughout the room. The carcasses were covered with flies, and the smell of rotting flesh was putrid, the stench of death present at every meal. Fu Shuang just couldn’t deal with the sights or smells of the room, and it left her without an appetite. She found herself eating rice and maybe some vegetables, but nothing else. Hunger again became a focus of her day, though now, because the food was so unappetizing, she didn’t even try to think of ways to get more to eat, she simply learned to live with the omnipresent pain in her stomach. The attitude at the school was eat or go hungry, so Fu Shuang chose to go hungry.

As a direct result of this lack of nourishment, Fu Shuang became sickly. She had been a healthy child at the orphanage, but once she started school, she was always unwell. Stomach problems, fevers, flu, and upper respiratory infections – her illnesses were diverse and persistent. Fu Shuang hated being sick. This vibrant and vital girl, who loved to jump, run, climb, and keep up with the boys, became despondent when she was ill, which only made her sicker. She became a frequent visitor at the nurse’s office. Once, her health deteriorated to a point where she couldn’t stand or walk to the clinic by herself and her friends had to carry her. While she always recovered, she never returned to her old active self, and these cycles of ill health continued the entire time she remained at the school.

The boarding school was not in a good area of the city, and the children often felt unsafe, particularly the girls. They had good reason. One night, when Fu Shuang was eleven, she and the other girls heard something outside and looked out of the window. They saw a man, who had climbed the fence that surrounded the school, standing in the courtyard. He couldn’t get into their room because there were bars on the windows, but they could see him staring intently right at them. He knew they’d seen him, but he didn’t move or look away, just continued to gaze fixedly at the girls with a strangely malignant expression. He appeared to be in his fifties, with shabby clothing, an unkempt beard, and messy hair, but it was his demeanor that truly unnerved the girls. He had an empty gaze and a look on his face they all felt was simply evil. One of Fu Shuang’s roommates made motions to shoo him away, but he didn’t move. Another of the girls was so terrified that she left the room to find