Barely recovering from the emotional roller-coaster two days after I finished reading ‘Babel’ by R.F. Kuang (book review published on 3 October), my niece commented so eloquently that “you can snap yourself out of Babel, but you can never snap Babel out of you.”
Whilst I have written the following section prior to ever knowing of the book’s existence, somehow, this has become even more impactful when viewed through the lens of Babel…
Copyright © 2024 Maria McDonald
“When you look nothing like your parent,” Lizzy began, “something as simple as going to the grocery store could turn eventful.”
She first became aware of the slight irregularities when she was five years old. Skipping alongside her father and waggling his hand excitedly, her beaming smile had frozen somewhat as a mid-forty female onlooker frowned at her. Lizzy had looked down to examine her appearance, ensuring that she hadn’t left the house wearing a pair of mismatched socks.
She had noticed this more and more with every outing. When she was out with both parents, the looks lobbed at her father made her think of Jesus descending from Heaven. In contrast, the onlookers had regarded her mother as if she was a leper, contaminating everything from fresh produce to bags of chips she had retrieved from the shelves. Never straying far from either parent, some strangers had given her a look befitting for bratty kids running amok around the supermarket aisle and rudely bumping into other patrons.
“One day, this middle-aged woman stopped my dad and I in the middle of aisle seven.”
With her frail, wrinkled hand resting against her father’s arm, the woman had flashed a courteous enough smile. Too young to recognize that even the sweetest smile might contain hidden thorns, Lizzy had reciprocated with her own wide, toothy smile.
“I must say,” the middle-aged woman had said, “I think it’s very noble of you to have adopted this girl from China.”
“Fast forward about five-and-a-half years’ later,” Lizzy continued, “imagine my mum walking into the grocery store with five-year-old Megan.”
The sight of pure Chinese Sarah Hartley guiding a fair-skinned, round-eyed child had more than raised a few eyebrows. Drawing into a conclusion that Sarah Hartley was Megan’s nanny, strangers had often stopped them in their track and demanded Sarah Hartley to provide her credentials. Some onlookers had blatantly implied that her mother had kidnapped a Caucasian-looking child from her real parents.
“Once, an onlooker even reported my mother to the mall’s security guard,” Lizzy said, nose wrinkling at the memory.
Two weeks before her eleventh birthday, Dean Hartley had collected his eldest daughter from school two hours ahead of her usual finishing time. Usually stoic and mild-tempered, the parent Lizzy had sat next to were evidently struggling to gain mastery of his emotions. With his jaw set tight, her father had also wrung the steering wheel as though the object was someone’s neck; knuckles and joints alike turning ghastly white. And when her father finally spoke, the iciness in his voice had shot straight through her spine.
Having been alerted to a potential kidnapping, two security guards had intercepted her mother and younger sister. They had led them towards the back of the mall and placed them in separate office rooms for interrogation.
Five-year-old Megan had repeatedly screamed ‘MOMMY!’ on top of her lungs and bawled her eyes out, ignoring the sympathetic female guard’s valiant efforts to soothe and quieten her.
Distraught from not being able to comfort her own child, the usually unyielding Sarah Hartley had rattled in her seat, her voice wavering as she answered each question. When ten minutes had passed and the security guard remained staring dubiously at her, Sarah Hartley had begged for her to place a phone call.
Utterly disturbed by Sarah’s tone of voice, more distressed and panicked than when she had informed him she was in labor, Dean Hartley had rushed to the mall. By the time he was led to the interrogation room and able to reclaim what was rightfully his, he had been greeted by a new set of family members. Despite her sheer exhaustion, the hiccupping little girl latching on to him had scrunched up his shirt with all her might, her face as red as a ripe tomato. The woman sidling closer to him only bore an uncanny resemblance to his wife; her face pallid, her back as stiff and tightly strung as a lamp post, her light brown eyes considerably darkened by equal measure outrage and mortification.
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Meet Michael Bradford, the main male protagonist of the book(s).
Copyright © 2024 Maria McDonald
Whilst a large student population of St. Andrew’s were fixated on Elizabeth Hartley’s Oriental appearance – a total contrast to her Caucasian father, what intrigued Michael Bradford the most was the fact that she was seemingly unperturbed by it all. Instead of busily justifying her life story, the newest student seemed content to sit in a quiet corner in the library.
He swung one leg forward, approaching Elizabeth before fully realizing it.
“Hi.”
Still totally engrossed in her novel, Elizabeth ran the tip of her index finger along the last three words of the sentence she was reading; her gesture of acknowledgment was nothing more than a slight upward tilt of her chin.
“I’m…”
“Michael Bradford.”
Elizabeth didn’t regard him with an utterly shell-shocked, star-struck expression the way a group of freshmen girls had every time he walked past them; another thing he found utterly refreshing. She had simply inclined her head at a slight angle and given him a genial, slightly amused smile. Truly, the only thing remotely betraying her confidence was a slight lilt in her voice as she uttered his name.
“It’s impossible not to know who you are,” Elizabeth added, smiling gleefully at Michael’s widened eyes.
The sole heir to the advertising mogul James Patterson Bradford, both his parents had shielded him from the prying eyes of the press as much and as best as they possibly could. He, in turn, had avoided the media’s attention the way one skirted around the most direct way home to minimize potential encounter with bullies.
Despite their best efforts, the media had taken a growing interest at Michael James Bradford. What had started as a casual mention of his name during toddlerhood had gradually morphed into images soon after he reached seven years of age, showing him traipsing along the white sandy beach of Waikiki or skiing the slopes of Hakuba Valley with his parents during their annual vacation. Much as Michael had viewed his enrolment at St. Andrew’s as a way to blend in with students of other high-profile parents, the paparazzi had singled him out like a sore thumb, training their camera lenses on him as he emerged out of his father’s car on his first day of freshman year.
“Not that I understand the fascination, but the media do televize the wealthiest family in Massachusetts attending the Red Sox’s first home game at the opening of each season,” Elizabeth remarked dryly.
Michael lowered his gaze a fraction, trying hard to suppress the heat of embarrassment from creeping up past his neck. To the best of his recollection, with his own mother being the only exception, no member of the opposite sex has ever made him blush.
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