Green Island

by Shawna Yang Ryan

  —

  My mother had anticipated this day for years. One day, she knew, they would return for him, and their lives would fall back into the condition to which she had become accustomed: ignorance and desire.

  When Baba and I left for Taipei that morning, Mama went to the big brick church with the red steeple and white cross that the Americans had built near the base. She carried a Bible with a dark green cover and gold ribbon bookmark stitched into the binding. This Bible had parallel English and Chinese text, and she had begun to learn English through stories of sons and fathers and sins.

  She sat in a newly lacquered pew and stared at the stained glass—a cross set against a kaleidoscope of colors—behind the pulpit. The Bible remained unopened beside her. The church was empty except for an obasan who was sweeping. The rhythmic scrape of her broom echoed.

  I imagine my mother contemplating time. It seemed to her like a train on a circular track. Passengers were lost in its seductive sway, in the present beauty of the scenery passing by, only to find, before they knew it, that they were stranded in the very place from which they had set out. Once the journey was over, it was as if it had never taken place. Had she moved? Had he come home? Or had it been a delusion and she would walk out to find that she had been alone for nearly twenty-five years?

  God existed for us to serve Him, and she was deeply ashamed to ask Him for something so human. She wondered if it was petty to ask for His grace in this matter that consisted only of longing and fear. This wasn’t about the greatest good, about the alleviation of poverty or hunger, or about the end of the war that burned so close by. This was one simple prayer, one tiny, deeply personal matter. Her husband.

  The first few nights after his return, she’d been almost afraid to touch him when they lay in bed. Her tentative hand on his arm or chest startled her: he crackled with heat. She had grown accustomed to the blank crispness of the bed and suddenly here was this body, this man: his deep breathing, his murmuring, his restlessness.

  She wouldn’t speak her request aloud. Perhaps the arrogance of this prayer would be tempered by its silence. Staring at the cross, she spoke to God in her mind: He’s a good man. Please. We’ve suffered enough. I repent for him. Never mind him. For me, Your humble servant. You are Goodness. I praise You. In my every deed, I praise You. Whatever You choose, I will praise You. But, please, let him be.

  —

  A wordless train ride, thick with guilt. I slumped against the window, cheek pressed to cool glass, and avoided looking at my father. I wanted to apologize, yet I couldn’t bring myself to believe that I was entirely at fault. What did he think, staring off like that? Did he envision the past, the numerous interviews cycling through his years in prison, or did he think of the future, that afternoon, anticipating questions and devising answers? I thought of my mother’s words as we left for the station: Bring him home. Neither Baba nor I had been able to answer her.

  We left the train silently and flagged down a taxi. Once we told the driver the address, he joined our silence. The building was a nondescript celadon, as placid as a post office. I told Baba I’d wait at the cafe across the street, then watched him disappear through the doors.

  I took a seat in a booth with a view through the wide glass front and ordered a cold tofu custard. The celadon building’s only windows were high up, white, blinded by cataracts of sunlight. A steady stream of pedestrians walked by, enveloped in their own concerns and oblivious to what was happening behind the building’s tranquil facade.

  I remembered I hated tofu custard. I dug the spoon around, a pretense of eating as I sliced and smashed the soft gelatinous mass.

  Baba did not come out.

  A man and woman pushed through the doors, arm to arm, yet so narrowly not touching. It was a very hot day, but the woman wore a thin sweater over her dress and the peach shade of her legs betrayed pantyhose. Interrogated or interrogator? Neither smiled.

  Red taxis rolled by, drivers slapping the horn and beaded tchotchkes swinging from rearview mirrors. A bus groaned past and left a cloud of black exhaust in its wake. The waitress took my uneaten custard and I ordered a Coke, which came in a bottle shrouded in condensation.

  I nursed the Coke for as long as I could. The chill on the outside of the bottle cascaded off in the heat and soon the soda was warm. How long could I wait? How long would I wait?

  —

  Finally, three hours after he had disappeared behind the heavy glass doors, Baba emerged again. I left money on the table and ran out. I shouted at him from across the street and darted through the traffic. The flesh beneath his eyes seemed heavier and darker than usual.

  “Can we go home?” I asked, then felt it was a stupid question.

