by Fan Wu
One day, Mary had a severe fever but had to complete a report on an experiment. When she finally got out of her lab, it was four a.m. and pouring outside. Without an umbrella or raincoat, and having eaten no dinner, she biked to her dormitory. The freezing December rain beat down, soaking her. It was dead quiet save for the raindrops splattering and her bike’s skidding on the slippery street. The sky, huge and dark, resembled a grim face. A sensation of unbearable sadness and loneliness suddenly hit her as she realized that her hometown and her friends were thousands of miles away, and on this strange land under her bike wheels she was nothing but a rootless and pathetic foreigner. Her future, if she had one, was as foggy as the view in front of her. Every raindrop seemed ready to crush her, to propel her into an unknown darkness.
She burst into sobs, wailing like a three-year-old. Ahead was a church, which she had passed often but never thought of stopping at. That night, however, as if called by a mysterious voice, she parked her bike and walked up the stairs. She peeked through the gap between the door halves—she saw nothing but darkness, and she slid down onto the threshold, leaning back against the door. She stared at the slanting rain and listened to the drops splashing on the ground. She felt safe and peaceful, and soon fell asleep. She did not open her eyes until an early jogger woke her up. For the following three weeks, she was confined to her bed, stricken with pneumonia, and more than once she pondered death.
After she recuperated, the first thing she did was visit the church. A month later, she met Bob, a graduate student in computer science, at a Bible study there. They married a year later, and before long she left the graduate school with a master’s degree and joined Advantage Biotech as a statistician.
To this day, she recalls clearly that early morning ten years ago, cycling to her dorm with a fever. It so haunted her that she had sworn she would never get sick again, or allow herself to be so vulnerable. However absurd her resolution might seem, her psychological strength prevailed, and she rarely fell ill afterward, not even so much as catching a cold, as if her spirit indeed affected her body. Once, she hiked in Yosemite with friends and they were caught in an hour-long, icy rain. Everyone except Mary went home with a terrible cold or fever. This trip won her a reputation as “an iron woman.” Mingyi said that studying chemistry must have done something magic to her. Even now, Mary seldom needs to see a doctor apart from annual checkups.
At three p.m., Mary drives to her church for choir practice. With Christmas less than two months away, the choir has asked its members to rehearse every Saturday afternoon. If not for the church or other special occasions, she would wear jeans year round, a habit that she conveniently blames on the influence of the engineers in Silicon Valley, who have a reputation for dressing tastelessly. Though she is not an engineer herself, most of the people she works with are, and in her company even the executives sometimes wear jeans to work. It’s not uncommon to see people at the office wearing sneakers and T-shirts printed with the company’s logo on the chest and back. If she dressed up a bit, her engineer colleagues would tease her, asking if she had just returned from interviewing with another company. Today, however, because of the rehearsal, Mary has put on a knee-length, A-line print skirt, a white cashmere sweater, and a mother-of-pearl necklace that Bob bought her last Christmas. Before she left the house, she examined herself in the mirror and smiled with approval.
Her church, recently remodeled with an exquisitely carved maple door and off-white stucco exterior walls, sits on a spacious property surrounded by oak trees, a fifteen-minute drive from her house. The parking area has been enlarged and each parking space widened. Most of the church members are from mainland China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong, and there is also a small group of American-born Asians. Eight years ago, when Mary first visited this church, there were fewer than ten people from mainland China, but that number has increased to over one hundred. Even the newly appointed pastor, Pastor Zhang, is an immigrant from Zhejiang Province, a former Communist who later devoted himself to Christianity. Preaching in his deep and resonant voice, he is full of passion, gesturing often to stress his points. It amazes Mary that he can recite long Bible passages without error. Unlike her previous pastors, whose preaching focused on literal interpretations of the Bible, Pastor Zhang knows how to incorporate facts and stories into his sermons, preaching about topics that people can relate to, such as relationships with parents, spouses, and children; communication skills; balance of work and personal life; and health issues.
