He reads my mind, and remarks, “Maybe one day you’ll take me to where you grew up and I’ll get to meet your family.”
I don’t even know what to say. What if he came to Spring Well and experienced what I love—the mossy cushion of the forest floor, leaves fluttering in the breeze, and birds and monkeys chattering in the trees? Or would he see my village—and my family—as backward and crude? So much of my time with Jin, I realize, is spent with contradictory thoughts like these. His comments and questions make my heart feel both sweet and bitter and leave me confused, but not so confused that I ever say no to his invitations.
I’ve never told him about my marriage to San-pa or our trip across Myanmar and into Thailand, but the following Sunday when he announces, “You should have a passport in case you want to travel to another country someday,” I go along with the idea. Of course, it’s not easy to get a passport. He seems to know people who know people, though. He introduces me to one cadre and bureaucrat after another. “She’s a businesswoman,” he explains to them, following up with “Do you like Pu’er? Naturally! The health benefits alone! Please accept her gift . . .” And so on.
Once I get my passport (amazing!), he advises me to get a single-visit visa to the United States, because “You never know what can happen in this country.” He isn’t aware that I have a daughter in America, but I fill out the forms, go to the interview, and quietly begin to save money for a plane ticket. After I get the United States of America visa stamp on my passport, I take it out every night just to stare at it. If I went there, could I find her? Jin remains ignorant of the gift he’s given me—hope—but I’m indebted to him for it nevertheless.
I often remind myself of what Mrs. Chang said: those who suffer have earned contentment. Maybe I have earned it. Although Jin and I are getting to know each other, as Mrs. Chang asked, I worry what will happen if I share my life story. Maybe a time will come when we’ll want to tell each other everything, but maybe not. He seems to feel the same way, because our conversations look inward and forward but never backward. Every word exchanged reveals something—from the insignificant and even silly to the more profound admissions that get to the core of who we are. Who knows? Maybe we are less interested in infatuation or romantic love than in understanding, compatibility, and companionship unmarred by the past.
“I like yellow,” he answers when I ask his favorite color. “I don’t have many good memories of being in the countryside as a boy, but I did enjoy the spring when the rapeseed was in bloom.”
“I’ll always love indigo,” I tell him. “One might think I’d be tired of it. I wore that color every day until I went to Kunming, and every person I knew as a girl wore that same color. Instead, it reminds me of tradition and the comforts of home.”
He asks if I like dogs.
“I prefer cats, because they’re useful and mind their own business,” I explain. “Dogs are only good for omens and sacrificial eating.”
“Promise me you won’t eat my dog.”
“You have a dog? I love dogs!”
It’s not a concession. I’m not changing who I am to please him. I’d walk a dog and clean up its poop, like I see people do here in the city, because I like Jin and I want to spend time with him. (Turns out he was joking. A relief!) But every revelation is weighed. Could I bear that? Could I live with it?
By fall, my feelings for him have grown and changed. He hasn’t tried to kiss me. I understand we’re from different cultures and that it’s unusual for Han majority people to kiss or hug in public or for the most traditional couples even to show physical affection in private. Still, every time he uses the tip of his finger to slide a loose strand of hair behind my ear or takes my elbow to help me into his car, I feel the warmth that got me into so much trouble with San-pa. But I’m not a young girl anymore. I go to a Family Planning Office for birth control pills. If we ever decide to steal love, I’ll be ready. But when? I consider how much time we’ve spent together, and that’s when it hits me he’s holding something back far worse than his family’s tribulations in the countryside. Of course. So am I. Many things . . .
Haley’s Fifth-grade Spelling Words
Scrape
Cruel
Millionaire
Criminal
Annoy
Spain
Plastic
Boycott
Cauliflower
Tragedy
Homeless
Communicate
Imagination
Career
Youth
Professional
Ghost
Desalination
Groundwater
Sponge
1. Office buildings scrape the sky.
2. Friends can be cruel.
3. Most parents are millionaires.
4. If you ask a criminal what kind of job he has, he will say a government job.
5. I wish I had a sister to annoy me.
6. Will you send me a sister from Spain?
7. Grandma’s face looks like plastic.
8. Dad says people can boycott things they don’t like.
9. I want to boycott cauliflower.
10. A tragedy is when my violin teacher passes gas.
11. Homeless people must feel terrible.
12. I want my own phone to communicate.
13. Grandpa says I have an imagination “this big.”
14. All girls should have a career.
15. Youth in Asia is different from euthanasia.
16. Every year my mom hires a professional photographer to take pictures of me.
17. I wish I had a ghost to play with.
18. I will never use desalination in a sentence again.
19. I’m learning about groundwater in Miss Gordon’s class.
20. If I had a little sister, I would wipe her mouth with a sponge.
PART IV
THE BIRD THAT STANDS OUT
2007–2008
A CHICKEN, A GOAT, AND A COIN
To celebrate Western New Year’s Eve, Jin takes his mother and me to a restaurant at the top of a fancy hotel, which allows us to see the fireworks—giant blooms of light and stars—bursting over the city. He orders champagne, which I’ve spoken about to my customers but never tasted. Once it’s poured, he toasts us, wishing all prosperity, happiness, and golden health in the new year.
My toast is to Mrs. Chang. “Thank you for befriending a stranger.”
“May this be the first of many New Year’s celebrations—Western or lunar—we share together,” she says when her turn comes.