by Jennie Liu
I make a face.
“I suppose not.” She swipes at some gnats buzzing near her face. “That’s a boys’ thing, eh? Good. That would be the death of your mama and baba.” All the humor fades from her ruddy face. “How are they doing?”
My impulse is to say they’re fine, but I don’t have the heart to lie—or the energy to tell the truth. So instead I ask, “Mrs. Hu, about Baba, has he . . . how long has he been drinking?”
Mrs. Hu sighs heavily, stalks over to her cart and sets the bag on top.
I watch her twist the top of the bag for a moment, but since she seems reluctant to say anything, I step closer and press on. “Is it all since Bao-bao died?”
She dips her head in a curt yes as she compresses the bag down, then lifts up the handles of her cart, readying to leave.
I put my hand on her arm to stop her. “I heard he wasn’t doing well in school. Please tell me. How long has Bao-bao been—disappointing them?”
She heaves another sigh and gives me a long look before answering. “In his eleventh year, his grades started slipping. Your mama doubled her effort, got him extra tutoring. You know that’s why they moved into the apartment next door to me, to save money. She first wanted to send him to a cram boarding school in Jinzhou. It costs almost three thousand yuan a month!”
My mouth falls open at the price. That’s probably close to Mama’s income. “How could they have even considered that?”
“They were counting on him for their future. A child is a parent’s biggest investment.” Mrs. Hu sighs and begins to pull her cart.
I put my hand on the bags to steady them and help her push the cart. The tires squeak loudly in the still night. “But why didn’t they end up sending him there?”
“He talked them out of it. He said the expense would really hurt them. They would’ve had to take you out of your school. He said it wouldn’t be fair to you.”
My feet stop, and my hand slides off the pile, causing one of the bags to tumble off and spill several cans. I bend to pick everything up.
Bao-bao stood up for me? I never knew he thought about me at all, much less worried about my well-being and my future.
I feel Mrs. Hu’s eyes on me I place the bag back on the cart, trying to find my tongue.
“So, they didn’t make him go?” I ask.
“Your mama said he promised to bring his grades up on his own. He did, for a little while, but this last term, your mama found out he was skipping classes and lying to her about his rankings.” Her voice is soft. “So many arguments. I could hear them through the wall. Mostly your baba, but your mama too, trying to reason with Bao-bao. Your baba had always liked to drink a couple of beers, a little baijiu, but these arguments with Bao-bao really”—she pauses—“affected him.”
“Drinking more?”
“Yes. More and more, but nothing like what you saw when you got here. That started after the accident. That was the worst he’s been. Has he been doing better since going home?”
I nod, though I’m not really sure. It’s hard to tell from our brief phone calls. I’ll have to remember to ask Gilbert to check on him when he has time.
“They put so much on that boy. But what else could they do?” Mrs. Hu brushes again at the gnats around our heads and looks down the empty street, where light pools from the streetlamps. Her lined face is drawn in the shadows. “It’s the only way we know how to help them.”
She’s remembering her own dead son, I realize. My heart clenches, knowing that she has no one to take care of her and Mr. Hu in their old age.
“Na.” Mrs. Hu’s voice is low and choked. “No matter what you hear, your parents were just trying to help him the only way they knew how.” Before I can think of a response, she grabs the handles of her cart again and pushes it down the alley toward Mr. Hu.
I leave too, hearing the distant clank of aluminum and the skitter of plastic as Mr. Hu tosses his found recyclables on the pavement.
No matter what you hear, your parents were just trying to help him. What did she mean by that? What more is there to hear?
22
After a few sessions of early morning teaching, I’m opening my eyes even before my alarm goes off. Each day, I slip out of the apartment, eagerly burst out into the street, and rush to the internet café, where even at 4:30 in the morning, at least half a dozen guys are glued to the monitors playing video games. Whenever I see them click-click-clicking, drinking Redbull, and eating spiced corned pig hooves, I can’t help but imagine Bao-bao among them.
But I hurry to my station and quickly get immersed in my lesson. I’m filled with wonder that I’m talking with—no, teaching—a person on the other side of the world!
So far, all the students have been age nine and younger. Like Min predicted, I get to use my English because they often fall into their own language. And when they get restless, I speak to them in English, even making horrible mistakes on purpose so they can correct me. They really like that, and after they have a fit of laughing at me, I can steer them back to the Chinese.
The teaching job helps my time at the sorting facility go faster. All day, as I chuck metal into bins next to Mama, I run the lessons in my mind and invent ways to keep the students engaged.
Near the end of my second week, I’m surprised to see a high school guy on the screen when I connect.
“Ni hao?” I greet him.
He answers with surprisingly good tonal inflection. I introduce myself and ask him if he’s eaten.
“My name is Ben,” he answers. “Yes, I’ve eaten.” He’s not puzzled by the common greeting the way the younger kids have been.
“Your Chinese is very good,” I tell him. “How much have you studied?”
“Four years so far. My teacher said I should try to . . . talk more before I go to China.”
