Grace Chan
Page 5
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Lian.”
My palm-computer is buzzing with messages. From Director Song: Lian, call me ASAP. We need to talk. I’m sure we can iron out whatever issues have prompted this. From my research partner: Lian, what the fuck? We’re two months away from Stage Four trials. Why didn’t you give me a heads up that you were pulling the plug on us? From my doctorate students: Hi Lian, sorry to hear you’ve resigned so suddenly. Can you let us know who will be supervising our projects from now on? From my first-mother: Lian, what’s going on? I heard a crazy rumor that you quit your job? Please tell me this isn’t true.
I skim the messages, but they only fill me with exhaustion. I switch off my computer and my earpiece and enjoy the sounds of traffic.
An hour later, the car drops me off at Hong Kong International Airport. I pass through glass doors into a light-filled chamber with vaulted ceilings. People walk briskly in all directions, barely dodging one another to make a beeline for their destinations. A 3D projector displays a boggling diagram of upcoming flights. A robotic trolley zips up to me, scans my ID, and offers to take my luggage. I decline. I only have a backpack.
I approach the departures counter.
“Where would you like to travel to today?” the attendant asks.
“What’s your earliest flight into Europe?”
“We have a flight into Frankfurt in two hours, or London in three.”
“I’ll take the Frankfurt flight.”
“Great. Will that be one way or return?”
I hesitate, but only briefly. “One way.”
My feet tap out a brisk tune on the shiny floors. Adrenaline thrums in my chest. Is this what is feels like, to defy expectations? It’s terrifying and intoxicating. I picture the faces of my mothers. I line them up. First-mother, second-mother, third-mother. I see their mothers, too. My Yima, Erma, Sanma. And above them, Deepa. I see the utterly perplexed faces of Director Song, my research partner, my students. I see Jingfei and Gen, as I knew them, years ago, young and bursting with passion and determination. I carry them all within me now.
I’m shepherded into a queue to pass through security. Beyond the scanners, vast windows allow a view of the runway. A silver jet rises with a roar into the sky, and a second one follows close on its heels. The roar shakes my bones and fills me with life.
As I take off my jacket for the security scanners, I notice the asterisk-shaped scar on my inner arm. It’s stained with blue dye.