Like Spilled Water

by Jennie Liu

  Mama’s mood is definitely brighter now. She smiles sometimes, and we take walks in the evening. At one point, we stop in front of a wedding photo shop and Mama gazes at the outfits: sock-hop skirts, Western formalwear, and a princess ball gown and tux splayed out jauntily in the window. Photos of couples in other outfits are propped at the foot of the display against jeweled high heels and saddle shoes. Mama actually lets out a laugh as she scans them, pointing to a formally dressed couple standing on the moon.

  I can’t help but laugh as well, not just at the couple’s fantasy backdrop, but because it’s like a sack of coal has been pushed off my shoulders to see Mama so lighthearted.

  Two weeks later Mama is working overtime and I go to Min’s, eager to see what she thought of my translation work.

  “Na!” Min says as she opens the door. “You’ve been sprung!”

  “Yes, Mama’s working late,” I say with a twinge of guilt. Mama raised her hand for the shift when the foreman asked for overtime volunteers this afternoon. I begged her to go home and tried to pull her arm down before the foreman spotted her, but she said we needed the money. I told her I would do the shift, but she absolutely refused to let me take it over.

  Of course I didn’t want to work overtime. The day was already brutally long, and my muscles were strained, and I felt like I could practically taste rust on my tongue. I was glad to go home, but I hate that she’s working so hard.

  “I’m just on my way out,” Min says. “I’m going to look at a space for my studio. Do you want to come with me?”

  “Sure! But I thought your studio was going to be in Beijing.”

  “Yes, well, that was the dream, but rent there is about six times as much as Taiyuan. Even here, I thought maybe I could buy something, but the prices are just too high.” She grabs her bag and keys and steps out into the hall. “Ma and Ba always said they were saving to help me buy an apartment, but that’s only if I get married. I may have to settle for renting a space here.” Her shoulders hike up in a shrug. “I can do well in Taiyuan. I have contacts here.”

  She starts to lock the door but says, “Oh wait. I have a book for you.”

  When she opens the door again and switches the light back on, my eyes fall on two books lying on her desk. One is You Should Marry Before You’re Thirty, the one I saw her ma thrust on her. The other is Don’t Marry Before You’re Thirty.

  I wait to see which one she reaches for, but she ignores both of them and reaches up to the shelf above the desk and grabs another book. Back in the hall, she shoves it at me and locks the door. “We have to hurry or I’ll be late for the real estate agent.”

  We speed down the dingy hallway and up to the lobby. “We have to take a Didi Chuxing, though it isn’t too far. I’ve already ordered it,” Min says, and we run across the courtyard to the street, where a car is flashing lights.

  Once we’re in the car, submerged in cool drafts from the air conditioning, Min gives the driver the address, and I read the title of the book she handed to me. Jane Eyre.

  “We read it in college.” Min settles back in the seat as the car dips into traffic. The driver turns up the music, a slow song I recognize called “Breeze Rain.”

  “I’ve read it too,” I say. “At least an abridged version.”

  “Well, keep it. This one’s the full bilingual edition.” She reaches across, flips the book in my hand, and shows me the English side. “I was supposed to read it in English, but that took too long because the story was so good. I couldn’t help racing through it, in Chinese.”

  “Really!” I say. “I’m surprised you like such a romantic story. You don’t seem very sentimental.”

  Min laughs as if she agrees. “Well, it’s more than just a romance! When was the last time you read it? You should have another look. There’s the part when Jane might marry her friend the missionary. Maybe you’ll find it helpful for your situation.”

  I vaguely remember St. John, whom Jane loved only as a brother. He wanted her to marry him so they could be of service as a missionary couple. Is that Gilbert and me?

  Min rattles on, “Jane always insists on doing her own thing. Having her freedom. My grandfather had a forbidden copy during the Cultural Revolution. Jane was revered as a hero to the repressed because she was an orphan with a hard upbringing. And even though she was very good, she would stand up to the unfair authority figures in her life and always hold her ground. We talked about that in class. A feminist heroine. Though of course in the end she marries Mr. Rochester.”

