Like Spilled Water

by Jennie Liu

  “It ended early,” Gilbert says. His eyes are unnaturally rounded.

  I shake my head slowly. “Please don’t.”

  He drops down to the bed, his hands covering his face. His shirt gapes open at the collar where the top three buttons haven’t been fastened. Your smooth chest against mine.

  I’m waiting for him to tell me, but already I know. I spin on my heel and bolt out of the room.

  26

  The bus home won’t leave for another hour, and I don’t want to run into Gilbert or Guo-Rong at the station. There’s a small restaurant a few doors away, so I slink in and take a seat in the back of the room. The other diners, two old men, are already eating so the waitress comes to me right away and asks me what I want. I order a Coke, and when she brings it, I take a sip and the warm liquid fizzes down my throat. She hovers over me waiting for me to order food. I ask for a bowl of noodles though I can’t possibly eat anything.

  When the waitress goes back to the kitchen I close my eyes and listen to the noise of chopping, the men talking, the clinking of their chopsticks against their bowls. I try not to think, not to let the reality seep into my brain. But the truth is screaming at me.

  Gilbert is gay. He and Guo-Rong are gay . . . together.

  I shudder, not even understanding what that really means. I’ve never known anyone who was gay. I’ve heard mention of it in episodes of some American shows and movies, and a few sly allusions to it in college, but here in the countryside, it’s unspeakable—considered unnatural, maybe even a mental disorder. Images of the two of them together flicker through my mind: rumpled beds, bare chests, kissing. I shut my eyes hard trying to drive them out of my head.

  And Gilbert tried to trick me into marrying him! The sudden realization hits me. I’ve been a fool. I am such a fool.

  My ears burn with humiliation, and my fists are clenched on Jane Eyre in my lap. Somehow the book wasn’t lost when I fled the hotel. The irony is glaring. Horrible secrets. Deceit. I should have nicknamed Gilbert Mr. Rochester. Only Gilbert doesn’t love me like Mr. Rochester loved Jane. He isn’t desperate to marry me despite the secret he has locked up. He wanted to marry me specifically to keep his secret hidden away.

  And I almost fell for it. Another wave of humiliation courses over me.

  I curse Gilbert with every dirty name I’ve ever heard. Angry tears are just below the surface, and I fight to keep them from seeping out.

  The noodles arrive. I keep my head bent so the waitress can’t see my face, but she stands there with a hand on her hip. I pick up my chopsticks and bring some noodles to my mouth, chewing, chewing, until she’s satisfied that I’m eating and goes away. The noodles are slippery in my mouth, salty as tears. I force myself to swallow them.

  I check the time on my phone. I’m desperate to be on the bus, to leave, though it suddenly occurs to me that Gilbert will probably be riding home on the same bus. And when I get home, I’ll have to tell my parents and Nainai . . . something. What can I possibly say?

  The metal bell hanging on the door handle chimes. I see Gilbert peer in and spot me right away. He comes inside, crossing over to my table. My seat scrapes back as I jump up, ready to run out.

  He catches my arm before I can move around the table. “Na, please wait.”

  I jerk my arm back. Jane Eyre flies out of my hand and hits the floor.

  “Please, Na,” he whispers and glances around the room. The two old men are twisting around to look our way, and the waitress stands in the kitchen doorway craning her neck to listen.

  I glare at her until she returns to the kitchen. After a moment I sit back down. Gilbert picks up my book and sets it on the table before taking the chair beside me and dropping his overnight bag. I can’t even look at him.

  “Na.” He leans in to keep his voice low. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  The fury inside me is boiling. I want to grab the Coke and fling it at his head. Another stream of curses runs through my mind, but I hold back. He doesn’t deserve my breath.

  “Please. I’m sorry I brought you into this,” he says. “I thought it would help both of us.”

  “What do you mean?” I demand, further enraged by that excuse. “How were you helping me? You wanted to use me to cover your—”

  “Shhh!” Gilbert glances around and tensely smiles at the men who are looking our way again.

