Crossing

by Andrew Xia Fukuda

  It was easy for me to make my way over without being noticed. I grabbed an index card, hastily scribbled something down, and made to look as if I were looking for a book. I went down the long aisle behind them, separated by a long stack shelved with enough books to offer me some cover. I ambled towards them, knowing with a dry certainty that I’d be unobserved. It was an art of mine, an ability to blend in. In a crowded room, on the street corner, loitering at a movie theater, I’d learned how to liquefy, to dissolve into the background. Their voices became clearer as I drew closer.

  “…couldn’t seem to get rid of him.”

  “Oh my God, like, you should have called me!”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking straight, like, I was so freaked out.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t recognize him…?”

  “No, I told you he looked kinda familiar, but I just don’t think…I don’t really know…”

  “And you said you—”

  “I saw him standing outside my window for, like, ten minutes! Every time I peeked out between the curtains, there he was!”

  Then the third voice, quiet until then, spoke: “The same thing happened to me.”

  There was a momentary pause.

  I took two steps closer.

  “What? Shut up!”

  “Last…last week, I think it was Wednesday or Thursday. After cheerleading practice. Short person. Couldn’t quite see who it was very clearly. Just like you. Followed me home.”

  “No!”

  “Stood on the other side of the street, just watching the house.”

  “Why didn’t you tell someone?”

  “I did. I mean I was about to, but just when I’d made up my mind, he was gone. Like, just disappeared.”

  “Maybe we should—”

  “Shh!”

  A librarian walked up to them at that point, glaring.

  “This is not gossip central. This is a library. You’ll either sit yourselves down with books to read, or leave.”

  The girls took off, too perturbed to put up any kind of fight. The librarian watched after them, suspicious.

  I stayed for a couple of hours, not wanting to go back home, until almost closing. On the way out, I set off the book detector. It shrilled accusingly for a few seconds before cutting out. Libraries are supposed to be quiet, but in the following moments there was an altogether different kind of hush. Heads turned to stare, wariness rimming their gazes. The old men by the newspaper carrels, peered at me through their thick glasses; the librarians were all suddenly conscious of me, eyes turned to me from the corners of cagey eyes and half-turned heads. Naomi would tell me that I was being paranoid, that most folks simply didn’t see me the way I thought they did. But she did not understand because, although Asian, she was a girl, and so did not live under the constant shadows of Fu Manchu, Seung-Hui Cho, and Long Duk Dong.

  I felt eyes crawling over my body, snaking along my arm to the heavy backpack, to my hair, to a resemblance they believed was there. “It’s OK,” a librarian finally said, and I wasn’t sure if she was speaking to me or to the other library patrons.

  I tore out of the library, swearing never to return. Suddenly, I wanted to see Naomi. It was already late, but her home was on the way back. Kind of.

  The house was already dark. Not even the flickering lights of a television. Her parents, exhausted after a long day, were likely already in bed. I sneaked around to the backyard, careful to avoid any fallen branches that might give me away. Her bedroom was on the second floor facing the backyard. A sturdy oak tree grew just outside, its branches thick and elongated, almost touching her window. I’d climbed that tree a thousand times before, usually late at night to give or receive a good book, homework, or some snacks through her window. Since her parents’ bedroom was right next door and within earshot, we’d never dared talk aloud or even in whispers. We’d pass notes, each madly scribbling on a notepad. But that seemed a long time ago. The tree tonight seemed much smaller now, the footholds offering less traction as I climbed.

  She wasn’t asleep, just sitting at the foot of her bed with the lights off. She was in her pajamas, a pink, flimsy thing. She must have just combed her hair because it was set straight in tight lines. Her legs were tucked up against her chest, her chin resting up against her kneecaps, her arms wrapped tightly around her skinny legs. She was quietly sobbing.

  I was about to tap on her window when I paused. In the movies, the dashing lead always knows what to say and do, knows how to provide the perfect antidote to tears with panache. But I didn’t know the words, didn’t know the actions. I placed my fingertips lightly on the windowpane.

  Time passed. She was motionless inside, so stationary I thought she’d fallen asleep sitting up. But then she lay down. I hunkered deeper into the darkness of the tree, not wanting to be seen.

  She covered herself with a blanket and faced the window. Tears lacquered her cheekbones. I stared, dreading the day when she’d fully realize the extent of her beauty. When she would walk past me on some ritzy Ivy League campus linked arm-in-arm with her to-die-for, drop-dead-handsome boyfriend, disregarding me in my (at honest best) SUNY Farmingdale sweatshirt with a casual flip of her hair, her eyes passing around and through me as if I were transparent.

  For a few minutes, she continued to gaze out into darkness, still unaware that I was perched in the blackened foliage. Her pencil-brushed face, her tragic eyes. And before long, she drifted off to sleep, a calm settling upon her. I stayed on the tree limb long after her eyes remained closed, until her mouth parted, until her breathing steadied, softened. Only after I was sure she was asleep did I think about leaving.

  But not immediately. I stayed on the tree even as the temperature dropped, even as the first snowflakes began their ghostly, shy descent. Because I wanted to.

