Like Spilled Water

by Jennie Liu

Aside from a few texts I send Mama telling her that Baba is fine, I don’t hear from her until she texts me to come back to Taiyuan to start work. I haven’t told her about Gilbert’s proposal. The thought of talking to her about it makes me uncomfortable. Beyond her always declaring, No boyfriends, we’ve never really spoken about anything so personal.

  Before I head back to the city, I duck my head into Baba’s room to say goodbye. He raises his head from the pillow and blinks at me sleepily when I remind him that I’m going. “Good, good. Help your ma.” I nod and tell him to try to eat more and take some walks, but he only waves at me dismissively.

  Nainai follows me out to the gate, where Gilbert’s waiting for me. She pats my cheek. “Won’t be long before you’re back here,” she says, pointedly looking back and forth between Gilbert with me with a smile playing on her face.

  Gilbert notices, and we both pink up. He walks me to the station and waits with me until the bus arrives. We don’t hold hands or kiss because there are a few locals milling around. Nothing more has been said about us getting married, but it feels like it’s set.

  I arrive in Taiyuan on Sunday afternoon. Mama is at the bus station to pick me up. Her eyes are bloodshot and she looks drained as we walk back to the apartment in the heat. She tells me she’s switched to the night shift so that I can take her spot on days. I start to protest, but she shushes me, saying she wants it this way and she’s already started working the nights.

  At first I assume that she’s just trying to make working easier for me, but the dark bluish circles around her eyes tell me that she’s not sleeping. I’ve seen how she lies awake at night, flopping around in bed with restless thoughts of Bao-bao and money worries spinning in her mind. Perhaps it will be better for her to work those nighttime hours and be at odds with the rest of the world.

  As we descend the stairs to the second sublevel, I’m dizzied by the darkness. I place one hand on the wall to steady myself and force myself to take shallow breaths against the stuffy air and the feeble, blue-tinged glow from distant fluorescent lights. Will I ever get used to living down here? I keep my eyes on the back of Mama’s head as I follow her to the new apartment.

  When we get there, she snaps on the hanging bulb, tells me she needs to sleep, and crawls into the bed. It takes up most of the space in our new room. Mama paid a couple of coworkers to move the bigger bed and Bao-bao’s desk here, and to get rid of everything else that wouldn’t fit. The kitchen cart, two stools, and several boxes crowd what’s left of the floor space, and it occurs to me that there won’t be room for three of us here when Baba comes back to work. Will we take turns sleeping in the bed, working alternating shifts? Or does Mama not believe Baba will ever come back to work?

  I lower myself onto a stool, facing the mound of Mama in the bed, not knowing what I should do with myself while she tries to sleep. Figuring the light must be bothering her, I turn it off, so now I’m in total darkness except for the red numbers of the digital clock showing 2:07 pm. It’s afternoon, but it may as well be the middle of the night. The room is airless, but Mama pulls a sheet over her head. I feel as dreadful as when I first came here. Was it just two weeks ago?

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and text Gilbert. We arrived.

  I’m surprised when he texts back immediately as if he had the phone already in his hand. Good. How was the trip? How’s your ma?

  I smile at his thoughtfulness. I’m so glad to have someone to talk to.

  She’s so tired. I think she’s been doing double shifts. Working to forget about everything.

  A couple minutes pass with no response. I wonder if he’s gone off to do something else.

  Sometimes that’s a good thing, he finally texts.

  Me: Maybe.

  Gilbert: Don’t forget. It’s only been a few weeks.

  True, I answer.

  Another long pause.

  I don’t want the conversation to be over. I’ll have to remember that, I message, trying to draw out the exchange.

  And I miss the feel of your smooth chest against mine. I can’t wait until I see you again.

  My head snaps back and I blink, confused by the words and the unfamiliar, passionate tone. Smooth chest against mine? A warm flush creeps up my neck. In all the days we were in Willow Tree, we didn’t do anything more than kiss a few times. And those kisses were pretty chaste. Our chests hardly touched. I clutch the phone, acutely aware of my own inexperience, wondering what sort of response I should give.