  He closed his eyes. He moved his mouth like he meant to speak, but no words came out. I took his arm. “Baba,” I said. “It’s okay.” We merged into the flow of people. We were slower than most and they jostled and snapped as they rushed past us. By the time we reached the train station, the sky was dark.

  —

  On the train, still no words came to his mouth. Baba had tipped his head back and draped a handkerchief over his eyes, so casual, like he was settling in for a long, relaxing hot-springs soak.

  Then he reached out and squeezed my hand; I stiffened in response to the unfamiliar gesture. When he relaxed his grip, his palm quaked against mine. Both yearning and pathetic, this act stunned me. Baba had not done more than clap a shoulder—or perhaps straighten my jacket or smooth a hair into place—in the last thirteen years.

  On the motorcycle ride back from the train station, I was overcome by the thought of his vulnerability. I tucked my hair into my collar so it would not whip him as I navigated the roads home. He balanced with his hands grasping the bar behind him, and with every turn, I felt the shifting burden of his weight and tried to balance it with my own.

  —

  Mama sat in the illuminated front room, the Bible open in her lap. She had heard my bike shut off, and we both saw her eyes searching the dark courtyard for us. She called out: first Baba’s name, then mine.

  Baba sighed and I knew he saw what I was just noticing for the first time. How naive, how heartbreaking, how undeserved was her faith in us.

  27

  THE GOLDFISH LASTED a little over a week in the small, round glass bowl I had housed them in. First one rose to the surface, then I spent much of the next day watching the second fish struggle against the inevitable as it drifted zombielike toward the bottom of the bowl, then finally succumbed and floated. I took it as a sign, but soon my mother called to tell me that Wei’s aunt wanted to arrange our engagement.

  I looked at the poor fish listlessly bobbing around the surface of the bowl. Like a grounded ship wrenched from mud, I felt the slow movement of my life. Into the trough of its wake tumbled everything else: leaving home, a new language, new friends, children.

  “What do you think?” Mama asked. I balanced the phone with my chin and tapped the fishbowl. The fish did not respond.

  “What about love?” I asked. What would carry us through? Love, something less, or something more?

  “Do you like him?”

  I recalled the humor and goodwill that I’d seen at the night market, and the beer musk on his skin. I liked him. I blushed as I admitted, “Yes.”

  “That’s good enough.” She sounded weary.

  “But Ah Zhay married for love. You married for love.” I wanted a counterargument; a decision like this should come through struggle, torment, and tears—not a two-minute phone conversation.

  She rustled against the receiver and finally answered. “It’s not everything.”

  I pushed her. “What else is there, Mama?”

  “The Lins are old friends. They are a good family. Wei will have his Ph.D. soon. What other chance will you have to go to America? Once you get there, you can sponsor your niece and nephews. This will be good for everyone.” So she would not dissuade me.

  Marriage was always for love, but sometim
es that love was for family, not the lover. I remembered the phrase that had braced me that day in the garden when my father had sworn me to his secret: Never fail to comply. It was easier than defiance.

  —

  Riding around town, I’d always cringed at the outdoor banquets I saw in some alleys, festive but destined for sweaty brides and drunk guests walloped by heatstroke. I didn’t like the striped awnings erected like circus tents, shading tables draped in pink plastic, the food doled out of huge steel pots. Even if our wedding had not been in the midst of the sweltering summer, we still would have held our banquet in an air-conditioned restaurant. And if any status is to be inferred from the size of the air conditioner, this one was as big as a refrigerator and as loud as a motorcycle.

  The chairs were standard generic restaurant chairs in red vinyl with steel frames. I wore a gold silk dress embroidered with a beaded phoenix that rose up my side and extended across my bosom. My posture was impeccable, lest I burst either the side zipper or the front snaps. My mother called my hairstyle—a tight, glossy bun—too severe and matronly; I called her old-fashioned. Our engagement party had elicited a couple of gold necklaces and bracelets and the pair of drop-pearl earrings that I now wore.

  Wei and I were as comfortable as could be expected for two people who were freshly, tentatively in love, but not yet in the complacency of real love. I searched his face, hoping for revelation. He smiled and squeezed my hand. “It’s too much, isn’t it?” he asked. His buoyancy made me smile.

