by Jennie Liu
“I’m sure you have enough pressure on you, like we all do. I get it. I’m not immune to that either. I know what my parents gave me, what they’ve gone through, how they put all their hope on me. I know they can’t rest until they see me married off and with a child. It’s hard to disregard that, even if their expectations, everyone’s expectations, are so oppressive.”
She looks back to the photos on her computer, idly clicking through the portraits. “I know I told you this installation is to help my business. But a big part of why I’m doing it is for my parents. Even though it looks like I’m rejecting their ideas, I want to impress them. If the project helps my business, maybe they can stop worrying so much.”
“Mmm.” I’m doubtful Min’s ma will ever back off until she’s married.
“The YouKu video I’m working on is turning into sort of a short documentary. I want it to be subtitled in English. I was actually wondering if you would help me translate the women’s statements and the script. I could do it myself but I have so much to do between working and the two projects . . .”
“Really? Me?” I’m excited by the idea, but all my English past middle school has only been self-study.
Min digs around on her desk. “Just do the best you can. Anything you can get done would be great. I can fix up anything you can’t figure out.” She pulls out some papers and shoves them at me.
“I’ll take your photo sometime, if you like.” She gestures to the computer, the portraits of the women still on the screen. At first I wonder if she’s offering to put me in the installation, and I start to panic over what my statement would be, what my parents would think—but just as quickly, I see that being in the project wouldn’t make any sense if I’m marrying Gilbert.
“Or your wedding photo.” Min smiles at me. “Funny,” she says. “Bao-bao wanted to do art and you want to do English.”
I dismiss the impossible notion with a sniff. “Yes, and look at Bao-bao now.” I flinch as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “Suicide.” I say it under my breath, still so unreal.
Min pinches her lips, and that crinkle of doubt is back between her brows. “Well, if Bao-bao killed himself, it wasn’t the pressure that got to him.”
A prickle goes up my back. “What do you mean if?”
Min stares at her hands for several seconds. She exhales a resigned breath. “Nothing.”
“No. What is it?” I want to know what she could possibly be thinking.
“Maybe I didn’t really know Bao-bao, but he wasn’t like the study kids and test monsters you read about online and in the papers, the ones who break under the pressure. He seemed to be pushing away from the conventional life.”
She pauses for a moment, her gaze going over my head to the middle distance. “No, not pushing, so much—but more like stepping away. Your parents were giving him a hard time, but he was deflecting them in his own way. He knew their intentions were good and that they had eaten bitter trying to get the family ahead. But to Bao-bao, having a better life didn’t mean getting a good job, apartment and car. I can’t imagine that his score would’ve felt world-ending to him. If anything, I would’ve expected him to feel kind of relieved—free to focus on a different path.”
Freedom is a strange thing . . .
“I still can’t believe he killed himself,” she says darkly, not with dramatic astonishment as Gilbert and I, who weren’t close to Bao-bao, have said it. Her voice is grave, doubtful, with a timbre that sends a shiver up my spine.
“Min, what do you think happened to Bao-bao?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” She gives me a helpless look. “I . . . I just don’t know.”
19
I stay up late the next two nights translating the statements and Min’s script for her video, which includes interviews with women and their parents. The hours slip away as I pore over them, consulting the tattered Chinese-English dictionary and English workbooks I’ve carried with me since middle school and wording and rewording the sentences until I have them sounding right.
I’m far from done, but I’m beginning to see the overall shape and tone of the project. Some of the women are already leftovers, past thirty, and despite their brave words—I’m accustomed to being single; Tolerating loneliness is better than marrying the wrong man; Ma and Ba, I will support you even if I don’t get married—I see a vein of isolation running through them.
Or maybe the sad realization that it’s near impossible to have it all—an ambitious career, a love marriage with a successful and supportive partner, kids, and satisfied parents—because the expectations are too overwhelming. Even Min admitted she can’t help but care what her parents think.