  I look down at the book, fingering the worn cover. I can’t help but get the impression that Min is telling me that I shouldn’t get married, that I should struggle more to pursue my dreams, but I don’t really know what those are specifically. “Yes, because she was passionately in love him, and she wanted to marry him.”

  My mind veers to the heated kiss between Min and Wei. I fidget, once again aware of how nothing like that has happened between Gilbert and me, how we’ve actually spent very little time together.

  Min sees that I’m bothered. “What’s the matter?” she asks.

  “Nothing.” I’m too embarrassed to explain my confusion about Gilbert, that in some ways it seems I still don’t know him all that well, that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m conventional and unambitious, and if I’ve ever had any spirit or courage like Jane, I’ve always kept it pent up inside. I smile stiffly.

  “Oh Na. It’s just a book. I know you like to read, and isn’t the true value of a book whatever you take from it—your own interpretation?”

  I nod, easing my smile into a real one before I turn to look out the window. Of course she doesn’t mean to make judgments. It’s me who is always expecting them.

  The car turns down a side street and draws up to the curb. The neighborhood is nondescript, white tile and brick buildings of five or six stories with laundry hanging in the open windows. Not the glossy new neighborhood I imagined Min would seek out.

  The agent is waiting for us on the sidewalk outside a small storefront with an awning and papered-over windows. The building is flanked by a small convenience store on one side and a stall shop on the other. My eyes are drawn to the stall’s plastic shoes and slippers, in every color imaginable, lined up on the floor, on tables, and even on the walls. These are the only places that seem to be open, their light spilling out onto the sidewalk while the rest of the narrow street is dark.

  We go inside. The agent flips on the long fluorescent tubes that run high along one wall. I walk around while Min chats with him about rates, fees, and utilities. The space is longer than it is wide, but still small, probably not much bigger than the convenience store. The ceiling plaster is cracked, and the once-white walls are dingy and yellowed. Aside from a dust-layered wooden counter near the door, the space is empty.

  When the agent goes outside to smoke, Min says, “Everything costs so much! This place isn’t even really in the district I want to be in, and it’s even more than I expected!” She heaves out a frustrated sigh. “I could probably afford it, but maybe it’s better to save up some more.”

  Unable to offer any advice, I give her a sympathetic look.

  She goes to the window and flicks aside the paper to peer outside. “I’m pretty sure it’s northern light, which makes it easier to control the lighting here inside. I could put a backdrop screen and studio lights here by the window. At the back I’d have room for a big worktable, and shelves to store equipment.”

  As she stalks around the room gesturing to different spots, I picture her adjusting the lights, pointing her camera, signaling to her subject to move this way or that. “I can imagine it just the way you describe. You should do it, Min. You said you’ve been planning on this for years.”

  “The space itself is pretty good. But I don’t know.” She goes around once more, looking the space over again. “He wants six months’ rent at once. I’d better keep looking.”

  We go outside and she tells the agent she’s going to hold off on taking th
e space. After he’s locked up the building and leaves, we walk slowly back to the busy avenue that leads toward our district. Min is very quiet, deep in thought, her gaze shifting from the pavement beneath her feet to the storefronts and signs. Everything is lit up, making the night almost as bright as day. I imagine she’s still mulling over her decision. She must be sharply frustrated to be so close to realizing her dream and still have fallen short, but it seems to me she has the boundless ability to conjure up whatever she desires.

  I glance at her, ready to tell her how much I admire how much she’s already accomplished—breaking from a conventional life, resisting her parents’ influence, creating art exhibits, and deftly conversing with real estate agents about leases, but she abruptly quickens her pace and heads toward a vendor selling kebabs at the next corner.

  “How many do you want?” she asks me.

