by Vanessa Hua
Carlos didn’t connect us to the break-in, as far as I know. There had been burglaries on his street and maybe he figured it was his turn. He seemed like the type I’ve come to know, who take a certain pride in arriving before the bodegas transform into tapas restaurants, before the dive bars are overrun with hipsters. It would become his war story, though he could replace what he lost with a single swipe of his credit card.
Almost everything. My mother quit her job at the center and worked double shifts at an electronics factory in San Bruno. I don’t know what she told Carlos, or if they said goodbye. A family emergency, the director at La Gloria would have said. She had to go back to Mexico.
Years later, I am often tempted to use my father’s training. Twice, I broke into the houses of men I suspected my girlfriends were sleeping with. Although I wanted to see if there was any trace of them, their perfume, a bra, or a photo of their true selves, I found nothing. It was wrong, but I liked rifling through drawers, closets and refrigerators, their lives laid out before me. Call it an insurance policy, a warranty, whatever.
Just now, my girlfriend found the picture of my mother in a shoebox in the back of my closet. Nosy, like me. “What’s this?” she says, not recognizing her.
“Someone special.”
She is poised to start yelling, when I tell her it’s my mother.
“Can’t you see the resemblance?” I stroke her cheek.
“That’s twisted.” She rubs her hand along my back, down my thigh, kneading her fingers into me.
I keep the picture as a reminder of how that smile can disappear, if you take for granted what you can never possess. You must make her yearn only for the life she already has. To want nothing more.
FOR WHAT THEY SHARED
B a struggled to unfold the canvas chairs while Ma stood by with a stack of Chinese newspapers and a thermos of black tea. Lin frowned. Should she do it, or let her father figure it out? He could if he tried. Her mother could help. Ever since her parents arrived from China a month ago on their first visit to America, they had depended on Lin for everything, as if to show that they could not adapt. Her parents perched on the edge of the chairs, which tipped forward.
“Aiya!” Ma exclaimed as Ba threw out his arm to stop her from falling.
“Lean back,” Lin said. “Lean back!”
They were camping in Big Sur, with brand-new equipment purchased by Lin and her husband, Sang, on an evening shopping spree at R.E.I. They were software engineers, and consequently respected good design: to every feature, a purpose. Money-back guarantee, Lin still marveled, though they had lived in California for close to four years. No wonder products made in China cost so much more here. They splurged, knowing they could return whatever they did not like. No purchase final: that was the American way.
They were learning how to use the gear. The Leatherman radiating its pliers, wire cutter, nail file, scissors, screwdriver and bottle opener. The green Coleman lantern. Four sleeping bags, soft as steamed buns. In China, camping was considered a Western idiosyncrasy. People did not buy expensive gear to sleep on the ground. Why strive to be uncomfortable, when you had a bed that your ancestors could only dream of?
Although her parents had grumbled at the strange idea, Lin wanted to share this new experience with them so they could see what life here meant to her and Sang. Her parents wanted Lin to return to China. The economy was booming there while her future in Silicon Valley was uncertain. Even waiguoren, foreigners, were flooding into China to make their fortunes. After earning her master’s degree in computer science, Lin had worked at one failing startup after another. Sang’s company was struggling, with rumors of massive layoffs, maybe later this month. If he lost his job, he would have to find a new employer to sponsor his visa, or else be forced to leave. He had long wanted to return to China, but she convinced him to stay until they obtained green cards. Here, her bosses gave her credit for her hard work, instead of expecting her to serve tea and defer to senior staff. Someday, she could start her own company. She couldn’t guess at what she might do with no limits.
None of them knew Lin lost her job not long before her parents arrived. Instead of going to work, she hid at the library, searching online for jobs and reading Chinese novels. She had been unable to find another company willing to sponsor her work visa—which meant that she was now here illegally. If she left, she would be unable to re-enter. She was supposed to return with her parents at the end of their visit to attend her cousin’s wedding, but Lin had decided that she and Sang would stay, no matter what. She would work as a babysitter, a housecleaner, he could be a waiter, a handyman, anything until prosperity returned. This trip to the redwoods had to convince Sang as much as her parents that they would flourish in America.
