by Tao Lin
“You can go back whenever you want,” said Li’s mom.
“When I said how long I wanted to visit this year, you said I should visit for three months,” said Li.
“That was just a suggestion,” said Li’s mom.
“I’m spending today alone,” said Li, entering his room. If he returned to New York, Kay would be too busy for him, he thought while scratching himself with both hands.
He read an email from his mom saying she felt hurt when he said he couldn’t talk to her. He replied he’d meant he couldn’t talk in Mandarin at a deeper level. He felt somewhat facetious because they discussed complex ideas in English by email; he rarely talked to non-Kay people in New York; and he viewed writing, not speech, as his means to communicate at “a deeper level.”
He emailed her again, saying she should be grateful because he didn’t know anyone his age who lived with their parents as much as he did. “I’m grateful for you and Dad too,” he said in another email. “If I couldn’t talk to you two, I wouldn’t spend so much time here. It’s my choice. I just can feel unsatisfied being where I don’t speak the language or have friends.”
But he’d liked being in Taiwan more, on average, since 2014, than New York, he knew he’d thought many times. New York was the epitome of what he wanted to leave, except now for Kay. Li tweeted “fuck” in capital letters with seventy U’s.
On a walk, he felt like telling his parents he needed help. The urge dissipated as he wondered what he’d say. Holding his phone low, he emailed himself, “I can’t expect to overcome thirty years in four years, even with two catalytic books,” thinking that he needed to stop phubbing.
After dinner, he deleted the uncharacteristic tweet, which he imagined his mom had already read. He emailed his friend Dan, who’d been in a relationship for two and a half years, “Do you ever find yourself uncontrollably thinking of leaving your relationship?”
Upset
In the morning, he read Dan’s reply. Dan had fantasized about leaving his girlfriend “a lot,” but, after concluding he had “dark, fucked thoughts” about everything, among other deductions and inferences, “almost not at all anymore.”
“I’ve thought similar things, that I’ll automatically have bleak, negative thoughts, which I should ignore,” said Li. “Your email helped. Thank you. I want to feel the influence of weeks and months instead of being buffeted by hours and days.”
But he felt neglected again later that morning. Kay hadn’t texted in three days, or replied to his email from two days earlier. His mom had emailed: “You are more upset and sometimes look worried this time you come to Taiwan. Besides what we have been talking about, is there anything else that bothers you?”
“No,” replied Li. “I don’t think I’m more upset. I’ve argued with you and Dad less this year. I can concentrate better now because I’m healthier. You might be mistaking my concentrating face as upset or worried. It is not.”
On a walk an hour later, his mood hovered in a groundless, windy place. “I feel like you keep looking at me,” he heard himself say. “It feels not good. Too much pressure.”
“No one is looking at you,” said Li’s mom.
“Nothing the matter, don’t look,” said Li’s dad. “Ayo. Du—our Du—doesn’t care if you look. The more you look, the beautifuler she becomes.”
Li slowed his pace, walking at a distance from his parents. Minutes later, he began a voice memo, put his phone in his pocket, and walked to his mom.
“I’m not more upset this year,” he said. “My face just looks different.”
“I said I felt something was wrong, not that your face is any way,” said Li’s mom about her email.
“Felt,” said Li’s dad, seeming to consider the word’s meaning.
“You—I—I’m not happy for one day, and you said that,” said Li, half-consciously picking up Dudu. “You don’t remember the other days.”
“I didn’t say you must be happy,” said Li’s mom at the same time Li’s dad said, “He met a girlfriend this year. He’s happier!”
“I’m in a not-good mood for one day and you say I’m more upset this year,” said Li. “I’m not.” If his mom was right, his main goal for four years—recovery, which included getting less depressed—was failing, he thought pessimistically.
“If you aren’t, then good,” said Li’s mom.
“You need to remember every day. And if I am upset, just let me be.”
“Okay then,” said Li’s mom.
“Don’t be so sensitive,” said Li.
“However you are is how you are,” said Li’s mom. “I won’t influence or force you like saying, ‘Oh, you must be this way, must be that way.’ ”
“I’m not saying force, I’m just saying you’re letting me know you’ve noticed. Give me more time instead of one day before I need to know you’re thinking this.”
“Let her down to walk,” said Li’s mom.
Li set down Dudu, and they reached a duck pond.
“Eh, no, don’t go up there,” said Li’s dad to Dudu.
Dudu jumped down from a short concrete wall.
“She even climbed up to look,” said Li’s dad.
“What?” said Li’s mom.
“Du climbed up there to look,” said Li’s dad.
Li said, “If you don’t say it, then I don’t need to think—”
“Right,” said Li’s dad, turning to look at Li’s face.
“—of a reason to tell you, or to address this—”
“Don’t need to think about it,” said Li’s mom.
“—as a problem,” finished Li.
“It’s not a problem,” said Li’s mom.
“I’ll always be…unhappy a few days and happy a few days.” Patched-together or hard-won coverings of positivity flew away with ridiculous suddenness, like hats, or else gradually and unceremoniously, over days, like paint. Cheerful talkativeness became mute dissociation. Thoughts went from rational and shareable to infantile and melodramatic. Feelings toggled from magical friends to tormentive enemies. History, the strangest, most mystical, and possibly the last chapter of biology, became unaffecting and dull.