On entering the church, Mary spots Mingyi, who is arranging a basket of fresh flowers on the rostrum, not looking a bit tired from the six hours’ volunteer work she has done.
“Hi, Mingyi,” Mary calls out, appreciating her friend’s impeccable appearance: a mauve silk jacket on top of a long black dress, smooth forehead, black and lustrous hair, and sensuous lips with a slight touch of natural-colored lipstick. Though her waist has thickened since Mary first met her, Mingyi still looks good, especially for her age, forty-eight.
They hug each other warmly and chat a little before the choir starts to rehearse. They’ll be singing three songs: “O Holy Night,” “Angels from the Realms of Glory,” and “Joy to the World,” Though none is professional, years of training have taught them to sing harmoniously, with the male and female voices—soprano, tenor, and bass—well-coordinated. Mingyi is the lead singer. Her voice has a wide range, and her face is serene. When the time comes for Mary to sing, she feels her voice rising from her chest like a clear spring. Her praise is transforming her, bringing peace and joy to her heart: she feels she is communing with God in her singing. At the last note, she regards the sculptures of Jesus on the cross against both side walls and the stained-glass windows, where the soft sunlight streams through, praying silently: My Father in Heaven, please bless and enlighten my body, my heart, and my soul. I admire you, praise you, and I will follow you forever.
When Mary returns home she sees that the message light on the phone is blinking. The first message is from Bob: he has to stay in the office for at least another hour to fix the broken database and might not come home for dinner. “I called your cell phone, but it was turned off. I guess you’re at church. Could you pick up Alex?” Then there is a message from American Express, notifying her that they have suspended her credit card because of a suspected fraudulent charge in Africa. The last is from Alex’s dentist, reminding her of his appointment next Tuesday morning.
She drives to Mountain View to pick Alex up and chats with her friend briefly. On their way home, Alex talks excitedly about the Chinese characters he’s just learned how to write and says that writing them is like drawing a picture. “Teacher Huang praised me five times today. One, two, three, four, five. Five times.” He counts his fingers, eyes gleaming.
“Wow, you have to tell Dad that when he’s home,” Mary says and smiles encouragingly, feeling the pride of being a mother.
She and Bob would have loved to have had more children, but since Alex they haven’t been able to get pregnant. Believing that children are gifts from God, Mary consoles herself that God has already blessed her with Alex. When he was diagnosed with asthma at one year old, she had a hard time accepting it. Seeing him struggling to breathe, his small, lovely face twisted with pain, she was heartbroken, wishing it were she who had the disease instead of him. Despite her bitterness, she kept going to church and praying, and when, two years later, the doctor told her that Alex had improved significantly and his asthma was under control, she praised God for his healing. Though she was baptized years ago, it was not until that year that she began to experience a closeness with God.
As Mary pulls into her driveway and parks, Claudia Dawn, her manager at work, calls her cell phone. Mary lets the phone ring and then listens to the message: Claudia wants her to conduct a conference call with the European division about some market research data for the upcoming quarterly earnings report. “Please be sure to be in the office at seven o’clock Monday morning” is her last sentence, her voice d
istant yet aggressive as usual.
Claudia is a fresh MBA graduate from Stanford University who joined Mary’s company three months ago. In her early forties, divorced with no kids, she treats her employees the way a general treats his soldiers: telling them what time they should arrive in the office, what time they can leave. She imposes a twelve-hour e-mail reply policy and demands that people check e-mails and phone messages after work. Once she called one of Mary’s colleagues at eleven in the evening and asked her to present a report at nine o’clock the next morning. She is temperamental and capricious, sometimes all smiles, but a moment later, sullen and cold. When she is dissatisfied, she calls employees to her cubicle and loudly accuses them of deficiencies, knowing that the other employees are listening. Mary and her colleagues used to call Claudia a psychopath behind her back. Within one month of Claudia’s being hired, three of Mary’s colleagues quit, and though they had complained about Claudia to HR before they left, she remained and was even given more responsibility. Only recently, Mary and her colleagues realized that she is the chief operating officer’s sister-in-law. This knowledge immediately turned some of Mary’s colleagues into Claudia’s most loyal followers, which first surprised, then disgusted Mary.