Lin would always belong to dirty and cramped Beijing but here she could give herself away. If she returned to China, she could already picture the rest of her life. A baby, living in a high-rise apartment near her parents, she and Sang advancing toward middle management, growing old, and playing with her own grand-child someday. Comfortable but predictable. Here, there was discovery, uncertainty, and possibility.
~~~
When Janey mentioned she practiced Buddhism, Aileen cringed. White people who were more Chinese than her made Aileen feel guilty.
She had a Chinese character tattooed on her bicep, which Aileen didn’t know how to read but probably meant “peace,” “courage,” or “woman.”
Everyone at the campsite in Big Sur had been drinking since sunset, downing micro-brews and plastic cups of Cape Cods and rum-and-Cokes. After dating Reed for about six months, Aileen was meeting his old friends for the first time, the ones he did not see often now but starred in his strongest, fondest memories.
It turned out that she and Janey lived four blocks apart in the Mission District. Janey told her about a meditation class in the neighborhood.
“I’ll have to try it sometime.” Aileen stared into the fire, her cheeks flushed from heat and embarrassment. She almost didn’t come on the trip. She and Reed had been arguing all week, their biggest fight yet, after she discovered a stash of porn on his hard drive, in a folder labeled “MiscPix.” She had been snooping for photos of his ex-girlfriends and found naked leggy redheads, chesty blonds and smoky-eyed brunettes. No Asians. Why not anyone like her? She couldn’t bring herself to ask.
“You disgust me,” she had said, and stormed into the bathroom. Through the locked door, he promised he would delete the files, and he proposed going to the redwoods a day or two early before everyone else arrived. A getaway. She could hear him breathing and imagined him with his ear to the door. She let him in.
Reed had never dated anyone Asian before her. Never learned to say ni hao ma or ni piaoliang, never decorated his house with paper lanterns, and that appealed to her. He didn’t have yellow fever. But were these women on his hard-drive what he desired most? Or maybe she had to admit she was moody because she suspected something worse. Her period was late by two weeks.
Aileen wasn’t sure why she had agreed to go on the trip. Maybe it was easier to put off knowing for sure about the baby, or maybe it was a test. If they could survive the days-long intimacy, she could tell him. If not, she would know that it was over.
As a kid, she never went camping or did Girl Scouts or Indian Maidens. Her parents’ idea of getting back to nature was to drive to a vista point, take pictures, and check into a Best Western or Motel 6. She and Reed spent the first two days hiking to waterfalls and hot springs and making hobo stew and s’mores. He taught her how to start a fire by collecting redwood cones for kindling, and setting the logs into a pyramid. “It’s tinder dry here,” he said. Aileen had helped neighboring campers, a Chinese family, pitch their tent. She was pleased to share her small measure of expertise. After they finished, the Chinese woman ran her hand down the spine of the tent, like she was petting an oversized cat. They were about the same age. What was it like to start over in a new country as an adult? Like her parents. Aileen di
dn’t think she had the same courage.
By the campfire, she examined the group. Reed had given her a rundown: Gretchen worked at a non-profit, something to do with tennis lessons for inner city kids, and had once dated Chuck, before switching to his roommate, Dan. Gretchen and Dan were still a couple. Sean was a prankster who had launched hard-boiled eggs with a slingshot through the dorm windows at Wesleyan.
“Roberto will be there, too. We met the summer I interned in DC. Overlapped a couple days until I took over his room. He’d saved his dirty laundry from spring semester and took it home in giant duffle bags,” Reed said.
“He’s Latino?” Until then, Aileen had assumed everyone would be white.
“I’m not sure,” Reed said. “Maybe. His last name is Gonzalez. I never asked. But he has red hair.”
A collection of people in their late twenties, clean-cut and athletic in jeans, fleece pullovers, baseball hats, and designer running shoes, who clustered around the campfire. The kind of people, Aileen couldn’t help but think, who went to parties she wasn’t invited to in high school, to keggers where they played Steve Miller and Santana, and then drove home drunk and crashed their SUVs into the garage door and received new cars the following week. Who rushed sororities and fraternities in college, and majored in Poli Sci and Anthropology, and didn’t grind away in pre-med or engineering. Their histories were jumbled in Aileen’s mind, about what she was supposed to assume and what she could not let on that she knew. What if they shut her out? What if she could not stand them?