  The banquet noise quickly overcame the gunning of the air conditioner: people shouted at each other across the tables, yelled at their children, tried to out-manner one another by offering the last bites of each dish, and offered to refill each other’s glasses. Even before Wei and I began our round of toasts, most of our guests were boisterously drunk. Including Zhee Hyan, who had been baiting Dua Hyan all night.

  Zhee Hyan loosened the first three buttons of his outrageous, large-collared, striped purple shirt and leaned his greasy, drunk face close to Dua Hyan, who looked smart and fresh in a somber black suit. Zhee Hyan’s hair had escaped from whatever pomade he had rubbed in; it rose up on either side of his part like a bird extending its wings.

  “Why don’t you—why don’t you get your high-and-mighty friends to—to strike Ba’s file?”

  Dua Hyan jerked his head out of range and batted Zhee Hyan away. “You stink.” His tone was unperturbed, almost bored, and yet hardened at its core by a wintry distaste.

  Wei’s lips brushed my ear. To the rest of the room, it might have looked like a sweet nothing. He whispered, “Maybe we should seat them at separate tables.”

  “No, you—you stink,” Zhee Hyan complained to Dua Hyan. Zhee Hyan was much more explicit with his emotions; he made as if to slap Dua Hyan, but stopped short and laughed. I squeezed my napkin and yelped.

  Without a word, Baba left the table, probably going off to smoke out front. For most, smoking was a social activity—cigarettes and lighters shared, the smoke offering an easy respite between words. For Baba, smoking was his moment of escape, like his habit of pulling off and wiping his glasses, his instant blindness to the world. For a moment, we all fell awkwardly still, then Wei’s parents busied themselves with the remaining scallops; his father tittered as he scooped them from the platter. Wei’s older brother said, loudly, “Let me help,” and took the spoon.

  I wanted to run after Baba; I wanted to ask if he was okay, what he needed, how he felt about my marriage. I had done even more than he had requested—was he pleased? Instead, I walked around the table to my brothers, braced myself with a hand on each of their shoulders, and leaned over. Zhee Hyan’s polyester shirt was damp. Dua Hyan was right—he did stink. Coated in lipstick, my mouth felt stiff. “Save it for another day,” I hissed.

  “Tell that to the one who insists on making a clown of himself.” Dua Hyan’s gaze wandered around the room. His disinterest hurt me.

  His approval had become even more elusive than Baba’s. “I’m talking to both of you,” I said.

  Across the table, across half-empty platters and dirty plates and the diminishing bottle of Johnnie Walker, my mother had slipped into her own idiosyncratic gesture—she held her head high, almost arching her neck as if her embarrassment could be overcome by an elegant and artificial nonchalance. She turned away from my gaze and I admired the swing of her gold earrings and the small light hairs coming loose from her upsweep in spite of the copious amounts of hairspray. Time’s softening of her face made her look surprisingly vulnerable and even sadder.

  “Look what you’re doing to Mama,” I whispered to my brothers, who watched as our mother rose from her chair and pushed her way through the crowded banquet hall to join Baba outside. Amid all the chaos, however, none of our guests had noticed the dissolution of our table. Wei’s dad laughed again and his mother asked gently, “Should I follow her?”

  I shook my head. “Please don’t embarrass me,” I pleaded to my brothers. Zhee Hyan stammered his protest, as I knew he would, but Dua Hyan silenced him by shrugging off my hand and storming away. “Dua Hyan,” I cried. I thought he would follow Mama, but instead he took a seat at a table with our cousins who had come up from Tainan for the banquet, cousins I barely remembered except that their names all began with Ming.

  My niece, Mei Mei, had been avidly watching the whole conflict, her bright doll eyes darting among all the players like a ravenous Ping-Pong fan. A teenager, she was lovely in that oblivious way of young girls, who are beautiful despite themselves, simply for the fact of their youth. My nephews—eager young Jia Zhe and the slightly less boisterous Jia Lun—were busy chatting between themselves, struggling in some boredom-battling game they’d made up with straws and napkins and an empty juice carton. I realized that my vows, my new promise to a near stranger, meant that I would not watch them grow up. I bit my lip.

  Ah Zhay offered me a sympathetic grimace. “Sit,” she said. “Enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about them.” Then, like a good older sister, she turned her attention to our remaining brother. “Don’t make it worse. This is your baby sister’s day.”

