The Leavers

Eyes pleading, brow furrowed, Leon leaned forward with his chest. We stared at each other, and every second that passed, he looked more nervous, and it became clear that whatever I said, I wouldn’t be able to take back. But I couldn’t say no; I couldn’t hurt him. So I said yes.

Vivian and Didi threw us a party to celebrate, and we put on the radio and danced—Vivian loved to dance, had great rhythm, and even you and Michael joined in.

“Now Leon will be my real Yi Ba,” you said.

Vivian raised a bottle of beer. “To my brother and sister!”

All my life I had wanted sisters, and now I was so glad to have Vivian and Didi. Leon wanted to go to City Hall right away, but I said let’s wait until spring, when it was warmer, and we could afford a proper banquet.

THAT MONDAY, I WOKE up alone in the apartment on my day off. You and Michael were at school, and Leon and Vivian were visiting a family friend in Queens. I walked through the apartment, not bothering to pick up your clothing or a pair of Leon’s boxers, lying plaintive on the bedroom floor. I made a cup of tea and let the rare quiet settle over me. On Rutgers Street I had felt alone all the time, even with so many roommates, and now I was rarely alone, though there were times when I was so lonely, like when you and Michael spoke to each other in too-fast English as I sat next to you, or when Vivian and Leon reminisced about their parents and siblings.

For the first time in months, the day was all mine. I got dressed, walked outside into a sunny morning, early October, and boarded a nearly empty 4 train, the rush-hour crowd already at work, the kids already in school. I stayed on as it went underground, through Manhattan and into Brooklyn, got off at a stop I had never been to before, climbing the stairs up into a quiet street with large trees. The buildings, though not too tall, were wide and regal, with wrought iron fences, brick walkways, and arched entrances. I waited for the light to change alongside a young woman pushing a stroller, shoulders shaking to a secret song, headphones in her ears, the baby girl in the stroller dressed in a miniature jacket and denim pants with pink cuffs. I smiled, the baby gumming back at me, and saw myself at nineteen, pushing you in a stroller I’d bought at a secondhand store on the Bowery. That was my first year in America. I would look down as I walked and see your tiny sneakers poking out in front of me. Now your feet were bigger than mine.

I was often fatigued by the city, its bad breath belching through vents in the pavement, a guy testing his cell phone ringtones on a packed subway, but this neighborhood felt peaceful. Leaves crunched beneath my shoes, and the breeze didn’t bite. I turned at the next block, onto a street with narrower buildings. A delivery man, Chinese, bags dangling from his bicycle handlebars, cut me off at the corner.

I looked up at the rows of fire escapes and air conditioners, the barred windows and scraps of curtains. In two weeks, I would be thirty years old. My own mother had been dead at my age. One day Yi Ma had been alive, and the next, gone.

A door opened onto the sidewalk, a bell jangling from its handle. The deliveryman walked into a takeout joint, and I followed him and ordered a plate of chicken and rice, taking the container to eat at one of the two tables.

The food was salty. I asked the man if I could have a cup of water.

“We don’t have water,” he said.

“Who doesn’t have water?”

The woman at the other table held out a plastic bottle. “Here, you can have mine,” she said in Fuzhounese.

I hesitated, not wanting to share a stranger’s bottle.

“Take it, it’s fine,” she said.

I was so thirsty I didn’t care if I was being rude, so I uncapped the bottle, wiped its rim on a napkin, and took a long swig. “Thank you.”

“No problem, sister,” said the woman. Her clothes were well-made, tall brown leather boots, a long skirt printed with purple flowers, and a loose, chocolate-colored sweater. An empty food container was on the table in front of her. She had a wide, pretty face. “How long have you been in New York?”

“A long time,” I said. “Ten years.”

“I’ve only been here for three. But I’m leaving soon.”

The woman smiled and exposed a crooked incisor that seemed familiar, as if I had seen it in a movie or on a relative I’d only met once.

“Leaving for where?”

“California. San Francisco. I hear it’s beautiful.”

“You been there before?”

“I’ve only seen pictures. I knew a man that moved out there, but he’s somewhere else now.”

“So you’re going out there by yourself.”

“Sure, why not? It’s time for a change. New York is hard.” The woman tossed out her container. “So long, now.”

“Good luck to you, sister.” I watched the woman walk out, skirt swishing, hair hanging down to the middle of her spine. Once I might have become this woman, free to move across the country because she heard a city was beautiful. Instead I had become a woman like Vivian, watching TV, cooking for you and Leon, making sure the dumplings were fried and not steamed, unsure if I should marry my boyfriend but not wanting to lose him either. An uneasiness settled into me. This October would be followed by another winter, another spring, until it was time for October again.

It wasn’t until I was on the subway that I realized whose crooked tooth the woman’s had reminded me of: Qing, my old friend in the factory dormitory in Fuzhou. The more I ruminated on it, the more I was convinced. This woman was Qing, ten years later. They spoke a similar dialect; they were around the same age. She had called me yi jia, big sister. Qing, I remembered, had wide-set eyes and a wispy voice that sounded like she had a little spit in her mouth. The woman in the takeout joint had wide-set eyes, and her speech could’ve been a little wispy. She hadn’t recognized me, but perhaps I no longer resembled my younger self.

The subway went express through midtown Manhattan. I leaned against the door, absorbing each bump on the tracks. I knew I should get back on the train to Brooklyn, leave a note in the restaurant asking Qing to call me if she ever returned. But I remained inside, locked down by indecision, as if I was allowing something valuable to slip away.

When I got off at Fordham Road, the sun was already low. I walked up the stairs to our apartment, passing Tommie from next door. “Not-bad-not-bad-not-bad,” he said. Flustered, I dropped my keys, and he bent down to retrieve them for me.

Lisa Ko's books