“Right,” said Li’s mom. “That’s always been like that.”
“You don’t need to talk about that,” said Li.
“People have always been like that.”
“So don’t say it. Let me recover on my own. If you say it, I need to think about it, and then…”
“You don’t need to think about it.”
“I can’t just ignore your email,” said Li.
“It counts as I didn’t say it,” said Li’s mom.
“When I came back, I ate that powder for eight days,” said Li.
“What powder?” said Li’s mom.
“The detox one. After eating it, my body released things, and I was nauseated, and I’m still in detox.” A sprawling rash had emerged across his tailbone. He pulled up his sleeve, showing his arm rash.
“Are there ones in other places?”
“My throat is very itchy. And…” He’d been scratching his crotch in dysphoric fugue states, sometimes in public. He had inflamed hair follicles on his scrotum. “You don’t remember what happened every day. I do. I have notes. I’m not more upset this year. In past years, every few days I was upset for an entire day. Not this time.”
Realizing his words seemed true, he began to feel calmer.
“Li, my meaning is not that you can’t be upset—”
“I know,” interrupted Li, upset again.
“Right, then,” said Li’s mom.
“My meaning is also not…,” said Li, confused.
“I know,” said Li’s mom.
“I’m just saying you aren’t giving me time to figure it out.”
“Okay then,” said Li’s mom. �
��I won’t control your situation. All day, control this, control that. Sorry. I know now. Okay?”
“What you said was…negative,” said Li about her email. “You didn’t think that in the past I didn’t even eat dinner with you two. Now I do every night, and I always say whatever food tastes good.” Stoned, food had regularly been intensely satisfying.
“You’re right,” said Li’s mom. “Also, there’s no need to compare. It is what it is.”
“So when you say that, I feel that you haven’t thought of a longer time,” said Li.
“Okay,” said Li’s mom. “I know now.”
“Why are there so many people?” said Li’s dad. “People mountain people sea,” he said, a Chinese term for crowds.
Loud music played in the bustling plaza. People were singing through microphones and speakers for donations. People were selling sausages from carts.
“In the past, I got up in the middle of the night very upset,” said Li, recalling waking in the Year of Mercury at times like three or four a.m., seeking and discarding household toxins in grumpily zombielike fits.
“This year really is better,” said Li’s mom. “You often sleep until morning. Much calmer.”
“Last year, every few days I bickered, yelling at you two in public. This year I haven’t at all.”
“Right,” said Li’s parents together.
“You don’t now, but in the past, ayo!” said Li’s dad. “Last year you were very mean. Heh. This year, with a girlfriend, much better.”
“In the past, my face had no expression,” said Li. “Now I’m healthier, so I look different. When I work, I also feel my face concentrate. And this year my weed is more spread out.”
Six months earlier, he’d finally revealed that he’d been bringing cannabis and LSD to Taiwan. Instead of sharing the secret calmly, as he’d imagined doing for years, he’d typed it quickly, while upset, during the week of insanity, in the middle of an email to his mom about how he needed space from her emails.
“Hm,” said Li’s mom.
“Last year, I ate a lot at once, so for a few hours I would keep laughing or whatever,” said Li.
“Hehn,” said Li’s mom. “So you’re calmer this way.”
“This year, I’ve spread it out to twice per day, and I’m using less.” Actually, he’d been eating around the same amount (half a gram per day), but he hadn’t brought any LSD, though he had added tobacco.
“Much better this year,” said Li’s dad. “Eh, last year you ran away.”
He’d escalated away from and back to his parents in a guided convulsion.
“Last year, in the subway, you scolded us,” said Li’s mom, laughing a little.
“I scolded Dad,” said Li. “He said the Cotton Field cashier scammed us, and I yelled at him a lot.”
“They did scam us,” said Li’s dad. “Did it on purpose.”
A military-looking plane passed overhead.
“Much better this year,” said Li’s dad. “You’re an adult now, going to have a baby,” he said, though Li hadn’t mentioned wanting a baby. “So what’s there to bicker about? Your brother doesn’t bicker because of the baby, taking care of the baby…”
“Taking care of the baby what,” said Li’s mom.
“Li, they bicker at night,” said Li’s dad about Mike and Julie. He imitated Mike: “Child keeps crying and you don’t do anything! I do everything!”
“Yeah,” said Li. “Everyone…will bicker.”
“Li, Julie was like, I do everything! Why do I always do the dishes!” said Li’s dad.
“No,” said Li’s mom. “She was like, Why can’t I rest? And Mike said, I have to wash the dishes! And I have to wash…something else.”
“Bickering in the middle of the night,” said Li’s dad cheerfully.
“Mike eats so unhealthy,” said Li. “He must feel uncomfortable.”
“With children, there’s bickering all day,” said Li’s dad. “In the past, when you kept crying, Mom and I would bicker.” He imitated Li’s mom: “Child is crying, and you don’t do anything!”