  Excuse me! Gilbert texts again before anything comes to me.

  A relieved, nervous laugh escapes me, and I swiftly glance at Mama to make sure I haven’t disturbed her. I’m not sure what Gilbert meant by that text, but I type, Don’t worry about it. I’m too embarrassed to say anything more.

  We’ll talk more later, he answers, and I know he’s signing off. I suppose he’s as embarrassed as I am.

  I’m left in the dark listening to the low whir of the fan. Muted noises—doors slamming, the murmur of TVs and people talking—come from the hall, the other apartments. I wish Gilbert was here. Or I was there. What did he mean by what he said? Is he longing for more from me?

  I consider texting my roommate Xiaowen, to tell her that I’m not going back to school, about Bao-bao, about Gilbert’s proposal, but I don’t want to field her shocked questions or even her excitement about Gilbert. It’s still too new. Everything has happened so fast. Of course, I always expected to get married eventually, but I’m still taking it in. I think again how even now I haven’t told Mama. The fact that she hasn’t mentioned it makes it clear that she and Baba aren’t communicating much.

  I sit for another few minutes toying with my phone before I decide I can’t stay here anymore watching Mama sleep. I have to go out.

  Although I try to be very quiet, as soon as I open the door, Mama rolls over and pushes up onto her elbow, alarmed. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m just going out to the courtyard so you can sleep,” I whisper, trying to calm her.

  “Don’t stay out too long. The air is bad today.”

  “I’ll check the AQI. If it’s bad, I’ll come right back. Otherwise I’ll get something for our dinner.”

  She jerks a nod before she flops back onto her stomach and burrows into the pillow.

  I start toward the stairs, but suddenly I have the idea to see if Min is home.

  To my sharp disappointment, she doesn’t answer my knock. I head upstairs. The courtyard is teeming with families coming and going, kids playing since it’s Sunday. I wonder if Min’s gone to the Marriage Market to shoot more photos for her project. I decide to look for her there.

  At the park, the crowd is thinning. Parents are taking down their children’s profile sheets and closing up their umbrellas. I stand near the entrance of the park and wait to see if Min comes out. I don’t have to wait long. I wave to catch her attention when I see her.

  “Get many good shots?” I call out as I dodge park strollers to reach her.

  “Some.”

  “How about a husband?” I joke. A group of parents standing nearby whip their heads in our direction.

  Min bursts out with a laugh. “Come on. Let’s go before my ma catches up with me. She stopped to talk to another desperate mother.” We head down the sidewalk in the direction of home.

  “How was your village? Did you start work?” Min asks.

  “Start tomorrow,” I answer. My tongue begins to itch to tell her about Gilbert. She would be neutral, not family, not a friend who always just knew it. I’m self-conscious saying it, but I mumble, “Well, it seems I’ve had my own marriage proposal.”

  “Really?” She turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “Who is it? Someone your parents set you up with?”

  “My boyfriend from college.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  I shrug. “I wasn’t sure how he felt. The proposal’s a complete surprise. He’s just starting working. And I guess since I’m not going back t
o school, he thought . . .”

  Min lets out a breathy whistle. “His parents, and yours, must be ecstatic. Have you accepted him?”

  “I haven’t exactly said yes, but it looks like . . . it’s going to go through.”

  “Looks like it’s going to go through? You don’t sound very excited. Does he suit?”

  “I am excited.” I laugh, letting the giddiness inside me bubble into my voice. “It’s just a lot to take in. And yes, he’s a good match.” This I can say with conviction. Matching doors, matching windows flashes into my mind, but really, it’s more than just our shared background. Gilbert and I have always been fond of each other.

  “Well, I’m glad for you!” Min smiles broadly.

  “Are you?” I’m relieved. Strangely, although Min and I hardly know each other, I care what she thinks.

  “Of course! If it’s what you want.”

