Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

I swallow.

“I call it my lucky leg as a reminder. Every time I tell myself ‘if only,’ I know the answer. If only I hadn’t been injured, I would have been deported. If only I had a different leg, my wife would have been sent for reeducation and she would have been…” He pauses, picking among words. “Killed,” he finally settles on. “Probably. Without my lucky leg, I wouldn’t have a second daughter, and Xingjuan would have quit school at sixteen and worked in a factory, just like I did.” He looks up at me. “So yes, I think it’s a lucky leg. Do you disagree?”

I envy him his certainty. If only my dad didn’t run Cyclone. The last few months have been nothing but a giant if only. And the main thing I’ve learned is that there is no escape. There are no pat realizations to be had, no giant handoffs.

“Sounds lucky to me.”

“Yes.” He turns back to the television. “You see, it helps me remember that there is one place I most want to be, one time of my life I most yearn for.”

There is no end to my father’s ambition. Whatever it is he wants, he lays out a plan and grabs it, and once he has hold of it, the only thing he can think about is the thing that is next on the horizon. If Dad heard Mr. Chen talk, he’d call it a load of crap—“bullshit hippy happiness,” he’d say, something I’ve heard so much it’s like Dad is here, rolling his eyes himself. I’m sure that whatever Mr. Chen wants, whatever place he imagines, it’s somewhere tranquil—somewhere like the restful retreats that my father’s doctor is always suggesting.

Dad tried one once. He made it two hours before he left and went rock climbing.

“Where do you imagine yourself?” I ask.

Mr. Chen simply gestures to the room around him—to the plastic flowers, the wall hangings, to Felix the Cat swinging his tail with every second. “Where else?”

TINA

After the hearing in the courtroom, the families come together in the parking lot just outside the courthouse. They chatter and talk. It has been a while since I accompanied my mother to a gathering, and I’m immediately reminded why that is.

My mother doesn’t boast about her children directly in company. That would be gauche. Instead, she practices the indirect boast/insult.

“Ah,” my mother says to Mrs. Ma. “Lucky you that Annie is so consistent in school. My Mabel is all over the place. She never remembers anything except saxophone and band all the time. Practice, practice, practice—all we ever hear about is practice.” Of course she doesn’t mention that Annie had one ignominious piano recital years ago and has never played again.

“You’re so lucky,” my mother says to Mrs. Chan, “that Tommy is staying at home for school. He’s there for you for support. Tina is always gone, studying to be a doctor. It’s hard on me.”

I stand under a cluster of palm trees, fixing my gaze on the Spanish-style courthouse beyond. If I don’t react, maybe it won’t hurt.

Or, my favorite: “You’re so lucky to have a grandchild so early. I wish Tina had a baby at nineteen. But she isn’t even dating the nice boy she brought home. Oh, yes, he’s okay for a white boy. He even speaks Mandarin.” My mother shakes her head sadly. “And he’s going to walk away. Sometimes I think that Tina is missing out on life.”

That’s the one that really sinks under my skin. I make my excuses and go wait for her in the car. It’s stupid to let myself get upset about things like this. I know that to Western ears the practice sounds a lot ruder, a lot more passive-aggressive, than it really is. This is my mother’s way of telling everyone how proud she is of me, of boasting without really boasting. But I can’t help it. I am westernized, and there’s enough truth in those backhanded compliments that it stings.

Tina works so hard; she never has time for me.

Tina is missing out on life; she isn’t even dating that nice boy.

It hurts. It really hurts. I’m here, aren’t I?

My mother comes back to the car thirty minutes later, beaming and happy, filled with all the latest gossip. I’m reining my emotion in as best as I can.

“You shouldn’t have left so early,” my mom says as she pulls out of the lot. “You’re so serious. Why don’t you ever have any fun?”

“I don’t know,” I snap back. “Why do you think I never have any fun? Maybe it’s because I’m the only one who has any sense of responsibility in this family.”