Beautiful Country Read online

  “What’s wrong, Qian?” It was Elaine who ventured first.

  “I miss my ma ma and ba ba.” I must have been somewhat comprehensible over my sniffles, because Natalie and Wanda started chortling.

  After some shushing and translating, Elaine’s mom ushered me to the phone. I remember little of the phone call or of the rest of the night, only that I asked to go home and that, when told it was far too late, I asked my parents to pick me up as soon as possible the next morning. After I hung up, the pinching in my stomach continued, and I knew, as I did whenever I was away from Ma Ma and Ba Ba, that something bad would happen to them while I was gone. I would never see them again—I just knew it. I would look up at the sky and say, “That’s where they went,” only there wouldn’t be an airplane; I’d just be looking up at heaven. I fell asleep clutching these thoughts.

  The next morning, everything was a little more mortifying, a little less necessary. I regretted that Ma Ma and Ba Ba were coming because Elaine’s mom had taken the day off to take us to the aquarium. Under the safe light of day, I no longer missed home, but having made such a grand show the night before, I had no choice but to stick to my word. So I followed Elaine and her mom to the subway station, where Ba Ba was waiting on the other side of the turnstiles. I hugged Elaine goodbye before she and her mom got on the train on the opposite side of the platform, the one headed for a fun day at the aquarium.

  Chapter 15

  TRAPDOORS

  That year, as flowers bloomed and the sun grew brighter, Ma Ma and Ba Ba decided that I was old enough to go home on my own after school. I did not know whether it was because they could no longer deal with me after school, or whether I had proven myself responsible. In any event, the decision changed my days: in the mornings I was a child, riding the subway with Ba Ba, my hair unkempt, my teeth unbrushed, and my stomach growling with hunger, but in the afternoons I emerged from my schoolroom cocoon a full adult. I stood a little taller, my chin raised a little higher, and I acted as self-possessed and unflappable as I imagined that I might one day feel. The last part proved difficult. I never knew what to expect on the subway, and it would be years before I became one of the many who felt safe enough to pay attention only to the book in her hands.

  The subway was its own world, rife with characters who seemed like they could not survive aboveground. One man boarded my afternoon F train at East Broadway with such regularity that he created for me a real-life game of Where’s Waldo? I made sure to spot him on the platform every day before boarding the train, and then took care to keep my distance but remain close enough so we always got on the same car.

  He was disheveled—even more than I was—and he wore a trench coat that was several sizes too large, spotted and stained with coffee drips and mud. His body was hairy and, despite that he was half bald, the remaining hairs on his head still managed to be unruly. He wore a pair of sunglasses that were black but fogged over with dirt. He also carried a peeling black walking stick that had a tennis ball at the end.

  Invariably, he sat in a two-seater at the end of the car. This was not always easy, but on occasions when the seats were full, he would stand and wait, poking his walking stick here and there until some too-kind fool took pity on him and gave up his seat.

  It was a good act.

  Once seated, he always managed to find the nearest young woman. If there were several around, he had an uncanny way of zeroing in on the prettiest one.

  It always began the same way.

  “Excuse me, excuse me…” He gestured with his walking stick.

  There would be a long, awkward pause as people reshuffled themselves to accommodate his gesticulations. Some people simply walked to the other end of the car, but everyone stayed quiet.

  “Won’t anyone take pity on an old blind man?”

  I was almost taken in during our first encounter. What stopped me first was my new shyness. Second, of course, was Ba Ba’s voice reminding me to trust no one.

  What stopped me next, though, was my sneakiness. I could never help but notice the smallest of details. Indeed, the details often came to me before I consciously registered them. For instance, I knew, before recognizing that a police officer was standing on the corner of a street, that something was amiss, that I should walk the other way. It was as if I monitored my surroundings without even noticing it, and my body knew what to do long before my brain caught up to all that it had processed. But Ma Ma and Ba Ba often told me—and thus I half believed—that I did not have an astute intuition, that I was just a know-it-all kid.

  All I knew was that after ten seconds with the blind old man, my body told me that he was not blind, and that he was not to be trusted. He moved his head and directed his field of vision with too much precision and accuracy. I had zero experience being blind; for all I knew, that was how all blind people acted. Still, I decided not to engage, instead staying silent and far away from the old man.

  Watching it happen for the first few times was like live television. Inevitably, the poor pretty target—for there was always a pretty target—took pity on him.

  Yes, hi, sir—what do you need? The one I remember had long blond hair and blue eyes. I remember her because I had learned by then that those were all the traits that made someone beautiful. This made for easy criteria, because I still could not tell one blond-haired, blue-eyed woman from the next.

  Oh, thank you, you kind, young thing. Please, can you tell me, what’s the weather like outside?

  He was blind. He wasn’t numb. Why did he need someone else to tell him what it was like outside? Didn’t he have to walk outside to get to the train? I had never been blind but I was pretty sure that, even with my eyes closed, I could feel the sun on my skin.

  Well, it’s warm. Sunny.