  Wei watched this all with amusement and, I think, a touch of annoyance. Back in my chair, I apologized. “Welcome to my family.”

  —

  While my entrance at the start of the banquet, before the food had been served, had been announced with firecrackers and clapping, my change, just before dessert, into my second banquet dress—pink chiffon, with a scoop neck and puffy princess sleeves—went barely noticed, and the firecrackers disappeared in the noise of our guests. This was the sign of a good wedding.

  Hoisting a bottle of brandy, the emcee led Wei and me around to each table for toasts. Wei guzzled; I sipped. When we reached his groomsmen’s table, two of them flung their arms around his shoulders and insisted on a second shot. The whole table shouted and cheered as Wei drained his glass. I blinked and smiled demurely.

  At another table sat my coworkers from the Golden Rooster Garden: my boss, who had pulled on a clean shirt though he still smelled of sweat and cigarettes, and the other waitresses, including Ting Ting and her American boyfriend. For the toast, she drank juice and winked at me. She was getting married in two months, when her parents could come up from the south. She said she hoped I’d still show up even though it broke the taboo of attending a wedding within three months of your own. “Oh, come on,” I said, pointedly eyeing her belly, “who really believes that stuff?”

  When we finally returned to our table, red-faced and woozy, a woman in a vibrant blue dress was in my chair. She clasped Wei’s mother’s hands in hers; the conversation looked earnest. As soon as she noticed me, Wei’s mother—my mother-in-law—pulled her hands away. The woman in blue cocked her head at me and smiled. She stood up. “I just had to come over and say hello. Congratulations.” She had the pristine enunciation of a person whose teeth aligned perfectly. I was tipsy. I could have listened to her talk all night. I didn’t know two-thirds of the people there. Who w
as she? A family friend? A cousin? From my side or Wei’s? She had liquid dark amphibious eyes. She was beautiful. Wei blinked quickly—I was afraid he was going to vomit. His face was red and shiny from our drinking tour of the fifteen tables, and he muttered a little thank-you. She squeezed my arm. “I hope he’s being sweet to you.”

  “Of course,” I said. She smiled again—yes, her teeth were perfectly aligned—and sauntered back to her table.

  We tried to keep the liquor away from Zhee Hyan, but the Cousins-Ming-from-Tainan insisted on stealing a full bottle from a table of teetotalers and dragged him over. They forced reconciliation with Dua Hyan, and soon all of them were blustering and pointing in each other’s faces in a sloshed debate about Kaoliang liquor. One cousin claimed he was going to get in a taxi and find a bottle and they would drink it to settle the argument.

  Baba, seated again, fell deep into conversation with Wei’s father. I often took their long friendship for granted. They had no need for show or polite conversation. Snatches drifted across the table: they were relating to their wives the story of some long-ago incident in Tokyo, some story the wives had no doubt heard five times before. My mother nodded: Get on with it. My father was the slowest storyteller, meticulous about the details. He often circled back around to revise what he’d earlier said. Listening could feel interminable.

  The meal ended with a mochi soup—something auspiciously sweet and soft to begin our married life.

  Finally, I changed into my last dress, a red minidress with little red-lace gloves. With our parents, Wei and I stood at the exit holding trays of cigarettes (for the men) and candy (for the women and children) and said good-bye to each guest and received their repeated congratulations. The woman in the blue dress appeared on the arm of one of Wei’s friends. Her warmth as she spoke to Wei’s parents was uncomfortably seductive. After she left, I asked Wei who she was. “Just an old friend,” he said.

  —

  Wei had dismissed the idea of tradition. He had not brought his groomsmen to escort me and my trousseau to his family’s home and also eliminated the ritual of sheltering me with a bamboo screen to stave off the eyes of ghosts. Instead, we scurried into a taxi and spent our first married night at the Mandarin Hotel, which was still fairly new. There, sitting on the bed in our fifth-floor room, we counted our red envelope money. I had changed into a modest, high-necked nightgown while Wei lounged in his underwear without a care. I tried to not imagine the rest of the evening. Ting Ting had reassured me that people were usually so exhausted from the banquet that the real wedding event did not take place until the next morning.