I tell him the word for conversation and ask about his plans to visit China. It takes a while to understand that he’s going into his third year of high school and plans to study in China for eight weeks next summer. He’s easily the most advanced student I’ve had, and rather than using the planned “ordering a meal” lesson, I ask him to tell me about himself.
He manages to tell me that he’s sixteen, has a younger brother, and is half Chinese. His hair is dark brown and I only see a hint of his Chinese background in the shape of his eyes. I pepper him with more simple questions, his brother’s name, what his parents do, what he likes to do outside of school. He plays guitar, soccer, and Fortnite, and hangs out with his friends. I suggest that he ask me questions.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asks.
“One brother,” I answer, but instantly remember that I don’t have one anymore.
“What’s his name?”
I swallow. It would be too difficult to explain, so I just say, “Bao-bao.”
“How old is he?”
“Seventeen.” I grope for another question to change the subject.
Luckily, Ben does it for me. “What do you do for fun?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. I’m not sure I like the casual conversation technique anymore, and the idea of going back to the suggested lesson crosses my mind, but I answer, “Well, I teach Chinese. I spend time with family. I go to college. I like to read. With friends I sing karaoke, play arcade games, take walks in the park.”
There’s no reason to tell him that I don’t have much fun these days. He wouldn’t understand if I told him the truth of my life. He seems so carefree, though he’s just one year younger than Bao-bao.
“What are you studying?”
“Uh, English language,” I lie again.
“Oh!” His face lights up and he switches to English. “What will you do with your degree?”
“I will teach,” I answer in English.
“Nice!” He asks questions about my college. I make up all the answers, and soon I don’t feel bad about lying. It’s fun and we get caught up in the conversation, taking turns asking questions, switching between C
hinese and English, helping each other find words.
Before I know it, Ben says his mother is calling him to dinner. The time in the corner of the screen shows 5:53. We’ve run over and I’m late. We sign off with a hurried goodbye. I pay up for the extra time that I’ve spent on the internet, rush out the door and check my phone, which I always turn off during a lesson.
Mama has texted me four times, each message more panicked. I start to run, dodging the other early risers who are now beginning to fill the sidewalks. The streetlights are still on, giving the gray dawn light a yellowish cast, the heat already rising from the pavement. Traffic isn’t heavy, but plenty of cars and bikes weave in their lanes.
I’m halfway home when I see Mama ahead on the sidewalk.
Her face is white, wracked with anxiety, and I know she’s looking for me. I streak toward her, and when she spots me, her expression transforms with utter relief. She grips my arms, and her eyes close for just a second, before they fly open and her face changes once again.
“Where have you been?!” Her fingers dig into my arms and vibrate with her anger. “What have you been doing?!”
“Teaching, Mama! I’m sorry, I lost track of the time.” My voice is high-pitched and strained as I apologize. I hate that I made her worry, but I’m taken aback by her fury and suspicion.
“It’s already past six! I didn’t know where you were!” She looks at me accusingly. “I didn’t think this was a good idea. You shouldn’t be running around the city in the middle of the night.” Her mouth opens and closes as if she wants to say more but she holds back.
“It’s not the middle of night! It’s morning, Mama!” I throw my arm out, gesturing to the traffic and people on the sidewalk. “It won’t happen again. I’ll set a timer next time. It was just such a good lesson. They gave me an older student today, more serious.”
Mama’s nostrils flare and her mouth closes up. It’s clear that she doesn’t want to hear any more. “We have to go right now to get the bus! You don’t have time to eat, now!”
She lets go of me and storms off. I follow her. We pass our building and make it to the stop a few minutes before the bus arrives. Mama doesn’t speak to me. I’m glad, because I’m annoyed by her overreaction, frustrated that I can’t point it out. I breathe in and out heavily, trying to calm myself down.
Only after we slide into our seats and the bus is humming on the highway do I venture to apologize again. Mama faces the window, but she twists around briefly and gives a short nod to show that she’s heard me.
“But Mama,” I add, hating the tension between us, “the lesson was very productive. I think I helped the student very much. And when they give you older students, it means your ratings are good.” I’m playing on her aspiration to see her children score well and it seems to work; the lines between her brows begin to ease. “The student was in high school, and he could carry a simple conversation. It was so much easier teaching him than the little ones. He was so serious about learning.” I don’t mention that he was fun to talk with. “And I got to use my English much more. My hope is that I’ll keep getting more of the older students.”
Although Mama doesn’t make eye contact, I know she’s listening. She no longer looks mad, but she doesn’t smile either. She reaches into her bag, pulls out a cold steamed bun wrapped in paper, and hands it to me. I eat it while she goes back to staring out the window at the low-lying buildings and flat stretches of scrub on the outskirts of the city. When I’m done with the bun, I crumple the paper. She takes it from me and stuffs it back into her bag.
“We get paid next week,” she says. “We’ll pay Mrs. Hu with yours, and then we’ll travel to Willow Tree for a few days. We can check on Ba and you can spend some time with Gilbert.”
My mind gallops in different directions. I’ll be happy to see Gilbert, and Baba too, though my stomach twists with anxiety over his condition. But I also wonder if the village’s internet café will be open early enough for me to work with my students. “How many days?” I ask.