“You and Mike were different,” said Li’s mom. “Mike always helped. You never helped.”
“Just pick up and rock a little to stop crying,” said Li’s dad.
“I was crying because my stomach was uncomfortable,” said Li.
“Dad never helped,” said Li’s mom. “You were crying and I already didn’t know what to do, and Dad would be there writing equations, scolding me.”
“Just pick him up and rock him a little,” said Li’s dad.
“Why don’t you go ask someone what to do?” Li’s mom imitated Li’s dad. “And whatever: Why do you keep letting the child cry? As if I was letting him cry. Never helped,” she said, stretching “never,” which in Mandarin was also two syllables, to last three seconds.
“Child cries, means he’s uncomfortable,” said Li’s dad.
“Mike helped beginning to end,” said Li’s mom.
They passed the Yoshida Effected tree Li had photographed two weeks earlier. Trees resembled neurons, he’d noticed. Nature reused ideas across size and time. Many things were spinning—ice circles, hurricanes, planets, galaxies. Almost everything was dying; only photons, electrons, protons, and neutrinos seemingly never decayed into pieces.
“You really are getting better and better,” said Li’s mom. “And you’re taking care of so many people.”
“Other years, I had more to say,” said Li, continuing to explain why he seemed more upset that year. “I thought of things to ask you two. This year I’m writing, so I don’t want to gather too many more…things. So I’m talking less.”
Li’s mom said, “You have too many notes already,” paraphrasing Li, who’d taken more than half a million words of notes in the past four years, deepening his lifelong lesson on the distortions, techniques, creativity, and limits of memory.
“Last year you slammed my computer,” said Li’s dad. “Can’t slam computers. Okay?”
“That was two years ago,” said Li. He’d done it in the Year of Pain after discovering his dad was back on statins and that his mom was taking Nexium.
“Last year you were already much better,” said Li’s mom.
“You slammed it but fortunately it didn’t break,” said Li’s dad.
“It was Mom’s computer,” said Li. “It was the computer we got for you that you didn’t want. I pushed your machines off the table that year.”
“In the past, in Banqiao, I threw Dad’s computer,” said Li’s mom.
“Ayo! You influenced him,” said Li’s dad.
“How could she have influenced me? I didn’t know about that,” said Li, though he wasn’t sure if he did. “I don’t know if I knew about that.”
It was December 6. Dudu galloped toward their building like a tiny white horse, body slanted left. She liked to go on walks, and she liked to go home.
“My novel is a lot about trying to be stable,” said Li. He’d been working on it around five hours a day. He was almost done arranging his selected notes from the Year of Pain into something that he could gradually shape into a story.
“Impossible!” said Li’s mom, scoffing. “Only robot people could do that.”
“It’s about trying to be less unstable.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” said Li’s mom.
“When I feel not good, I blame others,” said Li. Sometimes he could feel the auto-urge to blame—an unpleasant, precognitive ping. “That’s not good.”
“It can lead to hating others,” said Li’s mom.
* * *
—
Li was relatively stable for most of the rest of December. He made a salve from bentonite clay and apple cider vinegar and rubbed it on himself, significantly reducing his itchiness. He tried in a general, unorganized
way to practice partnership qualities—compassion, cooperation, listening, patience, gratitude, humility, mending—with his parents so he’d be better at those skills with Kay, and vice versa.
He kept doubting his relationship, but less cripplingly. The feeling that nothing mattered unless the relationship ended or he committed to it 100 percent had fizzled. He and Kay were meeting on January 17. He didn’t need to worry.
In bed, mentally exploring the growing world of his novel, he felt consoled and reassured, realizing pain and conflict had peaked two visits earlier and that his four-year climax of parent intimacy might have been the previous visit. He didn’t want to get closer to his parents—or do anything—in a restless, straight rise. It was unrealistic and unnatural.
On a bus to Tiger Mountain, looking up from an 856-page ebook on MKULTRA, he saw his mom look at him three times. When he got off the bus, he said once or twice was fine but three times was excessive, but he seemed to be joking—they were smiling. Li’s mom said she’d felt like everyone was staring at her until her twenties, and Li said he’d also felt that way until his twenties.
With his dad, he watched the Hutchison documentary he’d seen with Kay three months earlier. Li’s dad chuckled at a video of a bowling ball levitating but relented that physics wasn’t complete and so the effect could be real. In the eighties, people had said his flying-spot LASIK technique was impossible. The CEO of a competing company had called him a “fruitcake” to the media.
“They’re here, no need to cast it far, they’re here,” said Li’s dad to himself, fishing at the bottom of Carp Mountain. Dudu sat thirty feet away, seeming neglected and bored. Li and his mom smiled, discussing Dudu’s aversion to fishing. They walked to her. “Dad will be done soon; don’t worry,” said Li’s mom, and picked her up. “Dogs are good listeners. Every time we talk to Du, she looks at us right in the eyes.”
At the waterfall, flapping languidly while slow-breathing, Li remembered their first time there, a year earlier, learning of phytoncides and anions from the bilingual sign. When he stopped refreshing disempowering irrationalia, he seemed to automatically recall positive, affecting memories based on his present sensory input.