  One of them mutters, “Lovers’ quarrel,” before the clattering of their chopsticks resumes.

  “You—well, your family, I mean . . . Yes, it’s true, I deceived you.” He brings his arms onto the table and leans forward again. “But your family was in such a bad situation. My ma and my nainai always had it in their minds that maybe we would get married. They teased me about it. Both of us. You remember! And you know how everyone worries about their son not being able to find a wife, especially if you’re from the countryside.”

  His words are measured, reasonable, but with a pleading undercurrent.

  “When your brother died, Nainai thought it would be a good time to propose. She and my parents are so afraid I won’t be able to find a wife since I’ve gotten stuck with a job out here. And she said marriage might help your family since your brother . . . had such a sad ending.”

  “You mean everyone considers my family cursed, so no one else will marry me?” I hiss.

  “You and I both know that it’s shit. But my family kept pressing me. Na, I’ve always liked you. We’ve always gotten along. I thought . . . both our parents would get what they wanted. Your nainai and your parents were really suffering, and you’ve said yourself how they’ve come out of it some since I proposed. I didn’t think it through. I should’ve told you the whole truth, asked you differently. But you can’t imagine how it is to be . . . like this.” He plops back against his chair and folds his arms across his body.

  In spite of myself, I feel a tiny speck of sympathy for him. I know in my bones what’s expected of a son, a singleton, the kind of pressure put on him to achieve, marry, have a child. Being gay would never be acceptable for Gilbert. But that’s no excuse for how he’s treated me. “What about me? I would have been a gay wife!”

  “I would have tried to be a good husband. I can’t change who I’m attracted to, but that doesn’t mean I can’t . . .” Gilbert hesitates and swallows nervously. “What I’m trying to say is—we still could’ve had a baby.”

  I shrink back, bewildered that he's still pushing for marriage.

  “That look on your face.” Gilbert draws away further and slumps back in his chair, disappointed. “I thought about telling you before I suggested we get married, but that look on your face, that’s why I didn’t. You can’t possibly understand. I don’t choose to be like this!”

  He’s trying to turn it on me. “But you tried to trick me! If I married you then I would’ve given up my chance to have a real husband.”

  “You’re working in that plant! Who are you going to meet there? A laborer? With your brother gone and with all the propaganda the government puts out, your parents would have been pressuring you to marry soon anyway. But you’re only just about to turn twenty. We could marry for a few years, have a child, then get a divorce. You’d still be young enough to get married again.”

  I shake my head, more from instinct than because I’m actually absorbing what he’s suggesting.

  “It would work, Na. All our parents care about is getting a grandchild. How many times do you hear Of the three major violations of filial piety, not producing a successor is the greatest? I’m so sick of that talk!” His eyes roll as his hands rake through his hair.

  Of course I’ve heard that saying. It’s still practically Confucius’s most popular line. But I bite my lips, refusing to concede to anything he has to say.

  “If we had a kid, you would’ve done your duty. And if we divorced, our parents would get over it because it’s gotten so common now. Then you can take your time finding the right person to marry again.”

  He hunches forward a
nd says more softly, “I still think it’s a good idea for us to get married, despite . . . everything. People do it. It’s called a mutual help marriage.” He reaches for my hand.

  I try to pull away, but he holds on. “Na, listen. Your parents have taken you out of school! You’re working in that awful plant when you’re way too smart for that. Maybe you’ll meet someone in a better position who wants you for a nice, submissive wife, mother, and daughter-in-law. Is that what you want? I know I’m not a great prize for you, and you can probably find a better husband, but I promise I’ll help you somehow. You want to go back to school, right? I promise I’ll figure something out. I’m not going to stay out here in the countryside forever, but while we’re here, you can study for the gaokao.”

  My pulse skips a beat.

  “We’ll eventually move to a city, and I don’t mean just Taiyuan, but a first-tier city like Beijing or Shanghai, or wherever you get accepted to college. You’ll study English, get a degree, like you’ve always wanted.”

