Wish You Happy Forever by Jenny Bowen

A.M .
    â€œHow far is this place?” I asked ZZ.
    â€œOh look, Xinmei will join us!” she replied.
    Small Cloud Zhang scuttered toward the minibus in her spiky heels, Xinmei bobbing in her arms.
    â€œOh . . . but—” I murmured. And then that little baby was on my lap and there was nothing to do but hold on. She looked up at me curiously. You again?
    I touched her soft hair and whispered, “Hello, sweet baby.”
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    THE ANSWER TO my question was that the place was far. It was easily a two-hour drive. We drove through a hilly, denuded landscape. Every now and then, giant billboards would appear, promoting something that looked a lot like Yosemite and nothing like the current view. Then we arrived.
    Our destination was a reservoir ringed by neatly clipped and stunted trees and shrubs. The minivan stopped beside a small dock. Some men were waiting there. Cigarettes hanging from their mouths, they were holding aloft bright orange life vests. There was even one for Xinmei.
    Obediently, we tugged and tied on our vests. When everyone was suited up, we all climbed into a skiff with an outboard motor. There were eight of us in that little boat. The two smoking guys took us for a spin around the “lake.” Everybody but Xinmei and me was talking on a cell phone. We raced from one shore to the other. Xinmei was petrified.
    After multiple circumnavigations and high-speed sprints, the boat pulled up at the opposite shore.
    We were escorted to a small building and into a dining room with a smudged plate-glass view of the “lake” and the boat. Thankfully, our minivan was parked in front; we wouldn’t have to get in that boat again. The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke. I worried about Xinmei’s little lungs but figured she’d probably breathed worse.
    The moment she was seated in a baby chair next to me, Xinmei started crying. I tried holding her; I bounced her; I slipped her bits of food. She was inconsolable. Small Cloud Zhang took over and Xinmei was instantly silent. She sat on the deputy director’s lap and ate every bite proffered. The Jiangsu Provincial Civil Affairs director was charming, I’m sure. I can’t remember. I had descended into kind of a dazed, smoky stupor.
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    AFTER THE MEAL , I squeezed into the back of the minibus for the long ride home. Xinmei was plopped on my lap. She looked like she was about to cry again. “Shh . . . shh, Xinmei. It’s okay,” I whispered.
    I smoothed the mussed little hairdo. Snuggled her into my arms. Hummed a little.
    Then she pinched me.
    It was definitely a pinch. I pulled back, looked at her. She wouldn’t look at me. She inched to the very edge of my lap, where she sat for the rest of the trip. Seat belts are not a Chinese thing.
    When we finally arrived at the funky-but-with-a-certain-charm Changzhou Binguan (guest house), Small Cloud Zhang sprang her next surprise. She grabbed my arm and presented me with a knotted plastic bag.
    â€œWhat’s this? What did she say?” I asked ZZ.
    â€œShe said that Xinmei will spend the night with her new mama! She wants to know if you’re happy to do so?”
    Well, exhausted is what I was (day three of jet lag is my worst), and my throat was sore from all the cigarette smoke, and Xinmei and I weren’t exactly hitting it off. But Small Cloud Zhang was now beaming.
    â€œOh . . . yes. Sure!”
    I PULLED MISMATCHED flannel pajamas and a disposable diaper from the plastic bag. Xinmei watched me warily from the bed. I tried to make conversation as I peeled off her jumper, T-shirt, and other assorted layers.
    â€œSo this must feel really, really strange, huh, Xinmei? Here’s this funny-looking person you don’t even know, and now you find yourself in a hotel room with her—whatever a hotel room is.”
    I took off her soggy diaper.
    â€œOh God—”
    Two years of neglected wet diapers tied tight