“Four.”
“But will the boss allow it? I’ll have only worked one month.”
“If we promise to work one or two weeks overtime when we get back, I’m sure he’ll agree.”
My heart sinks. I’ve been going to bed as early as eight or nine every night. If I do overtime I won’t get home until close to midnight. How will I be able to drag myself up at 3:45 in the mornings?
“He won’t refuse,” Ma snaps. “I want to do a tree burial for Bao-bao. He can’t say no to that.”
A tree burial. No, I suppose a person can’t say no to that.
23
On the bus to Willow Tree Mama holds a stiff paper bag protectively in her lap, much like Baba held Bao-bao’s urn. Inside the bag lies a white biodegradable urn box made of mulberry bark.
Mama ordered it online and showed it to me the other day when it arrived. She traced the embossed swirl pattern with her finger as she explained that cremations and tree burials are being encouraged by the government to make funerals more frugal and green—though really it’s because cities are running out of space for cemeteries and memorial parks due to new construction that requires all the land. Even though it may not be traditional for parents to bury their son, Mama said that since the government is moving away from tradition, we can too.
I say out loud that I’m glad that we’re doing this. Inside, I’m hoping that burying Bao-bao’s ashes will give her a little more consolation. And Baba too.
“Mama, do you think that Baba will come back to Taiyuan with us?” I ask. Gilbert has reported that when he’s seen Baba, he seems to be doing better.
“I don’t know.”
“It would be better for him to have something to do,” I say. “To go back to work.” I know it’s helped her, although I don’t say that.
“We’ll see.”
“If only he had something to do.” I want her to encourage him to try, because it’s not my place to do so. “It would help him to”—I almost say forget, but I know that’s the wrong word—“get better.”
“Maybe he’ll stay in the village and help Nainai with the crops,” Mama says flatly. She turns to the window.
I purse my lips doubtfully. He hasn’t been doing anything so far, and I’m beginning to believe that Mama doesn’t particularly care. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want him to come back.
“Mama, how did you and Baba meet?” The question comes out of nowhere, but it suddenly strikes me that I really know so little about them.
“In Taiyuan. Working in a toy factory.” She throws the answer over her shoulder, keeping her face at the window.
“Well, how did you decide to get married?”
She shrugs. “We met. We were both country people working in the city. That’s it.”
“But what about love?”
“Love is for teenagers, marriage is practical. We liked each other enough to get married. Twenty-two years ago.” Her gaze falls to the bag in her lap and she shakes her head slowly, as if in disbelief that so much time has passed. “We had you, and since you were a girl, we were allowed to try again. Then we had your brother. It turned out lucky for us.” She sighs heavily. “For a while.”
Her eyes move back to the dusty landscape and scrubs flying by, and I leave her alone.
Half an hour later, the bus pulls into the station of a small town. Mama and I stay put as a few people get off and others board. As we wait, Mama nudges me and points to a mural being painted on a white tiled building across the street.
GET MARRIED EARLY AND HAVE CHILDREN OF BETTER QUALITY! The slogan is painted in bold red above the oversized profiles of a married couple looking at each other. An open hand rests between their faces, holding two miniature children, a boy and a girl, who stand stalwartly against the backdrop of a rising sun.
I wrinkle my nose, but Mama smiles with amusement. “I wasn’t sure at first about you getting married so soon, but more and more, I realize it’s a good opportunity. A lot of gir
ls now go for so much education and career that they become too picky. They think they can wait until later to marry, but then it might be too late.”
She’s parroting everything that the government wants us to believe, according to Min, and I wince to hear it come out of her mouth.
“If the government is relaxing the birth policy, it does make sense to get started earlier with the children.” Mama smiles slyly. “Maybe in a few more years, the two-child policy will change to no policy at all, and you can have as many children as you want.”
My face freezes. The realization that I might be pregnant this time next year hits me. And in less than two years there might be a child in my arms. A nervous patter begins in my chest, and I can only think to say, “But Mama, it’s too expensive to have children!”
Mama nodded. “I know, I know. It’s true. But don’t worry about it.” She strokes my arm and rests her hand on top of mine. “A grandchild would make all the difference to us. Your baba and I would feel like we’ve achieved something. We’ll have done our duty.”
Her small hand is light, though the palm is rough from work despite all the thick cream she slathers on every evening before bed. I’m not used to her touch, but I don’t pull away.
***
Gilbert meets us at the bus station. We’re self-conscious around each other because Mama is there. We only grin at each other at first. Mama clasps Gilbert’s arm as she greets him. Once she moves to walk ahead of us—obviously trying to give us privacy—Gilbert briefly squeezes my hand before he picks up our bags.
“Your ba wants to do the burial this afternoon,” he tells me as we start for the house. “He and I have already dug the hole.”
“Thanks for helping him. I’m so glad you’ve been here!” He really has been so helpful, checking in on Baba even though he’s been busy with work. Just knowing he’s here has lessened the worry. “Who’s going to be at the funeral?”
“Just your family.” He hesitates and studies me uneasily before going on. “Because of the sad ending, it has to be just family and all done quietly.”
