Beautiful Country Page 28

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  * * *

  When we came upon the large brick house, I had trouble believing that we had arrived at the right place. It was huge, like the one I pictured Sweet Valley twins Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield living in. But it made sense for the Wakefields because their father was a lawyer. I didn’t know much about Ah Yi, but I assumed that Ma Ma would have told me if she was rich. Then again, Ma Ma never talked about her with me or Ba Ba. I knew only that Ah Yi had been divorced and then had remarried, a fact that Ba Ba did not like. “Divorce, it’s contagious,” Ba Ba had said once. “Better to stay away.”

  It was better this way, Ma Ma said, because even if Ba Ba wanted to look for us, he wouldn’t know where to look.

  Ah Yi came out the door as Ma Ma pulled the car into the driveway. She was older, with very long hair and a similarly long face. Her face was dark and had more wrinkles than Ma Ma’s. She reminded me of a handsome horse, stern from too many rides.

  Ah Yi ushered us into her house, which had numerous rooms and hardwood everywhere—on the furniture and on the walls. Her husband was an old man with an amiable face, pink skin, and stark-white hair. He smiled often. Ah Yi’s son must have been from her previous marriage because he was all Chinese, just like us. He was older than I and had the same disinterested look of the kids I had studied on my first day at Lab. He was tall and thick and looked like he played basketball. I don’t remember him doing anything other than eating.

  Ah Yi was the kind of adult who was always talking and giving commands. She herded us here and there, showing us the library—yes, a room at home just for books!—the sunroom, and the basement gym full of equipment I didn’t recognize. Finally, she showed us to a bedroom on the top floor that she said was ours, with a private bathroom. I walked through the room and its connecting bathroom in awe. We had never had our own American bathroom before. Back in the bedroom, I set down my backpack, which I had carried throughout the tour even though it was full of school items that were now useless, irrelevant. There was no need to bring in more stuff from the car, Ma Ma had said. We were staying only for the night and we would be leaving at sunrise.

  Ah Yi gave us a few precious minutes in our room. I used them up checking on my Tamagotchi. Then we were herded again, this time to a dinner table full of unappetizing American food—it was white and brown everywhere I looked, full of cheeses and meats and eggs. I should have been starving, but the idea of eating anything off the gooey piles elicited only a gag from my throat. I picked up a piece of bread from the nearby basket and chewed as I watched Ah Yi pile clump upon clump of brown and white foods onto my plate.

  “Eat, eat. You must eat. Then, we go to the movies. The boys, they will see The Mummy. We girls will see Notting Hill.”

  I had heard about The Mummy at school. It was sad that the one time I got to go to the movies with Ma Ma, we could not watch the movie I wanted to watch. Ba Ba would have liked The Mummy, too, but he was not here anyway.

  Ah Yi continued with her commands through the meal, the men in her family in full submission, eating and nodding along. Ma Ma picked politely at the plate Ah Yi filled for her, looking for a garnish or two to chew on. I was glad that Ma Ma was not eating the cheeses and meats. It would not have been good for her, and we were too far away from St. Vincent’s now for her to be rushed there.

  After dinner, we left the dirty plates in the sink and filed out to two of the family’s several cars, boys in one, girls in the other. The drive to the movie theater was full of trees and grass; more trees and grass than I had ever seen in all my life. The theater itself was on an island of pavement, where cars pulled into spots marked by straight white lines. Ah Yi drove ours into one such spot and then we rushed into the theater, where the movie had already started.

  I remember little of the movie from that viewing. I tried to pay attention to the walleyed man with the British accent, but it was hard to hold on to my thoughts. My brain was a melting ice cube, impossible to clutch, slipping this way and that.

  On the way out of the theater, I noticed a poster for The Mummy on the wall, with a face forming from something that looked like both the sky and mountains. I resented the silent, big, feeding boy who got to see the movie while I had to sit through a bunch of mushing about feelings.