“Aileen’s a San Francisco native,” Reed announced to the group, by way of introduction. Everyone else hailed from the East Coast or the Midwest, he’d told her.
“From San Francisco?” Sean asked. “You don’t meet many natives.”
Aileen felt a surge of pride, though it was an accident of birth, a decision made by her parents to settle in the Sunset. Talk turned taquerias, to the city’s best burrito. That question that marked your authenticity, your sense of belonging in San Francisco.
“La Corneta.” Aileen had taken Reed to the taqueria around the corner from her apartment and now it was his favorite too. “The shrimp super baby is awesome.”
“Eh,” Sean said. “El Farolito is much better. More authentic.”
This often happened—transplants trying to out-local the locals. Men like Sean prided themselves on knowing every hole-in-the-wall and would dismiss any suggestion for a restaurant or bar as being too touristy or too popular.
With each drink, the conversations grew noisier, sloppier, and indistinct in everything except the decibel level. Mike, Janey’s boyfriend, threw the paper box that held the firewood into the pit. For a moment, the flames died down and then flared three-feet high. The heat was intense, almost painful, the flames turning the group of twenty-one a maniacal orange and casting blurry shadows onto their faces. Someone cranked a portable stereo and the ominous beats of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” thundered, the lyrics summoning the night and never-never-land. Roberto and Sean hooted, flashing devil signs.
After a beer, Aileen found the jokes and stories more entertaining. She could feel herself getting red, the “Asian flush.” Her goal was to get buzzed without getting sick or stumbling drunk, which could be the difference of one or two drinks on an empty stomach. It also might be better to stop drinking if—if she was pregnant. She switched to water, drinking out of the same red plastic cup so no one would notice. Shh, shh, Janey said. The park’s curfew was 10 pm. Each time, the group silenced for a moment before growing louder than before. A light flicked on in the campsite across the road, circled like a firefly, and then disappeared.
~~~
At sunset, headlights swarmed into the campsite across the road. Lin’s family was finishing dessert, a freeze-dried apple cobbler that delighted her father.
“It’s like astronaut food.” Ba was proud that China had sent someone into orbit. Her mother deemed the cobbler too gooey and sweet after a couple bites.
“Don’t you prefer nian gao?” Ma asked. The chewy rice flour cake was Lin’s favorite dim sum treat.
“You can get that here, as good as in China. You can get whatever you want here,” Lin said.
“Bu tong. Bu yi yang,” Ma said. Not the same.
“In China, you can get whatever you want from America,” Ba said.
“You can get it first, here,” Lin said. “It may not even get to China.”
“Everything is made in China.” Ba flipped an insulated plastic mug upside down, its bottom stamped “China.” “See?”
Lin reddened. He knew how to defeat her. Growing up, she lost her arguments and her confidence within minutes, and if she returned to China, she would revert to being that person.
Now, music from the neighboring campsite thumped through the ground, jarring her with each beat, a buzz filling her ears. They were laughing, a growling rumble pierced by giggles and shrieks. If she closed her eyes, she could see a million cars honking, a riot breaking out in a market, and the earth cracking apart. Though she burrowed into her sleeping bag, she could not escape. Sang rolled over and whispered in her ear. “So loud. So rude. It’s not right.”
“What should we do?”
She wanted to impress her parents, but could not have predicted this outcome. How could she claim to know what was best for her and Sang? Maybe her parents would be more comfortable sleeping in their sedan. Or she could sneak off and complain to the park ranger on her cell phone after dialing the phone number posted in the bathroom. Sang could tell the strangers to be quiet, but that could be dangerous. Lin knew the country was violent. The Chinese government had warned her before she left and local television news affirmed her beliefs. Her people were targets in America. Home invasions. Stabbings. Rape. She clipped the worst stories and kept them in a box, a talisman against the evils here. All the risks and prospects of America were a consequence of its disorder. Once, she had taken the wrong exit, onto a street of rundown houses with boarded-up windows. A man with gold-capped teeth came towards her. Terrified, she did an immediate U-turn, barely missing an oncoming car and sped onto the freeway.