  “Like I said, it was just so much a surprise. Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

  She frowns and gives me a puzzled look. “I don’t know. That’s for you to say. People get married for different reasons. Even someone as stubborn as me can understand that.” She sighs. “You’re lucky to have found someone you want to marry before your parents started turning on the pressure. It really does get harder to find the right person as you get older. Even though there are so many more men than women, most of those men are uneducated or live in the rural areas.”

  I glance down to my feet when she says that, remembering Baba’s remark about Gilbert, without me, being a bare branch.

  “The guys worth marrying won’t consider you if you have more education or make more money than they do. Especially if you’ve spent time focusing on your career, getting higher degrees and moving up in your job. Once you’re thirty, everyone says you’re too close to being past childbearing age. The three highs—high education, high income, high age. Everyone says them like they’re dirty words.” She shakes her head with aggravation. “Your parents must be so happy not to have to see you through the love-hunting business,” she adds. “If my own mama was so lucky!”

  I don’t mention that I haven’t told Mama, because I can’t explain why. “What would your perfect husband be like?”

  “Aiyo!” She mimics an old lady scolding. “I’m not worrying about that yet. I’ve had a few boyfriends, but I’m not getting serious. I’ve been saving all these years to move to Beijing and get a studio space. This project I’m working on is going to help me launch my business.”

  She tells me about the portraits she’s been taking of women who are choosing education or career over marriage or who are waiting for a real love match. They’ll be attached to their profiles, which will be statements of independence rather than the usual information about height and job and finances.

  “The whole thing will be a rejection of the leftover woman propaganda that the government and the media have been putting out. All that pressure for us to not have such high standards, to hurry up and get married and have children as soon as possible before no man wants you, before your eggs go bad. What they’re really worried about is that the gender imbalance will cause a threat to social stability, because the men resort to hooliganism—gambling, prostitution, crime—if they don’t get married and relieve their urges in a socially acceptable manner. My project is meant to challenge those ideas.”

  “Mmmm,” I say vaguely, feeling somewhat deflated, as if by getting married I’m falling for government propaganda. I clumsily try to turn the conversation back to the photos. “Will the portraits and profiles hang in your studio?” I ask, realizing I won’t be able to see them in Beijing.

  “Well, maybe, eventually. But I’m going to put them together for an installation in the Marriage Market first. I’m also working on a video, and I need the installation as the final scene of it.”

  “Will the officials let you put up something like that? It sounds controversial.”

  “I’m thinking about that. I still have to figure out how to get it through. The project will have to be subtle, focus on the women’s hopes and dreams. I’ll get the permit somehow.”

  She stops to remove her jacket; the nine-tailed fox peeks out from under the strap of her tank and I remember Bao-bao’s drawings.

  “Min, I found some other drawings that Bao-bao did!” As I tell her about the doodles in the notebooks, the studies in the Moral Education sketchbook, and the zodiac series, Min slows her walking until she’s stopped, listening intently.

  “I want to take you somewhere,” she says when I’m finished describing Bao-bao’s work. She changes direction and pulls me down a side road.

  We navigate several side streets until we’re outside a storefront. “Here we are,” Min says. The bottom half of the plate glass window is covered in a plastering of flyers and ad posters, but above them, Taiyuan Tattoos is painted on the glass. A tattoo shop. Min is the only person I’ve ever known who has an actual tattoo. I’ve never seen anyone in Linfen or Willow Tree with one. Even in a third-tier city like Taiyuan you don’t generally see people on the streets with them.

  Min opens the door for me. The shop is small and although the windows are grimy on the outside from the smog, plenty of diffuse light streams in. Framed tattoo designs cover all four walls. Several albums with more illustrations lie open on a long counter on one side of the shop.

  At the back there’s a table—cluttered with instruments and colored bottles of ink—plus a sink and a padded swivel chair like you see in a hair shop. A guy spins around on a rolling stool to face us. His hair is razored in a close, neat cut and he wears thick horn-rimmed glasses. Brightly colored tattoos cover one arm beneath his white T-shirt and snake up the side of his neck.