  DECEMBER 2

  A jitteriness settled even deeper into Ashland, calcifying into a brittle fear. The school, taking note of the somber mood in the classrooms, brought in professional counselors. Mr. Marsworth ordered a mandatory counseling session for each student.

  Over the course of the week, students were called at various times of the day for a private session, and soon it seemed that just about everyone had gone except me. Then, on a Friday afternoon, with only five minutes to go before school ended, I got the call to go. The school secretary walked in with a piece of paper in hand. She handed it wordlessly to Miss Winters, who walked over to me.

  “Kris,” she murmured tiredly, “it’s your turn.”

  He was in classroom 258. Written on his face was the weary expression of a man cloistered too long in solitary confinement. On his desk was an open briefcase, files tossed haphazardly in. He was getting ready to leave.

  “The other room,” he said without looking up, pointing across the hallway.

  I looked down at the piece of paper. “It says two fifty-eight.”

  “It’s a mistake. Next door, please.”

  “It says two fifty-eight,” I insisted. “I think you’re the one who’s mistaken.”

  For the first time he looked at me. “Do you now?”

  “Yes. I have a note that says I’m supposed to meet with you here. Now.”

  “Give it to me.” He grabbed it out of my hand, then sighed. “Well,” he said loudly, “why don’t you have a seat, then?”

  I sat down.

  “You want something to drink? Water? Soda?”

  The trashcan next to the desk overflowed with used paper cups. I shook my head.

  “So,” he said, scratching a graying patch of hair just above his ear. “So.” His eyes were bloodshot with fatigue. He cleared his throat and spoke louder, as if starting over. “Looking forward to the weekend?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’m sure by now your teachers have filled you in on what this is all about. No doubt your friends have let you in on what these counseling sessions are like. Right off the bat, er, Kris,” he said, looking down at his notes, “I want you to know that this isn�
�t an inquiry or an investigation at all. Some of the earlier students were under that mistaken impression. No, it’s nothing more than a getting-to-know-you kind of get-together. We just want to know that you’re doing OK.”

  I nodded. Outside, the bell rang, clanging with insistence that the week had ended and the weekend had begun. Within seconds, the clamor of voices and yelps of laughter broke out in the hallways.

  “Have you been sleeping OK? Your appetite doing all right? These are the usual symptoms of what we call event stress or event tension.” His sleeves were rolled up unevenly, arm hair tufting out as if for air.

  He asked a host of questions in so mechanical a fashion that I began to suspect that he was merely running down a list. He barely seemed interested in or responsive to what I was saying.

  Then something changed, barely perceptible, in the tone of his voice, in the posture of his form. His eyes lingered on mine just that much longer—sharper, harder. I continued to answer as best I could: no, I was not good friends with either Justin Dorsey or Winston Barnes; no, I hadn’t talked with either of them on the day of the disappearance; no, I hadn’t seen anything unusual around school.

  And then it hit me. This was no counselor in front of me. This was a person pretending to be a counselor. His questions were just all wrong. His initial questions were right on target—those a counselor would typically ask—but the questions he was asking now seemed more investigatory, something a detective might ask. His were questions seeking a breakthrough, hoping to expose. I studied him carefully. No, not a counselor—he had undercover written all over him. My mind started to race. Did they really suspect the killer was a student, as Naomi had theorized?

  He rubbed his chin. “It says here that you’ve gone through some counseling before.” The question hung in the air like an unused ceiling fan.

  I sat up slightly, arms crossed. “Is that what this is? An official counseling session?”

  “Not really. Not that formal. Just a chance to chat.” He fingered the papers in front of him. “But let’s get back to your past. You’ve had professional counseling before?”

  “Well, yes. Some years back.”

  “And what was that about?”

  I gave an aw-shucks grin. “Just something silly. Just me being a kid.”

  “What was it all about?”

  “What is this all about?” I asked, and he flicked his eyes up to meet mine.

  He tapped his clipboard once, twice. “Back then, your teachers thought you should get some therapy, it says here.”

  “That’s right. I did get some therapy.”

  He crossed his legs. “What kind of therapy?”

  “Not sure. Something to do with my imagination.”

  “Your teachers thought it was overactive?” he asked, his forefinger lining a few words.

  “It’s what they thought. But it was nothing.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  His eyes studied mine carefully. “Your imagination was overactive. Specifically, how?”

  “I mean, like I said. It was nothing.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, but his eyes were very alert now. “It says here…” he glanced down at his notes, “that you came to this country seven years ago.”

  “That’s about right.”

  He leaned back in his chair and uncrossed his legs, only to cross them again quickly. “With your family,” he said.

  “With my family.”

  “With your parents, right? You don’t have any siblings?”

  “Right.”

  He shuffled through a few papers again, this time a little slower. “And you went through counseling shortly after your father passed away?”

  I looked down at my hands. “That’s right.”

  “And how did he…?” He leafed through more papers on his clipboard.

  “A traffic accident. Driver hit and killed my father. I couldn’t sleep for a long time after. I was having difficulty at school. They said I was imagining things, weird things. So I went through counseling.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m alive, right?”