Maybe I should quit soon, Mary thinks, stepping into the house. It’s not the first time she’s told herself this, but she has yet to update her résumé. She has been with the company for nearly ten years, and its convenient location—less than ten miles from home—comprehensive medical coverage, and generous 401(k) package are attractive to her. Of course, she has seen people around her hopping jobs like restless bees buzzing to find a better, sweeter flower, but it never seemed to her that they were any happier despite the higher salaries; there was always something wrong with the new company. If she switched to a new company, she now reasons, she might have to commute much farther or her new boss might be just as terrible as Claudia. Perhaps she should wait to look for a new job until she cannot tolerate Claudia any longer.
Her younger sister, Ingrid, once called her “pragmatic,” an adjective Mary dislikes. Easy for Ingrid to say that, Mary thinks bitterly. If she had a mortgage and a child, she wouldn’t use that word about her older sister; she would know having these responsibilities changes things.
Ingrid had left a message on Mary’s home phone last Wednesday—she had called during the day to avoid speaking with her directly. The message was in English, businesslike, not a single unnecessary word, saying that she would visit San Francisco at the end of November or early December. Though Ingrid came to the United States four years after Mary, her English is much better than her older sister’s.
Of course, Ingrid’s English is better than mine, Mary thinks, frowning at the recollection of her phone message. She hangs out with bohemian Americans every day, and she may have even forgotten how to speak her mother tongue.
Mary hates it when Ingrid speaks English with her; she views it as a deliberate way to create distance between them, to deny their kinship. Isn’t Ingrid still Chinese? Isn’t Mary the only sister Ingrid has? If not for her, how could Ingrid have come to the United States?
As Mary cooks dinner, she thinks of Ingrid once again. It had been a year since Ingrid had called her and three years since they saw each other. Their last meeting took place at Mary’s previous house, where they had a falling-out. That day, right before supper, Ingrid—without informing Mary beforehand—brought over a dark-skinned man, a DJ at a nightclub up in the Haight in San Francisco, a hippie area to Mary’s knowledge: Ingrid introduced him as Steven. Bob was at Berkeley for an alumni reunion, so only Mary and Alex were at home.
At the first sight of Steven, who wore a tight, shiny black shirt and snake-shaped sterling-silver earrings, Mary disliked him. Ingrid’s appearance was even more unpleasant: newly dyed blue and red short hair, baggy jeans with holes front and back, and shoes with transparent plastic heels. Though she had become used to Ingrid’s habit of bringing friends to her house for dinner without prior notice, seeing her and Steven that day upset Mary. Besides, she noticed that they were intimate: Steven would stroke the back of Ingrid’s head now and then, and Ingrid would whisper into his ear with her hand on his shoulder.
Steven was a strict vegan, who didn’t eat eggs, fish, or meat, so Mary had to make two special vegetarian dishes for him. It was a silent dinner except for Alex’s gibberish about his preschool and some polite yet unnatural exchanges between the adults. Apparently the two dishes didn’t suit Steven’s taste; after only a few bites, he put down his knife and fork, claiming that he was full. He didn’t stay long after dinner, saying he had to go to his nephew’s birthday party. Ingrid saw him out. Through the kitchen window, by the light from a lamppost, Mary saw them leaning against the trunk of his car, kissing. Before Steven hopped behind the wheel, he squeezed Ingrid’s hips and pulled her pelvis tight against him.
As soon as Ingrid entered the door, Mary blew up.
“What do you think my house is? A Motel Six? You could at least tell me before you bring people over.”
“It isn’t the first time I’ve done it. Why didn’t you say anything before?” Ingrid was irritated, then her expression changed to a sneer. “You didn’t like Steven, did you?”