  “Min!” he exclaims. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while!”

  “Been busy.”

  “Taking pre-wedding pictures? Have you opened your own photo studio yet?”

  Min pulls a face. “The studio I open won’t be for wedding photography! But I can’t bite the hand that feeds me. Most of my savings comes from those shoots or the photoshopping I do for them. And I admit they’re fun.”

  I’ve seen plenty of those shops where couples can rent outfits and have pre-wedding photos taken. The ensembles can range from Western-style white dresses to the traditional red qipao to fantasy ensembles like imperial period costumes or car-racing outfits, complete with fake backgrounds.

  “Nothing wrong with fun, especially if it pays the rent.” The guy is speaking to Min, but his gaze has wandered over to me.

  “Wei, this is Na.” She gestures at me. “Does she remind you of anyone?”

  He studies me for a moment before he snaps his fingers. “Bao-bao. You’re his sister.”

  “Yes.”

  “You look just like him.”

  My eyes are drawn to his tattooed arm, the intricately inked flowers, birds, and animals twisting around each other. I point to a fierce and watchful monkey inked near his wrist in the same style as the zodiac designs. “That one looks like Bao-bao’s work.”

  He puts out his arm and rotates it. Dark ink lines the features of the monkey’s face and separates each leaf behind him. The browns and greens are graded and rich. “Yeah. Where is he? He was doing some drawings for me.”

  I look at Min.

  “Wei, Bao-bao died,” she tells him.

  Wei’s arm drops down against his side. His expression crumbles as disbelief takes over his face.

  “They say he killed himself,” Min adds.

  “What the fuck?” Wei jumps up. “When? He was just in here . . . I don’t know, two or three weeks before the gaokao?” He flips his hand out, questioning, demanding answers. “What happened?”

  I’m caught off guard by the strength of his emotion. My chest tightens. A lump forms in my throat.

  “Wei!” Min grabs his arm and pushes him toward the swiveling chair.

  He slumps into it and rakes back his hair. “But really? Is it true? Why would he?”

&
nbsp; Min tells him about the gaokao and the rat poison.

  “A bad score—that can’t be!” One side of his mouth curls in doubt. “It doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t care about that. He didn’t want to go to university. Even when I told him he could major in art. He had other ideas.”

  Min glances at me. “Well, you know how his parents were on him to study all the time.”

  “No worse than anyone else’s.” Wei shakes his head. “He gave up on the test weeks before. He knew he wasn’t going to score as well as they expected! He didn’t let the pressure bother him that much.”

  Wei squints at me with an expectant tilt to his head as if he’s waiting for me to explain. But what he doesn’t understand is that I don’t know anything. He is the one who is telling me about my brother.

  Min says, “You know Bao-bao didn’t like it when his baba came and dragged him out of the internet café. His baba made a horrible scene.”

  “He told me about that, but he didn’t care about being humiliated in front of everyone. Yes, they had a huge fight, and yes, it bothered him to disappoint them, but he was still determined to do his own thing. I can’t believe he would eat poison!”

  “It is . . . strange, isn’t it? Doesn’t make sense.” Min’s smooth forehead creases.

  I find myself waiting, listening, trying to understand what’s going through her mind.

  She catches me studying her and sighs. “But maybe the fights with your ba were getting to him more than he let on. He didn’t like how upset it made your ma either. He wasn’t completely selfish, even though that’s what they told him. But he just knew he wasn’t going to be an engineer.”

  “I think he must’ve been depressed,” I say, slowly and hesitantly, aware of how little I understand about this. “I’ve read that depressed people can hurt themselves even if there’s no clear reason why.”

  “If he was depressed, he must’ve hidden it very well,” says Min. “Which I guess is possible. I’m not an expert. But it just seems so—so out of nowhere.”

  “He was so excited about those designs he was doing for me,” Wei says, speaking in a kind of anguished daze. “He told me he was working on them!”