  How warm?

  Really lovely. Warm and comfortable, not too hot.

  Really? That warm? You must have a thin, flowy dress on.

  Every time I watched him, he was right about what the woman was wearing. And at this point some hesitation would start to dawn in the poor pretty woman’s eyes.

  Well…yes.

  Please, can I feel the material? To see how warm it is outside?

  At this point, the woman usually said no more and moved to the opposite end of the car.

  * * *

  * * *

  The subway was the reason people-watching became instinct for me. I learned quickly that the underground tunnels held many trapdoors that would swallow me up if I didn’t stay observant, if I didn’t keep my distance, if I let just anyone stand next to me.

  The first time it happened, I did not know what I was looking at. I wondered if it was just a fat, weird finger poking out of a coat. I told myself it was, but a sick ache in my tummy said otherwise.

  It was as if a switch flipped on after that first time. There was no telling where the finger would pop up. Here it was, by the crosswalk on my way home from school. And again, here, standing next to me on the platform. It started following me everywhere I went. I knew somehow that it had to be my fault. Each time, it was my fault. I should have kept my eyes to myself. I should not have looked up from the two square inches on the ground just in front of my feet. I should have known better. I was a bad, shameful girl.

  I felt grateful that when it appeared, the finger lasted only a few seconds. Then it snuck back behind the zipper. Sometimes it happened so quickly that I convinced myself that I had only imagined it all, with my bad brain and my bad thoughts.

  Then there were other kinds of trapdoors. More dangerous ones.

  I almost fell into one.

  I was seated in my usual spot near the car door, reading a Baby-Sitters Club installation, when I felt my skin prickle. Keeping my face directed at the book, I spun my eyes around in their sockets and surveyed the car. They fell upon several fellow passengers who survived scrutiny: an old lady chewing on the edge of a red
-bean bun; a smiling man engrossed in his boom box, bopping his head to the beat; a tourist looking constipated and unsteady.

  None of this was reason for my skin to prickle, so I continued my examination until my eyes hit upon a man at the other end of the car, pale and slovenly, his shirt yellowing with age, his hair sticking out in random directions. His face has since faded in my memory and merged with those of the many other men I’ve encountered in the subway since.

  The train was just pulling into York Street station. The man kept his eyes on me. The doors dinged open and the usual commands from the operator followed. A Chinese woman hurried out with her son, about my age, in tow. In sauntered a grown-up couple, hands all over body parts, oblivious to the rest of us. I looked over at the man, who returned my gaze. His eyes had a glint I had never before seen. That glint set my body into action before my brain realized what was happening. As if controlled by someone else, my legs straightened and carried me out the door. My book stayed open in my left hand, fingers pinching the page I had been savoring before I realized that I had an audience. I set foot on the platform for but a few seconds before shuffling into the next car and walking from one end to the other.

  I should have known better than to think that I was safe, but for a second, that was what I believed.

  But then a flash of yellow-white caught my attention. It was at the same end of the car where I had entered. My stomach turned into a rock.

  He had followed me.

  He had followed me.

  My brain jumbled to all the stories Lao Lao and Da Jiu Jiu told me about Mei Guo, of the madness and the chaos. Out of nowhere, I longed for my dolls and my bike, all decomposing in the little storage unit.

  I reopened my book and stared into the black ink, not comprehending a single word. By the time the train pulled into the next station, my hands had numbed and he had edged half a car closer.

  Maybe I should try it again, I posited to myself.

  He’ll just follow you, I responded.

  Should I tell an adult?

  What if he’s undercover, here to deport me?

  Just stay put. You’re safer if you stay put. There are people all around.

  A hundred mes shouted at one another but I could not afford a long debate. I shuffled to take a seat next to the door by my end of the car, my eyes still on the page.

  The doors opened and no one stepped out. I counted my breath, willing myself not to look over at my white-yellow shadow. The doors dinged again, declaring that my chance to run was slipping away. Still, I stayed seated, counting. Face still pointed down, I flipped the page I had not read, hoping that my shaking hands and dry mouth would not be visible from down the car. Out of the very edges of my eyeballs, I saw the metal doors emerging from their sheaths on either side, like a chewing jaw.

  Then, as if propelled, I burst up and out of the opening, so fast yet so late that my backpack just avoided getting pinched. Once on the platform, it took me a few seconds to slow and steady myself. By then, the train was already roaring into motion. I inspected the platform for the white-yellow hue, moving my head around pillars. I found only people looking wearily into the tunnel at the other side of the platform. No white-yellow shirt. No glint.

  I sat on the wooden bench and directed my gaze onto the page, not reading a word. As I flipped a page every so often, I looked around. I was terrified that if I moved, he would reappear. So I stayed put even as another train pulled into the station and then departed. I debated walking home or taking the bus, but neither seemed safe. As another train lurched into the station, I willed myself to stand up and step on while still choking on my palpitating heart.

