My mother is on a double bed in one of the two small bedrooms. As the midwife and Mommy Esther help her with breathing, all of us kids sit or sleep in the living room, listening to the rhythm of panting and crying out with contractions. We are dressed in identical, brand-new gray tracksuits. Esther says we need to be clean and not wear any farm clothes so we don’t bring germs that will hurt Mommy or the new baby.
The seven of us try to sit still and read our Kidz True Komics, but this is taking hours longer than anyone thought, and we are tired and cranky in the chilly apartment. It is December and cold, and we are all bundled up in our winter coats and hats because the only electric space heater is in the delivery room and the rest of the apartment is not heated.
Every once in a while, we get an update, but when I try to peek in, I’m shooed away. After twenty-seven hours of labor, Mommy Esther finally calls us in from the living room: “Kids, it’s time.”
All of us pile into the small room and stand quietly at the end of the bed in shock, looking on as the midwife directs my mother to “keep pushing,” even though she already has been for nearly two hours.
Like I have, my siblings have all seen The Miracle of Life, but none of us are fully prepared for this. My mother’s vagina is stretched so wide, and a big hairy ball is coming out of it. I’ve seen animals give birth, and I keep telling myself this is just the same. But it doesn’t sound or look the same. There’s blood on the bed, and Mommy Esther is looking between my mother’s legs and saying, “That’s good, you’re almost there. Let’s have another push.” The midwife is urging her in Portuguese. My mother makes a long grunting sound and scrunches her face up, and then bam! The baby shoots out. Across the bed! Thank goodness my father is standing there to catch her before she lands on the floor! He gets sprayed in the face with mucus, and we all laugh uncomfortably. I look away. It’s gross.
When I look back, I see Mommy Esther cradling a baby girl with black hair on her head, a fuzz of dark hair all over her tiny white body, and a small blue mark on her lower back.
Right away, the midwife calls the doctor. He shows up to give my mother stitches and cut the umbilical cord, because in Macau, a baby can’t get a birth certificate unless a doctor cuts the cord. Silly, I think; if you show up with a baby, it was born, wasn’t it?
My mother is exhausted, but my father doesn’t notice. “Praise the Lord! Let’s all gather around for pictures!”
My mother weakly waves her hand in protest, and I step in. I brush back her sweaty, frizzy hair and open her small makeup compact, trying to put some on her. I know she hates to look bad in pictures, and she doesn’t look very good right now, with her face all red and puffy and her hair sticking up everywhere.
Mommy Esther makes us all wear surgical masks when we take turns holding our new little sister, so we don’t get her sick.
When we get home, my mother settles in to recover in her room.
She tells herself and anyone who will listen that baby Nina is my father’s because she is so white, but we all know better. Even I know what that blue mark means. Most Asian babies have them, though they go away after a year.
Her fantasy is shattered when Acrisio, a longtime Fish of Mommy Esther’s, stops by to see Nina. He is a tall, elegant man with silver hair, older than most of the System men who come over. He walks into my mother’s bedroom, takes one look at Nina, and exclaims, “She looks just like Ashok!”
Mommy Ruthie bursts into tears, screaming, “No she doesn’t! She looks like Ho!”
I’m shocked by her emotional outburst. I can tell from Mommy Esther’s embarrassed looks when she’s hurrying Acrisio out that it’s not a very Revolutionary thing to say. I know Mommy Ruthie wants the baby to be my father’s because she’s in love with him, not Uncle Ashok, but I think she is being silly. It doesn’t matter to any of us whose sperm made Nina, including my father, who is bouncing around, showing her off to the neighbors.
Each of my older brothers, starting with Nehi, who is fourteen now, spends one month as Nina’s full-time nanny. “This is great training for you boys when you become fathers,” my mother declares. They don’t mind playing with Nina, but they hate washing the poopy cloth diapers. I’m too young to be responsible for her full-time, but I get to play with her every day. In a secret fear I won’t admit to anyone, I’m a little worried that Uncle Ashok will love Nina more than me because she is his actual little girl. But when he visits the Farm, he still slips me treats or a little money to buy ice cream. On my birthday, he pulls me aside and gives me 100 patacas ($14). It’s our little secret. I’ve never gotten so much money from anyone. I hide it away and don’t spend it. It’s not like ice-cream money. It’s real money. I need to have something I really want before I’ll spend that. I’m still his special girl.
Before long, my mother is proud of having a Jesus Baby, a baby born because of FFing. A lot of families have one or two kids who don’t look like the rest of their family, and you always know they are Jesus Babies and are considered a special blessing from God. She says baby Nina is her reward for FFing Uncle Ashok for years, even though he didn’t end up joining the Family.
“Nina is a Jesus Baby, just like Davidito!” she boasts.
Wait, I wonder, the reality setting in. Does that mean that Davidito isn’t actually Grandpa’s child?
I ask her how come Davidito is Grandpa’s son if he is actually a Jesus Baby?
She explains that Davidito’s biological father is a Spanish hotel employee named Carlos who Mama Maria FFed while she and Grandpa were living in Tenerife. “Davidito is still Grandpa’s son. Jesus just used a different man’s sperm to bring him. Esther is still your mommy, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I say, unsure. I know I’m not supposed to question Davidito’s place. He is Grandpa’s chosen son and heir. But still, I wonder, not for the first time, what about my father? Why has Grandpa never called for us kids to visit him? Why is Davidito the heir to the throne when he is not even Grandpa’s child?! I’ve read the begats in the Bible; I understand the succession of kings.
But I know better than to speak any word that might sound even a little critical of Grandpa or Davidito, so I keep my questions to myself and try to make sense of the adults’ actions. Davidito was sent by Jesus. It doesn’t matter who his father is. But I still think it’s unfair that my father and Aunt Faithy are not the prince and princess anymore.