  I don’t remember ever telling Gilbert that I wanted to study English at college. Hearing him mention it as if it’s the most natural thing in the world makes me want to cry.

  “Out here all anyone cares about is that you get married and have a kid. It’ll be different in the city.” He releases my hand and picks at the strip of vinyl that wraps the table’s edge.

  “And what about Guo-Rong?” I say it accusingly. I’m not ready to stop being angry.

  He colors again and shifts his eyes away before they jump back to me. “I won’t see him anymore. I’ll put that all aside while we’re married. We’ll give our parents a child. They’ll be happy. And we’ll be happy in the city. Please just think about it.”

  Despite myself, I can feel my anger cooling. Gilbert’s pleading and rationalizations have calmed me down, but I don’t want him to know it. I keep tight-lipped. He asks if I’m going to eat the noodles, and I flick my hand at him to take them.

  When he’s done eating, we go to the bus station and board the bus. I don’t sit with him, but choose the empty seat across the aisle. He smiles at me sadly and twists to rest his head on the plate window, staring up at the sky. He looks lost and miserable.

  That prick of sympathy is back. It was horrible of him to deceive me, but I can understand why he was afraid to tell me the truth. And I suppose he really can’t help being gay.

  Gay! I'm still stunned. My mind is in turmoil. I feel so stupid and ignorant, and I want to cover those feelings with outrage. And yet . . . I think about how he stuck up for me so I could go to school. The copy of Anne of Green Gables he gave me. All our long bus rides over the years. He’s still the kind and thoughtful Gilbert I’ve known all my life.

  I glance over to him again, the back of his head to me. All those long bus rides, and he couldn’t even tell me.

  Probably because he knew how I’d react. Maybe I’m no different than our neighbors who’ve judged us and shunned us in the wake of Bao-bao’s death. Afraid of what I can’t explain, what I’ve been raised to fear.

  I don’t know. It’s all too fresh to sort out. But I do believe that Gilbert didn’t choose to be gay, and that he wants to do the right thing.

  He thinks that I can’t understand, but on some level I do. At least the part about obligations to the family. Of all behavior, filial piety comes first. The thought of telling my parents that the marriage is off fills me with dread.

  My mind drifts to what Gilbert said about mutual help. I consider what marrying Gilbert offers me beyond satisfying—no, pleasing—my parents.

  Could it really be possible for me to take the gaokao? Go to college as an English major? Could I trust Gilbert to help me and make it all work out?

  Could I bear to wait on him to advance and move us to the city, depend on him for my turn to do something?

  I look at him again from the sides of my eyes. His head is bent forward now. He looks grim, with his jaw clenched. My chest is suddenly achy as I realize he never loved me, and won’t ever love me as a woman. I’m not sure any amount of security, any kind of potential for a brighter future, will compensate for that.

  27

  Willow Tree is sleepy with the heat of the afternoon. The shops are mostly shuttered, and even the children who are out seem to hover in the shade of the buildings and alleys while they listlessly scratch at the ground with sticks. Gilbert and I, several feet between us, plod down the main street and through the twisty lanes in the direction of our homes. I’m thick-headed, moving like a dreamwalker.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gilbert’s mouth part a few times as if he wants to say something, but I’m glad he doesn’t apologize or press his case any further. He made his case very clearly and to hear it again would only irritate me.

  The question to marry or not marry is hanging thick in the air between us, but unlike when Gilbert first proposed, this time there is no giddiness. My feet itch to pull away from Gilbert, but I trudge slowly, not wanting to get home.

  Eventually I peel off at my family’s lane with a curt twitch of my head, not even meeting his eyes. As I’m about to go around the curve Gilbert shouts, “Na!”

  I turn to see that he has stopped in the lane with his duffle in hand.

  “I’ll be a good husband,” he calls out. “We can make it work. Love is for teenagers, marriage is practical.”

  The same saying Mama used. Practical. If anything, I’ve always been practical.

  I start to walk away, but then I spin back around.

  Gilbert’s still standing there. His face lights up, but I shake my head. “It’s not going to happen, Gilbert. I’m not going to marry you.”