  I put up two fingers, and the vendor hands the skewered meat to me over the grill of her cart. I dig into my pocket for money and start to hand it to the vendor, but Min slaps my hand. “Put your money away!”

  “No, no! Let me get it!” I slip my bill past her arm. “You have your studio to worry about.” She makes an exasperated noise and we squabble for a few moments, both of us thrusting money at the vendor, who watches us with a bored expression. She finally snatches Min’s bills.

  “I just thought of something,” Min says as we stand on the sidewalk nibbling at the kebabs. Pedestrians skirt around us. “A friend of mine from university studied in the US, and now she has a company for students in foreign countries to learn Chinese online. You know, like the internet English classes Bao-bao used to take, only these classes connect you with a native speaker.”

  “Sure.” I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to go on.

  She polishes off her kebab and tosses the skewer into the street. “Her classes focus on simple conversation for travelers and students wanting conversation practice. Maybe she could use another tutor.”

  “Are you looking for more work so you can afford the studio?” I ask.

  “Not me! You.” She laughs and shakes her head. “Forget about the studio. You said you were interested in English. The translations you did were very good by the way. That really helped me out. I could introduce you to my friend. Give you a recommendation.”

  My eyes widen. I’m pleased by her praise, but the thought of interviewing, of teaching, is unexpected. “But I don’t have a teaching degree.”

  “I don’t think that matters,” Min says. “If I remember, she said her courses are different because they provide mostly simple Chinese conversation to help people practice speaking. All the lesson plans are already made—different situations like eating out, asking for directions, basic social conversations.”

  “Well, that seems easy enough, but how does that relate to English? I’d be teaching Chinese.”

  “Students in the US aren’t as disciplined as students here, and you’d probably get to use your English to explain things.”

  “I like the idea, but I already have a job. I can’t give it up and take the risk that this wouldn’t work out.”

  “No, I didn’t mean quit your job. Because of the time difference you could teach some after your shift. Do it as side work.”

  “Hmm.” I give a half-smile, uncertain.

  “Let’s duck into a café and WeChat her before we get back home,” Min says as she starts walking.

  I trip after her, feeling a stirring in my chest. I’m self-conscious about my spoken English. I can’t envision myself teaching, speaking to people on the other side of the world, but she makes it sound so easy, so practical, that I can’t help wondering if it’s actually possible.

  21

  Before I know it, I’ve done the WeChat interview and have gotten hired on to teach one student a day, starting next week. On Sunday, I tell Mama.

  She’s squatting next to the laundry, searching for a clean shirt, but her head pivots in my direction.

  “What’s this? Teaching? What do you know about teaching?”

  “It’s just saying what’s written in the lesson plan, Mama. The foreign students practice speaking Chinese, and they hear the language from a native speaker. I don’t need any special training.”

  She tucks her chin back against her neck, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Talking with foreigners online. It doesn’t sound safe. They may be trying to trick or defraud you!”

  “No, Mama. It’s a legitimate company!”

  “Where did you hear about this job?” She stands up, a shirt gripped in her hand.

  I knew she was going to ask this, and I have a small lie prepared. “A school friend told me about it. Her friend owns the company.” If I had just said friend instead of school friend, Mama would have demanded to know more.

  “How much does it pay?”

  When I tell her she frowns. “It isn’t worth it. You can make more doing overtime at the plant.”

  It’s true, the money is a pittance and teaching only five hours a week won’t amount to much. “But I want to do it. It won’t interfere with my work at the plant, since my teaching hour will be early in the morning before my shift.” I leave out the fact that I’ll have to go to the internet café and hope she doesn’t ask. “I’m just going to try it out,” I ramble on, trying to dodge more questions, “and the work will probably dry up in the fall when the young students go back to school.”

  A glaze comes over her face and she turns away to put her shirt on. I wish I could take back that last piece about students going back to school. I have to remember how everything reminds her of Bao-bao.

  “Mama, I’m going to call Gilbert and tell him about it.”