It confuses me, the thrill of working with language, imagining the career I really want, yet seeing the sacrifices that other women have had to make to keep moving with their education and professions. Although I may not have those things, I realize that by getting married, at least I won’t have to worry about loneliness or disappointed parents.
Today is Sunday, so Mama and I are both off work and awake at the same time in the midafternoon. After we’ve eaten a late lunch of rice porridge and after I’ve washed the bowls down the hall, Mama tells me to call Baba. I perch on the side of the bed, dial him up and hold the phone out to her, but she thrusts out her hands, clutching a bowl and the drying rag, to show me that she can’t take it.
Nainai answers.
“It’s me, Nainai. Have you eaten?” I put her on speaker so Mama can hear.
“Yes. Already eaten.”
“How’s Ba?”
“He’s sleeping. I picked up the phone so he wouldn’t wake up. You started work, then? How is it?”
“Fine.”
“Make sure you—”
There are noises in the background, and I hear Baba bellowing to Nainai. She tells him it’s me on the phone.
“He’s coming,” Nainai says. Several long moments pass as Nainai tells him to hurry. I hear him muttering and can practically see him lumbering over to Nainai, near the door where the reception is best.
“Na!” he shouts into the phone, his voice warbly. I wonder how much he’s drunk. “First work week, eh? Did you perform well?”
“Yes, Baba. It went fine.”
“Good, good. I’ll be back soon.” He sounds almost ebullient, and I throw Mama a hopeful look. She keeps her eyes on the bowl, rubbing it slowly although it must be long dry.
“Your mama happy about your marriage?” Baba asks.
Mama’s head shoots up, and she throws me a look of utter bafflement. I still haven’t told her.
“We’ve been so busy with work, our different shifts . . .” I stutter into the phone.
“What’s he talking about?” Mama rises. Before I can answer, she steps over and leans into the phone. “It’s me,” she says to Baba. “Marriage? What’s this about?”
“Na’s had a proposal from Gilbert! He graduated college and started work not far from here.”
Mama turns her bewildered eyes on me, too surprised to say anything.
“I haven’t answered him,” I say uneasily. I really don’t know why I haven’t told her. I suppose I’ve been avoiding it because we’ve never really talked about personal things.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Baba says. “It’s a good match, eh Ma?” There’s a pause, and I hear him smack his lips, Nainai muttering a reproach. He’s drinking.
“Gilbert?” Mama hesitates as if trying to get it to sink in, but in the next moment she says, “But I told you no boyfriends!”
“We weren’t really . . .” It strikes me as ridiculous that I’m almost twenty years old with a marriage proposal and I’m defending myself over old rules. “It came as a surprise.”
Baba chimes in. “Ah! Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. You have to accept! Eh, Ma. Gilbert’s a good match. He already has a job with potential to move up. His family already has a good house. The wedding can happen at the Spring Festival when both families are home. Our grandchildren will
be coming along soon!”
My mouth goes dry. Wedding. House. Children.
Mama, still clutching the bowl and rag, plops down on the bed. She looks up at me again, her head swinging slowly with disbelief, dissent, I’m not sure which. “But she just started this job,” she says, raising her voice so Baba can hear. “What about the money we owe Mrs. Hu? And the wedding will cost . . .”
Money owed to Mrs. Hu?
“Puh! Don’t worry about that!” says Baba. “Gilbert’s family will pay a bride price. And I’ll be back to work soon.” There’s aggravation in his voice, and I fear he’ll soon cross over to the next level of drunk. I want the conversation to be over.
“Baba, have you eaten?” I ask. “Please eat something.”
“Yes, yes,” he says impatiently. I doubt it’s true.
“Baba, you have to take care of yourself.”
“Yes!” He wants to get off the phone now as well. We say goodbye and click off.
Mama stares at the fan on the floor, watching it rotate side to side. Her expression is cloudy with vexation, suspicion as to why I haven’t told her earlier, but I also know she’s deliberating, weighing out options.