  A frown crossed his face. “How long did the counseling last?”

  “A couple of months or so.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “There was no problem.”

  “You said there was something about your imaginat—”

  “It was a grief mechanism,” I cut in, “a kind of wish fulfillment. That’s what they called it. I would imagine that my father was around, even after his death.” I did not elaborate. I did not mention—as I once had to the grief counselor—how vivid those encounters had been, whole afternoons my dead father and I spent together. It was the only way I could cope with the pain.

  “The counseling ended after only a few sessions. That was a long time ago.”

  “But I see here that your grades took a hit. Even put on academic probation for a while.” He looked at me as if he expected some kind of response. “And you started acting out, playing truant from school for a spell as well, I see that here.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I said, smirking now with my arms raised in surrender.

  He stared hard into my eyes. “Right.” Then, looking away, he mumbled perfunctorily, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “It was years ago.”

  “Yes.” He eyes returned to his notes, his eyebrows furrowing. “I see also that your mother had counseling?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “For depression,” he said. “And this was for a few months.” Should have been for a few years. “Yes.”

  “And she was prescribed medication, Prozac?”

  “Yes.” Until money ran out.

  “And she’s fine now?”

  “Dandy. Positively perky. Not a cloud over her head. She motivates me every day, she’s a real force.”

  He flipped the clipboard onto the desk, his eyes taking a quick peek at his watch. “Well, OK, I just want to be sure you’re doing fine. In light of recent events.”

  “Just fine.”

  “Any loss of appetite?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sleeping problems?”

  “Nope.”

  “Distracted? Hard to focus on things?”

  “What did you say?”

  “No?”

  “No. Just fine.”

  “Very good,” he said, snapping his file shut. “I think we’re just about done here.”

  I hesitated in my seat. There was something I wanted to ask him, and it must have shown: he asked if anything was the matter.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. I got up to leave.

  “Have a good weekend, OK, kiddo?”

  I slung my backpack over my shoulder and went to the door. I turned to him again. “You know, I was wondering…” I shook my head. “Nah, it’s nothing.”

  “No, what is it?”

  “It just that…has anyone looked into the red jacket?”

  “Red jacket?” His hands, busy throwing files into his briefcase, paused.

  “Yeah. When Winston Barnes went nuts in class, he kept talking about being followed by someone in a red jacket. I’m just wondering if the cops followed up on that.”

  “Winston Barnes said he was followed by a someone in a red jacket?”

  I nodded. “I was just wondering if that happened to anyone else. Being followed by someone wearing a red jacket.”

  He was looking warily at me now. “Have you heard something?”

  “I mean, this school is gossip central. Everything—everything—gets talked about. Maybe some other students heard stuff?”

  “What have you heard?” The pencil he’d been twirling had fallen to the desk, forgotten.

  I could have told him right there about being chased through the woods. About the red jacket I’d seen. It was on the tip of my tongue to say something. But instead I just shrugged. “Everyone’s got their pet theory. The red-jacket theory, the blue
-dog theory, the black-car theory, the rainbow—” I stood up, grabbed my things. “I mean, I could tell you all of them, but it’ll take at least twenty minutes.”

  He paused, studying me for a second. Then he shook his head, sighing. “No, we’re done here.”

  MOTHER

  After my father’s death, my mother’s fall into depression had been immediate and deep. There was no gradual sinking into a pool of sadness; this was a plunge, with sandbags and weights tied around her ankles, into cold blackness.

  Kai Gong! Kai Gong! Her voice, hysterical like a little girl’s, calling out for her husband along the dark empty road. Her son behind her, shaking his head, his chest hitching.

  Kai Gong! Kai Gong! Her shrieks, the naked scream of the violated, slicing leaves off branches. Her hands, cradling his bloodied head. Her eyes shut in denial, her mouth opened in an endless scream. The lights of neighboring homes turned on, faces pressed against windows, too frightened to come out towards the strange, foreign screams. And then the ambulance arrived, swallowing up my father behind clanging doors. And still my mother screaming, Kai Gong! Kai Gong! The sound still haunts me.

  About a month after my father’s death, I woke up in the middle of the night. The house was silent, as it had been for weeks, as if the silence of my father’s coffin had stolen into this house. I was thirsty and crept downstairs for some water. I was about to enter the kitchen when I sensed someone there.

  It took only a second to see it was my mother. She was sitting at the breakfast table, back to me, her legs cradled up against her chest. She was embracing them as if shimmying up a tree. Perfectly still, more mannequin than human. I caught her face in the mirror, her taut skin stretched over her softly protruding cheekbones. She had been beautiful in her youth, my father used to tell me, proudly. She filled the home in China with laughter, he used to say, and there was always a wicked shine in her eyes. That was the way she had once been, before the crossing to America.

  Her downturned eyes, reflected in the mirror, were now cauldrons of pain. In my counseling sessions, I’d been told that suffering was never pleasant; but even the bloodiest and most excruciating of wounds would in time heal. I looked at my crumpled mother. Hers was something else. It was a wound that would never heal, only bleed in newer and rawer places over time.