  “Na—”

  “Don’t,” I say gently, firmly. I’m sorry for him, sorry for myself, but there’s nothing more to say. Not right now.

  ***

  No one is home when I return. The yaodong is mercifully still, and I’m relieved not to have to face Mama and Nainai’s curious looks and questions. Everyone is probably at the grave. I don’t know how I’m going to tell them.

  I drop my purse and my book on the kang. The bonneted Jane stares up at me from the book cover, the hulking estate of Thornfield looming behind her. Min said the novel might be helpful in my situation. Mr. Rochester with his secret? Practical St. John?

  But this is no romantic novel, and I’m not an orphan with the freedom to make my own choices. It’s not easy to throw off a lifetime—generations really—of ingrained duty to one’s family. Even Min admitted that. Someone has always told me what to do, and that makes me feel both childish and weary-old at once.

  I grab the book and throw it across the room. It makes a satisfying smack against the wall and tumbles down on Bao-bao’s bags.

  I climb up on the kang near the window and fold my legs up to my chest. Bao-bao’s urn isn’t in its usual place on the sill. I wonder if Baba has taken it with him to Bao-bao’s grave.

  My poor brother. All those years I was so jealous of him. I imagined he was Mama’s and Baba’s spoiled little emperor. Everyone, even Nainai, pinned the whole family’s aspirations on him. He was supposed to study all the time, make a perfect grade on the gaokao, become an engineer, get a job, buy a house, buy a car, get married, have a child, and take care of Mama and Baba in their old age.

  I never fully understood the depth of responsibility that went along with all that attention. Bao-bao actually spared me from it. I was at school, free from daily scrutiny and expectations, enjoying myself, yet simmering with resentment about the special treatment he was getting. He was broken by it, and I wonder now if I could have somehow helped him.

  No matter what you hear, your parents were just trying to help him. Mrs. Hu’s remark comes back to me. I still don’t know what she meant by that.

  I go to Bao-bao’s bags and unzip the one with his books. His zodiac series is still wedged between two of them, and I pull the drawings out, flipping through them slowly. The detail and exquisite shading astound me all over again, but it breaks
me up inside that he had to keep all this hidden away.

  The ruined drawings are here as well. When I first found them I imagined Bao-bao ripped them up in a fit of frustration, but considering what Min and Wei told me, I suppose now that Baba must have found them and tried to destroy them. Just trying to help him.

  I come to the small red painting of Ai Weiwei’s quote that I placed with Bao-bao’s art. Freedom is a strange thing. Once you’ve experienced it, it remains in your heart, and no one can take it away.

  Did Bao-bao ever really feel freedom? He had his sports, video games, friends, and drawing, but he had to hide them from our parents even as he resisted their narrow plans for him. Eventually, he gave up.

  At his grave, Mama and Baba laid out his school things—his math book and certificates. But that wasn’t really Bao-bao. That was just how they wanted to see him, how they wanted him to be. I huff, seeing how it’s the same for Gilbert, for me; all of us caught in our parents’ expectations. I pull my braid around and twist it, heartsick for all of us and outraged for Bao-bao, who even in death can’t be himself.

  These drawings should be what lie on his grave. Or maybe they should even be burned and sent up to him. Impulsively, I roll up the drawings, pull the elastic band from the tail of my hair, and slip it around them.

  At the stove, I’m rooting around for matches when I hear scuffling footsteps in the courtyard. Nainai comes running in.

  “Na!” she huffs as she lunges toward me. “You’re here!” She drops down onto a stool while hanging on my arm. Her face is damp with sweat and tears, twisted in distress.

  “Nainai! What’s wrong?”

  She’s trying to catch her breath. “Your ba—your ma!” She pushes me in the direction of the door. “Go—the grave!” is all that she can get out.

  I don’t want to leave her like this, but she thrusts her hand fiercely toward the door. I run out and fly down the path toward the grave with a growing dread. Has Baba passed out? Or is it Mama this time? My feet kick up the dirt, the grains dusting my ankles.