  * * *

  * * *

  The face from The Mummy poster came to me in my dreams that night. It was all around me and Ma Ma, the mouth moving as if it were going to chew us up. We ran and ran, but it was no use because the face was everywhere. I moved my legs as fast as possible, my hand in Ma Ma’s, but as we ran, all I could think of was the opening of From the Mixed-Up Files: it was better to run toward something than to run away from something.

  I was rescued by Ma Ma’s hands, shaking me around my shoulders. I opened my eyes and thought I was staring into the sun, but no, it was just the orange orb of the light bulb at the center of the ceiling. Through the windows, I saw that there was just a sliver of light, the sky still orange-brown.

  Ma Ma, zen me le?

  Gai zou le, Qian Qian. Zhong yu gai zou le.

  It’s time to leave. It’s finally time to leave.

  Chapter 30

  HOME

  We drive for years that day. I age with each stretch of the road. Since leaving China, I have not seen the horizon except in my dreams, but on this drive, the horizon is all I see. Between us, the skies, and the trees, there is nothing. We are in a rush, stopping only a few times. Ma Ma speaks little, as if conserving her energy for something ahead.

  Ah Yi prattles in the front, alternating between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. Between her and carsickness, I choose the latter, sitting in the back, eyes fixed on my Tamagotchi.

  Tell her to stop playing with that thing. It’s bad for her.

  If Ma Ma hears Ah Yi’s command, she chooses to ignore it. So I continue doing as I do.

  I have no means of writing Ba Ba, no way to yell at him and tell him how mad I am, of saying how dare he. I have no way of finding Marilyn, either, of making sure she is okay, of telling her I love her, of saying goodbye.

  I have only the Tamagotchi, who I by turns take doting care of, and by turns neglect and watch waste away in hunger. And each time a new little chick hatches, I cannot decide what I want for it: a full, joyous life or a quick, empty death.

  The scenery changes as the sun descends. There are more trees all around us, and soon, some bridges over dancing currents. I roll down my window and breathe in the flowing air. It tells me about grass and bugs, and about rivers and birds and many more living things.

  As darkness begins to unfurl across the sky, I make out at the end of our road a series of little booths and barriers. To the side is a house that looks like a ski lodge I have once seen on TV.

  Near the lodge, Ma Ma pulls the car aside. There are men and women all around, in uniforms. Above them, a red and white flag with a maple leaf billows in the gentle wind.

  Ma Ma, should we hide?

  She does not answer.

  Ma Ma, is it safe?

  Nothing.

  Ma Ma, they are everywhere.

  Finally, Ma Ma rouses.

  Don’t worry, Qian Qian—she speaks slowly, emerging from a deep sleep—it’s safe.

  We get out of the car and walk toward the uniformed men. We go into the lodge, which turns out not to be for skiing. It has many little booths with more uniformed men.

  Will we be locked up?

  Don’t worry, Qian Qian.

  But what do I have but worry, after all this time?

  Ma Ma goes up to a booth with Ah Yi. The familiar hesitation awakens in my body, but I follow.

  The guard, a white man in uniform, looks at Ma Ma through the glass. Then he looks at me. Next, he does an unthinkable thing: he smiles.

  “Go sit down now, little girl. Your mother will take care of this.�
�

  I look at Ma Ma, who nods. Having no choice, I find a cold seat across the room, on the row of hard, plastic chairs all linked together, hand in hand. I take out my Tamagotchi and stare at it.

  My Tamagotchi is hungry, but I just keep staring.

  I strain to hear what is happening across the room, but give up when I feel my ears all but bleed.

  I keep the screen of my Tamagotchi on, pressing it to attention when it dims. My chick’s health is dwindling from full to mediocre to dire. Soon, her eyes will turn into x’s and her little body will be replaced by a tombstone. But I do not care. All I can think about is whether Ma Ma is okay, how she will understand what they are saying without me by her side.

  After some shuffling of the papers, Ma Ma gestures for me to join them.

  “Lai ba, Qian Qian.”