  Hearing Gilbert’s name brings her focus back to me, and her head bobs automatically in agreement.

  I’d rather go outside for privacy, but Mama is always pleased to hear me talk to Gilbert. I ring him up and he answers.

  “Hi.” I smile into the phone and glance at Mama. She’s watching me out of the corner of her eye, and I see her dimple up as she dumps the laundry on the bed and starts folding it.

  “What are you doing?” I say to Gilbert.

  “I’m in Changyu Township waiting for a friend.”

  “Guo-Rong?”

  “Yes. Changyu Township is halfway for us. We’ve met up a couple of times to talk about old times,” he says.

  I grin, since the “old times” of college days were just over a month ago. I know how he misses his life in Linfen, same as I do.

  “It’s been great having someone young here to talk to,” he says.

  It’s wretched that he’s stuck out in the countryside. Next year I’ll be back there as well. A knot tightens in the pit of my stomach as I see myself working in the fields, taking care of Baba and the grandparents

  I remind myself how Gilbert said he’s determined to work his way back to the city. And until then he’ll be home every evening, rushing in to sit between his grandparents and me for dinner, and afterward we’ll take walks or watch TV together. It won’t be too stifling.

  I tell him about the language class I’ll be teaching, but my mind is racing ahead wondering if I can keep teaching once I’m back in Willow Tree.

  “That’s great!” Gilbert says with the enthusiasm I was hoping for. He’s happy for me, and when he doesn’t ask how much I’ll be making, I know he understands that I’m not doing it just for the money.

  “Yes, it is great, isn’t it?” I echo his word, making sure Mama hears so she understands that Gilbert more than approves. “I’m just on a trial to start,” I add, “but if I get good ratings, I might be given more students in the evening or on my day off. I’ll have mainly kids. Right now she mostly needs someone to do the early morning slots when it’s the afternoon in America.”

  “I remember how much you used to love your English class—maybe you’ll sneak in some practice, huh? Listen, I’m really happy for you, but here’s Guo-Rong. I have to go. I’ll text you later.”

  “Okay, bye,”
I say brightly, although he’s already clicked off. I turn to Mama to make sure she’s been listening. Her back is to me again, but I know she heard every excited word I said.

  ***

  The morning of my first lesson, I wake at 3:45 to the low hum of my phone alarm under my pillow. I slip out of bed, grope for my clothes where I laid them last night, and dress as quietly as I can, careful not to wake Mama. She only tosses a bit as I open the door, and I’m outside before 4:00 a.m.

  The city air glows a yellow-orange from lights of buildings, signs, and streetlamps cutting through the smog. The courtyard and streets are desolate and quiet, with only the occasional rumble and thump of a vehicle hitting a pothole. The internet café is just a ten-minute walk, and I’m not due to get online until 4:30, but I want to give myself plenty of time.

  I’ve only passed two other apartment complexes when I hear someone call out, “Where are you going this time of night?”

  I jump, nearly startled out of my skin, and wildly search for the voice. A thickset silhouette appears in the narrow backlit alley between two of the high rises.

  “It’s me—Mrs. Hu! Isn’t that Na?” She takes several steps into a pool of light in the building’s ungated courtyard, dragging a large bag of recyclables, the scrape of it echoing off the concrete.

  I blow out a breath. “Yes! You scared me!” I venture into the courtyard. Her cart is in the shadows, and back at the far end of the alley, I can see Mr. Hu, picking through the bins.

  “What are you doing out now? It’s not even—” Mrs. Hu checks her watch—“four in the morning!”

  “I’m going to work.” I grin, hearing the note of pride in my own voice.

  “Aren’t you working at the scrap plant with your mama?”

  “I am, but I have a side job teaching English. I’m going to the internet café.”

  “English! Really!” Her mouth curls up, briefly impressed, before it rearranges into a frown. “Are you sure you’re not going there to play video games?”