The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan Read Free Book Online Page A

was four years old. My chin was just above the dinner table, and I could see my baby brother sitting on Popo’s lap, crying with an angry face. I could hear voices praising a steaming dark soup brought to the table, voices murmuring politely, “Ching! Ching! ”—Please, eat!
    And then the talking stopped. My uncle rose from his chair. Everyone turned to look at the door, where a tall woman stood. I was the only one who spoke.
    â€œMa,” I had cried, rushing off my chair, but my auntie slapped my face and pushed me back down. Now everyone was standing up and shouting, and I heard my mother’s voice crying, “An-mei! An-mei!” Above this noise, Popo’s shrill voice spoke.
    â€œWho is this ghost? Not an honored widow. Just a numberthree concubine. If you take your daughter, she will become like you. No face. Never able to lift up her head.”
    Still my mother shouted for me to come. I remember her voice so clearly now. An-mei! An-mei! I could see my mother’s face across the table. Between us stood the soup pot on its heavy chimney-pot stand—rocking slowly, back and forth. And then with one shout this dark boiling soup spilled forward and fell all over my neck. It was as though everyone’s anger were pouring all over me.
    This was the kind of pain so terrible that a little child should never remember it. But it is still in my skin’s memory. I cried out loud only a little, because soon my flesh began to burst inside and out and cut off my breathing air.
    I could not speak because of this terrible choking feeling. I could not see because of all the tears that poured out to wash away the pain. But I could hear my mother’s crying voice. Popo and Auntie were shouting. And then my mother’s voice went away.
    Later that night Popo’s voice came to me.
    â€œAn-mei, listen carefully.” Her voice had the same scolding tone she used when I ran up and down the hallway. “An-mei, we have made your dying clothes and shoes for you. They are all white cotton.”
    I listened, scared.
    â€œAn-mei,” she murmured, now more gently. “Your dying clothes are very plain. They are not fancy, because you are still a child. If you die, you will have a short life and you will still owe your family a debt. Your funeral will be very small. Our mourning time for you will be very short.”
    And then Popo said something that was worse than the burning on my neck.
    â€œEven your mother has used up her tears and left. If you do not get well soon, she will forget you.”
    Popo was very smart. I came hurrying back from the other world to find my mother.
    Every night I cried so that both my eyes and my neck burned. Next to my bed sat Popo. She would pour cool water over my neck from the hollowed cup of a large grapefruit. She would pour and pour until my breathing became soft and I could fall asleep. In the morning, Popo would use her sharp fingernails like tweezers and peel off the dead membranes.
    In two years’ time, my scar became pale and shiny and I had no memory of my mother. That is the way it is with a wound. The wound begins to close in on itself, to protect what is hurting so much. And once it is closed, you no longer see what is underneath, what started the pain.

    I worshipped this mother from my dream. But the woman standing by Popo’s bed was not the mother of my memory. Yet I came to love this mother as well. Not because she came to me and begged me to forgive her. She did not. She did not need to explain that Popo chased her out of the house when I was dying. This I knew. She did not need to tell me she married Wu Tsing to exchange one unhappiness for another. I knew this as well.
    Here is how I came to love my mother. How I saw in her my own true nature. What was beneath my skin. Inside my bones.
    It was late at night when I went to Popo’s room. My auntie said it was Popo’s dying time and I must show respect. I put on a clean