  I sprint over, and we, all three of us and the guard, walk out of the lodge. The guard does the unthinkable thing again, smiling at me as he puts on a red and white hat with ear covers that flap down from the top. He reminds me of one of those happy polar bears from the Coca-Cola Christmas commercials.

  We walk to the car and watch as the polar bear circles it, examining the trunk and then the interior.

  “All set.” He smiles at all three of us. Never before have I seen so many smiles from a uniformed man.

  And then I realize that for the first time since our ascent, Ma Ma seems to know what is going on more than I do.

  She opens the door and steps into the driver’s seat. Ah Yi does the same on the passenger side, still prattling on. The polar bear opens my door, gesturing for me to enter before doing another unthinkable thing:

  “Welcome home,” he says.

  Ma Ma thanks him and smiles. I almost do not recognize her face in the mirror, so full it is of delight and peace.

  And then we start driving again. There is more horizon, more trees. Ma Ma stays silent, but the car feels different; lighter, bigger. Ah Yi nods off to sleep and serenity falls upon us.

  The sun has set, the sky a fabric of dark blue beaming with little rhinestones.

  Ahead of us, there is still more horizon, but in the darkness it is hard to tell where land ends and sky begins. I turn back to my Tamagotchi and press the buttons. It awakens, the little window on the egg the only source of light in our vehicle.

  HOW IT BEGINS

  My story continues decades after we cross over.

  Ba Ba follows us to Canada weeks later, after Lab sends a social worker to our apartment to investigate my absence. The knock on the door propels Ba Ba into the belief that at long last, his deportation has arrived. But no, it is just someone with the Administration for Children’s Services, a woman who surveys the room with furrowed brow and then comforts Ba Ba as he drops his weathered face into his hands, his defenses retreating for once.

  By the time Ba Ba arrives in Canada, Ma Ma and I are already visiting China for the summer, our new papers a safety net that allows us to travel—and return—for the first time. There, I set free the parts of myself that I had locked up with my bike. I find that where in English I am logical, distant, hardened, in Chinese I am excitable, warm, still tender. I am surprised to discover that I am still the child whose steps direct themselves toward the light of Ye Ye’s face.

  After a detour through Canada on the papers Ma Ma had prepared for him, Ba Ba surprises us at Lao Lao’s doorway, which is still adorned with red paper cuttings from Lunar New Year celebrations five months past. The sight brings me back to the other side of my childhood, and it is as if I am seeing him for the first time again at JFK Airport. The long years—he wears them on his face.

  A month later, the three of us board a Toronto-bound plane, headed for the first time to a North America we are permitted to call home. We don’t know then that, legal or not, home no longer exists.

  In the peace and quiet of Canada, there is too much room for the voices and fears in Ba Ba’s head. The sunlight shines too brightly onto the fault lines the preceding five years had carved into our little family. Possibilities open anew before us, but we cannot see past the razor edges we had grown for protection in that beautiful country.

  We do not know what to do with stability.

  Ma Ma and Ba Ba admonish me never to speak the truth of our time in America, so I adopt Julie as my name and begin to hide that tired little girl, the one who had waded through the fish-processing plant under a flowing blue cape; the one who had snipped at threads with scissors much too heavy for her hands. When I make it to a dentist, he asks if anything extraordinary happened to leave my teeth in such condition. I can muster no lie other than that I never bother to brush my teeth, that my favorite bedtime snack is soda with candy. He lectures me for many minutes as I remain reclined in that fancy execution chair, and then he lets me go, but only after denying me the lollipop I later see in the proud hands of a white girl my age.

  For the years we are in Canada, my attempts to conceal the little girl are noncommittal. She is behind the curtains and under the bed, always visible in part: a dirty sneaker here; a bruised, swollen hand there. I ignore the signs of her presence by focusing on everything else. I look at my coworkers during my many part-time jobs throughout high school, where I pretend as if I am just like everyone else, as if my first job were not at a sweatshop, as if I do not still feel the hot breath of poverty and hunger on my neck. I look at Ma Ma, who gets sick and then better again, and Ba Ba, in and out of rage, fear, and paranoia, the scenes of his childhood playing out over and over in his faraway eyes. And most of all, I look at the corpse of their marriage, decaying in the mortuary we three built.