  Between that stop and my home station, I switched cars twice, looking each time to see if anyone followed me. I swiveled even as I climbed the steps out of the Church Avenue station. On the walk home, I crossed the street and then crossed it again. Unlocking the front door was the ultimate test: my cold hands shook so much that I could not guide the key into its slot. These efforts were made all the more difficult by the fact that I could not keep myself from looking down the street to make sure no one was coming.

  I don’t know how I got the key in place that day, but I must have at some point, because I remember standing in the hallway on the other side of the two layers of bolted doors, gulping in gasps of air that swallowed me whole.

  * * *

  * * *

  I may have lost that man that day, but his specter stayed with me. From that day forward, he crept behind me on every street I walked on. He was in every subway car, every moving crowd, every thought that urged me to move a little faster, be a little smarter, trust a little less. He was in every dark corner, promising that he would get me. I never forgot that he would eventually get me. It was only a matter of time.

  Chapter 16

  SOLID GROUND

  I found that it took more and more for me to be enough for Ma Ma. She was perpetually anxious now, and I was the little doctor who was on call around the clock, ever ready to jump in and soothe her. My only time off was when I was sitting on the toilet, which I took to doing occasionally for thirty minutes at a time, reading, thinking, and savoring the peace. Every now and then, I took so long that a roommate would knock angrily, at which point I cleared my throat, gave a flush, or turned on the faucet to appease him, only to go on reading one of the three Baby-Sitters Club books I made sure to bring into the bathroom.

  Ba Ba was home less and less, and Ma Ma frequently told me that she thought there might be other women. I didn’t know what this meant at first, but one day I walked into his office after school to see a woman sitting so close to him it looked like she was on his lap. I ran back out, down to ground level and onto East Broadway before allowing myself to take another breath. Ba Ba had not seen me, and I was never able to see him the same way again.

  Still, I told Ma Ma during her morose times that I was sure there was nobody, that Ba Ba was good. I must not have been convincing, though, because it rarely worked.

  One afternoon, Ma Ma met me at the front door of PS 124 just as I was walking out. Her face was gray, her eyes sucked of all light.

  “Ma Ma, what’s wrong?”

  “I almost jumped,” she mumbled to the floor.

  “Jumped? Where?”

  She looked like she was on the edge of collapse. As classmates filtered out in clumps, some laughing and some looking at us, I ushered Ma Ma to the steps at the corner, sitting her down with me after checking to make sure there was no gum.

  Over the course of the next several minutes, I pieced together that Ma Ma had tried to dodge subway fare to try to save money. On that particular day, she was coming back from the Thirty-fourth Street station. She had gone in for a free photo shoot after a random woman stopped her on the street to say that she might be a good catalog model.

  The “shoot” had not gone well. They said that before they could begin, she needed to pay fifty dollars for the “free” photos. After Ma Ma explained that she could not spare several weeks’ worth of family groceries, they said she didn’t have what it took, anyway.

  On the way back, all she could see was the long carpet of meaningless jobs that unrolled before her. She was so distracted by this vision and so upset that she had traveled all that way that she did not notice the man standing by the steps down to the platform, watching her as she moved to duck past the turnstile.

  The man approached Ma Ma with swift steps and flipped open a badge. In her recounting, Ma Ma took for granted that he was a cop, and thus so did I. He asked her questions, but she was too flustered to remember what he said and what she responded. He had given her the wrinkled paper ticket that she now gripped in her hand. She expected him to put handcuffs around her wrists and send her off to be deported, but he only lectured her in tones that she could not comprehend before finally letting her go.

  I smoothed out the paper, careful
to not smudge the ink with my small hands. I gulped down each word as if it were a morsel. The ticket demanded that Ma Ma mail in a fine. I do not remember the number, only that it was large. And it must have been more than the photo shoot cost, because Ma Ma kept saying that if she had only stayed for the shoot, she might have avoided it.

  After being handed the ticket, Ma Ma found some coins in her purse and bought a new fare, walking down the stairs as the cop continued to stare at her back. It was not until she was on the platform that she looked down at the piece of paper in her palm. Everything washed over her in that moment. Her spirit capsized, and as a train pulled into the station, she wondered what it would be like to hurl her body before it.

  The only reason I didn’t do it was you.

  I’m glad you didn’t, Ma Ma.

  I paused to find more to offer and came up short. My words were meager. Paltry. Not enough.

  Just like me.

  * * *

  * * *

  Ma Ma changed after the incident. I did not understand then that there are few things more activating than the quiet desperation of a dignified woman.

  It happened gradually. It must have. But so attuned was I to Ma Ma’s every move that in my recollection, it felt seismic and immediate.

  After I started fourth grade and as the weather grew colder, Ma Ma started studying in our shared kitchen every night as I began getting ready for bed. The kitchen was the warmest part of our apartment, and the residual heat from cooking, coupled with the incandescence of the lamp, best protected her from the night’s chill as she tried to stay awake. Our roommates barely used the kitchen, particularly at that late hour. Plus, Ma Ma welcomed the short break of someone entering to microwave his frozen meal.