I find myself waiting to hear what she has to say. Will she think getting married is a good idea, or will she forbid it? The funny thing is that I’m not sure which one to hope for.
“I can’t disagree that it’s a good match,” Mama finally says. “But—I thought you’d work a couple of years before you get married.” Her eyes run over me, slowly taking in my hair and face, appraising me like the parents in the Marriage Market.
“Mama, what about this money we owe Mrs. Hu?” I ask tentatively, wanting to change the subject and hoping she might be distracted just enough to answer me. “How much is it?”
Her chest rises as she takes in a large breath. “Almost four months’ salary.”
I inhale sharply. “So much!” I can’t keep the shrill dismay out of my voice. “How is it so much?”
She rubs her cheek. “She’s helped us. Loaned it to us—for Bao-bao.”
“But still, how did—!” I feel sick. “Mama, you just caught up with the rent!”
Her hands slide down to her throat, and she tilts her head back, closing her eyes for several moments. I’m sure she’s not going to answer, but I wait until she opens them, and I lean in expectantly.
“Expenses with his education. We were struggling to keep up even after we moved to the sublevel apartment last summer. Over the years, tuition, books, uniform fees, gifts for teachers, afterschool test prep classes . . .”
She’s mentioned all these expenses before, but I always assumed she and Baba could afford them. My chest tightens as my mind races, trying to calculate how long it will take to pay all this back.
“This final year we had to pay for even more extra classes, tutoring, and gifts to administrators and teachers because your brother was letting himself fall behind.” She bites her knuckle for a moment, gathering herself. “We rented a hotel room to be closer to the testing site those three days. Such waste!” Her mouth pinches, and I see that there’s anger in what she says. She springs off the bed and the bowl rolls off her lap, landing with a clack of plastic against concrete.
I bend to pick it up while Mama paces like a caged animal, three steps back and forth, all the space in the room. Except for the amount, she hasn’t told me anything I didn’t already know, and now I’m sorry I made her go back to her worries.
“And after he died we had to pay—” Her face goes ashen white, so white it scares me.
“Mama, never mind! We’ll make it up soon enough.” I try to sound light, but the thought of our debt has embedded itself like a tumor inside me.
She ignores me but stops pacing. Her face is stretched back tight. I can see she is lost in fretting.
“Mama, let’s go out.” I move toward her. “Come take a stroll. Or we can sit in the courtyard.”
A short tick of her head tells me she heard me. I gather her purse and urge her to put on her shoes.
Outside, the nebulous skyline of the city center in the distance is faintly visible. I guide Mama across the courtyard and out to the street moving swiftly, hoping to drive the bad thoughts out of her head. I chatter, checking and reporting on the AQI, asking her what we should cook for dinner, commenting on the things in the stores we pass.
On Jianshe Avenue I see Min walking toward us. Mama and I are headed in the direction of the park, and Min must be coming back from taking more photos of the Marriage Market, since her camera bag is slung across her body.
Min catches sight of me, notices Mama. I think about introducing them, but Min just gives me a faint nod and looks away. I’m glad that she passes. It’s not the right time. Mama would’ve had endless questions, and I can’t imagine how I would explain our friendship without it somehow leading to Bao-bao.
At the park, the Marriage Market is closing down as we weave through the thinning crowd. People are closing up umbrellas and removing profile sheets from the fences, and Mama slows down to watch. She stops in front of a bench and begins to examine a sheet. We’re only there a few seconds before a man holding a profile sheet at chest level taps Mama on the shoulder.
“Is this your daughter?” he asks, pointing toward me with his chin.
Surprised, Mama nods.
He moves his head as if trying to put me in focus through his bifocals. “What’s her zodiac sign?”
Mama merely blinks at him, confused as to what he wants.
A few others crowd around as he shifts his questions to me: “Are you married? In college? How many blind dates have you been on?” His voice is deep and sonorous, drawing more people’s attention. He thrusts his son’s profile up at Mama and me and begins to point out his son’s salary and two-bedroom apartment.