  * * *

  * * *

  I do not start burying that scared little girl, do not begin to wrap her up and cast dirt onto her curled-up body, until I resolve to return to America—legally this time—for college and law school. After all, to live out the happy ending of Beijinger in New York, I must first return to New York.

  I find a shovel at Swarthmore College, where my adviser, a professor with a graying beard, laughs when I declare my intent to attend a top law school. It is the first week of freshman year, and he declares that because he has never heard of my high school, I am no superstar. On that lush campus, I learn for the first time just how little I have grown up with, how much everyone else has had, deprivations stacking on my shoulders, one after another, so many years after the fact.

  I rush to scoop loose earth onto the little girl in law school, where I realize one beat too late that I might forever be surrounded by those who do not carry my deep wounds, those who grew up within the padding of privilege.

  At this discovery, I shovel faster, pelting her head and unwashed hair with loose pebbles and rocks. I inquire after my classmates’ origin stories and mimic them. “I grew up in Manhattan, too,” I venture. “My dad is also a lawyer.” They are half lies. Part lies. But lies all the same because they omit the pivotal truth. As I did as a child, I put these lies on and live inside them. But they refuse to fit.

  The stack on my shoulders grows.

  As I walk onto the stage with a mortarboard and tassel, I see movement beneath the little pile of soil I have created. I look away. I move far across the country, where my past cannot follow, where judicial clerkships would at long last declare my belonging, my worth.

  But that sneaky little girl, she follows me anyway. Months into my second clerkship, on opening the file of yet another immigration appeal, my body carries me into the judge’s office. She sits at her mahogany desk, reading glasses perched on her narrow, regal nose. There, in a seat opposite hers, I let the little girl climb out. I don’t know why I do it. It comes to my mind that only weeks before, the judge gently inquired why I go by “Julie,” and whether I had ever used my real first name.

  I sit across from the judge, watching as the little girl works her way loose, atrophied limbs and all. It takes a while but finally sh
e is all here, her naked, malnourished body shining under the incandescent chambers lamps.

  Words roll out of my mouth, one after another, and I do not dare to interrupt them with a breath. They are new words, foreign words, but familiar all the same because they have been sitting at my throat for over two decades, waiting their turn.

  The judge, she does not speak for a while. She wants to make sure I am done. It is an expanse of space I’ve never before occupied. It feels like years and thoughts pile on top of each other. I am fired. I am deported. Illegal again. This whole time, Ma Ma and Ba Ba were right. Is it too late? Can I say it now, take it all back? I was born here, I have always lived in America! But no, it must be too late. This, here at last, is the end of me.

  The judge removes her reading glasses and looks at me in a way that no da ren ever has before. When she speaks, her voice is thick with understanding, slow with certainty. She says many things. They are things I have waited a lifetime to hear; things I have imagined and whispered to myself in the darkness of that little room, my bed too close to Ma Ma’s and Ba Ba’s; things that I cannot believe are finally before me, mine for the taking. I cannot trust that they are real, and yet I do not question their truth. I simmer in the words, baking in each syllable as it seasons my spirit. I wrap myself up in the letters, tuck them in all around me.

  But there is one sentence that stands apart, that puzzles me, that cradles my brain as I lie awake at night. It is what she opens with. She says, as though she knows just how heavy and exhausting it has all been, as sure as if she has lived it all herself—the hiding and the running and the lying and the protecting:

  “Secrets. They have so much power, don’t they?”

  * * *

  * * *

  From then on, the little girl makes her home in my shadows, even as I make the move back to New York City to work in a top law firm. I know she is there, watching as I play my assigned role in my gilded American Dream, living my empty Manhattan life full of all the food and clothes and things I could ever want. You cannot know that some things are not enough until you have them.