What if these campers had a gun? Americans were crazy for guns. Only thin walls, and faith, kept them safe from the outside. The Leatherman was on the picnic table, its short knife their sole defense. Lin jerked on her sweatshirt.
“Where are you going? Lin?” Sang asked.
Lin stumbled to the picnic table, where she waved the flashlight until she found the Leatherman. She clenched it in her right hand, running her fingers over the casing and the twin grooves in the center. She pictured a fist falling to strike her, and the knife on the Leatherman rising to protect her and her family. Her curses. Wanbadan! Turtle’s egg! She turned her flashlight toward the noise across the road, at the many standing around the fire, laughing. Carefree. Careless. Lin could not see their faces, only long shadows that bled into the darkness. A towering man, outlined by the fire, jumped, whooped, and looked straight at her. They’d tear up the hill and trample the tent. She ran.
Sang grabbed her into a hug. “Are you okay?” They stood silent for a few minutes until he kissed her neck. He smelled of soap and minty mouth wash, of American progress and hygiene. She turned her head away, wanting only to be held. Back at the tent, her parents asked no questions. They lay awake for a long time as the clamor outside escalated, and Lin muffled her tears by pulling the sleeping bag over her face.
“Mei you guanxi.” Sang stroked her hair. No matter. It has no connection to you.
Lin hated hiding her job loss from Sang and the distance the secret put between them when she needed him most. She had a sudden, sharp longing for the routine of Beijing. Playing mah-jong in her parents’ living room. Riding her bike home in early evening and breathing in the smell of roasting meat from roadside stands. Taking walks with Sang in the park where the old men brought out their caged songbirds.
And yet. She remembered the cool air against her cheek tonight, the smile of the honey-color
ed moon, and the soft, springy ground beneath her feet. She could have run on and on.
~~~
Aileen awoke when the sunlight shafted onto her face. The sleeping bag, which promised protection against sub-zero temperatures, was overkill for summer in the coastal redwoods. She squirmed in the bag, sticky and thirsty while Reed, in the shade, slept beside her. Aileen unzipped the tent and stepped out. The tents were circled around the campfire, like pioneer wagons fending off the natives. Empty beer bottles and half-full plastic cups littered the campsite. She unscrewed a bottle of water and was about to take a sip until she noticed a cigarette butt floating in the neck. She emptied the bottle, glugs splashing into the dust. Her head ached, her hair stank of woodsmoke, and she was nauseous, a hangover or morning sickness, she didn’t want to know.
Janey, after assembling the green stove on the picnic table, cracked eggs into a metal bowl and tore open packages of sausage and flour tortillas for breakfast burritos. A morning person, Aileen thought, and then stopped herself from being dismissive and envious at the same time. They settled into the camaraderie of the first people awake. She liked Janey. When Aileen winced, her knee sore from running, Janey showed her some stretches.
Aileen met Reed while training for a half-marathon in San Francisco. She wanted to see how far she could go. None of her friends—who wanted to avoid muscular calves—would train with her. She joined a local running club filled with women on self-empowerment kicks, and Reed was one of the few men. They began dating about a month after they met, following a morning race that led to a boozy brunch that led to afternoon sex.
She had dated other white men. “You’re too Chinese,” one observed, soon before he dumped her. (Too polite? Too inscrutable? She never knew.) Three years ago, she had decided that finding a Chinese-American, with the same upbringing, would be the best for all concerned, but after a few months, each relationship collapsed under the weight of expectations. “You’re not very Chinese,” another said, soon before he left her. (Too loud? Her steamed rice too soggy? She never knew.) And so, she made an exception for Reed, for the long lines of his sinewy body, for his crooked nose and their nicknames for other people. The Poor-Man’s-Tom-Cruise. Pool Boy. Garfield Eyes. But if she stayed with Reed, he would never know what she gave up: comfort from a shared background, in-laws who understood each other and children who kept their heritage. He did not enjoy the pleasures of eating thousand-year old eggs like savory Cadburys, chewy chicken feet like E.T. fingers, and dried shredded pork like sawdust. He was not lulled by the sound of Mandarin, her first, now mostly forgotten tongue, the rising and falling tones and rhythms that she could pick out of the noisiest crowd.