The parents around us begin to comment and push in with their own questions and stat sheets.
I deflect the questions, trying to be polite, and slowly, Mama begins to understand. She turns her gaze on me once again, studying me as if she’s seeing me for the first time.
“She’s engaged!” Mama declares firmly, cutting off the questions.
The parents huff and immediately drift away, and Mama steers me out of the park.
Mama is quiet the rest of the afternoon as we clean the apartment and make dinner. Her eyes light on me again and again, and I sense a shift in her mood. She’s lost in thought, but not with the brooding, anxious air of the last weeks. Instead, she scrubs the floor and chops the vegetables with a briskness that reminds me of her old self.
After we eat and get the dinner dishes cleaned, she asks me to get Gilbert’s ma’s number. I text Gilbert, telling him that Mama wants to speak with his ma. When he responds, his text contains only the number, no comment attached, and I wonder if he’s as nervous as I am.
My stomach flutters as Ma dials up Gilbert’s ma. I busy myself with changing the bedsheets, though my ears are straining to catch every word.
After a loud burst of greeting from both ends of the line, Mama goes quiet and her head bows forward as she rubs her forehead. I hear Gilbert’s ma chattering softly through the line and I’m sure she’s giving her condolences about Bao-bao. Mama only makes a small noise to let her know she heard before she steers the conversation to the marriage.
Gilbert’s ma’s voice blares on the phone, “We had it in our minds all these years that Na would be a good match for Huan! I’ve watched her every year at Spring Festival. A good girl! Never too demanding. Not too pretty, smart enough to be sensible, and having had a sibling, she was never spoiled!”
Mama chuckles and tells her about the Marriage Market, describing the throngs of people and the profile sheets covering the park. “And so, so many men looking for wives! It was like the village livestock market.” She doesn’t mention that it was mostly the parents who were doing the looking. “I’m glad she doesn’t have to go through finding a match.”
Gilbert’s ma tsks. “Yes, after what her bro
ther did . . .” Mama jerks the phone away from her ear, staring at it in her hand, clearly surprised and offended.
“Our family discussed it,” Gilbert’s ma continues. “Even if most people wouldn’t consider Na with your family’s situation, we’ve lived in the city long enough to look past those old beliefs. We’ve always hoped for Huan and Na to make a match, and we won’t let this change that.”
I bristle. Mama and I look at each other. We both realize that she’s talking about our family being cursed by Bao-bao’s suicide. I have a bad taste in my mouth. I almost expect her to start haggling for a low bride price.
“Yes, the young people have to be more open, especially all the men who live in the countryside, eh?” Mama’s voice is sticky sweet, but her jaw is rigid. She’s speaking with a forked tongue. “Na could probably find someone richer and more educated than Huan. Several parents came right up to ask about her at the Marriage Market. Every man wants a wife willing to set aside her own education and take care of the house and children. Young wives are the best. But still, like you said, Na and Huan have a good connection.”
Even though Mama’s comments prick at me in their own way, she’s bragging about me, standing up for me, and I can’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction.
20
Each night over the next week, after I get home from the scrap metal plant, I crouch on a stool and use the bed as a desk, laboring over the translation of Min’s project. Most of the time, I’m completely absorbed in a way that makes me think I can stay up all night, but every now and then when I get stumped on a sentence, I begin to doubt my abilities or the accuracy of my work. I have to push down those thoughts and tell myself to just keep going, figure out one more word, one more phrase.
I’m so busy that I only manage to send Gilbert a handful of texts, but he understands. He says he’s tired from work and doesn’t have the energy for much conversation himself.
When I finally get the script finished I go to Min’s, but she doesn’t answer the door that night or the next. Soon I won’t be able to go over because Mama has decided to switch back to working days, so in the evenings I’ll have to be home to make her dinner and keep her company. I end up slipping the pages under Min’s door with a note explaining Mama’s change in schedule.