“Who is this Steven, anyway?”
“A friend.”
“A friend? You kiss all your friends on the lips? You let all your friends pinch your hips?”
“Mary!”
“If you had any respect for me, your older sister, you should have told me about him before you began to date him.”
“Well, now you know I’m seeing him.”
“You’d better be a little more responsible.”
“Am I irresponsible?”
“Just look at yourself in the mirror. I’m not picking on you for dressing like a punk, but dating a black guy is too much.”
“He isn’t black. He’s Indian.” Ingrid paused, raising her eyebrows. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it does. What do you think?”
“It doesn’t matter to me.”
“You can’t date him. You can’t date an Indian or a black.”
“Don’t you Christians always talk about equality? What’s with this no-dating-an-Indian-or-a-black thing? Are you telling me you’re a racist?”
“It has nothing to do with being a racist. You have a different background and culture from theirs. Look at Steven! What do you know about his family and upbringing? I’m thinking about your future, about your children.”
“You didn’t complain when I was seeing Peter last year. He’s a Caucasian. He didn’t share my background and culture, either.”
“His father was a professor. He grew up in a good family.”
“How do you know that Steven’s father or mother isn’t a professor? How do you know he didn’t grow up in a good family?”
Mary was silent, knowing that this argument would turn ugly. Of course, it was stupid of her to assume Steven had a seedy family background. But how unpleasant his appearance was! And the way he’d pinched her sister’s hips and pulled her toward him.
“I just knew,” Mary insisted.
“Let me get this straight. You’re okay with me dating a white guy but not a black or an Indian. Are Caucasians and Chinese more similar to one another than Chinese and blacks and Indians? Are children by Caucasians and Chinese prettier and smarter? Bob is Chinese, but how much does he know about China? How much Chinese can he speak, read, or write? How much of your background does he share? He’s a banana, yellow on the outside and white on the inside. I can’t see anything common between the two of you.”
Mary was enraged. She pounded on the countertop. “I’m your older sister. How can you talk to me like this? You know how much I have gone through to bring you to the States? Your tuition, your apartment, your food and clothes, your car—which one of those things wasn’t paid for by me?”
Ingrid kicked over a stool, and it bounced into the side of the dishwasher. “Mary, listen! I’ll rep
ay every penny of your money, with interest. From the day I arrived in the U.S. you have manipulated me as if I were your pawn. I’ve had enough. Enough!” She stormed out and slammed the door, leaving Mary stupefied, then weeping with her head buried in her crossed arms on the countertop. Minutes later, Alex walked into the kitchen and said timidly, “Mom, don’t cry. Mom is a good kid and Mom doesn’t cry.”
Mary clasped her son’s head against her chest, holding back her tears. “Mom is fine. Mom isn’t crying.” She managed somehow to suppress her sobbing for his sake.
Three weeks later, she received a brief letter from Ingrid, with a three-thousand-dollar check enclosed, saying that she had found a job in New York. More checks followed in the next few months, in varying amounts. She tore the checks to pieces, but more kept arriving.
As Mary and Alex eat dinner, she still cannot put Ingrid out of her mind. She listens halfheartedly to Alex’s chattering about his friend Jenson’s hamsters, wondering if Ingrid is doing well in New York. At least, being an accountant, she concludes, Ingrid shouldn’t have trouble finding a job. Maybe she even works on Wall Street, with a big-name firm like Morgan Stanley or Merrill Lynch, receiving a handsome year-end bonus and spending it on a shopping spree, who knows? Between them, Ingrid has always been the luckier one, hasn’t she?
When they were little, Ingrid was cuter, cleverer, and more likable, and she would sing “Red Stars Are Twinkling” in a sweet voice when asked by the neighboring aunts, who would then reward her with candy or a picture book. But they ignored Mary, rarely praising her or giving her gifts. It might have been because she smiled little; even if she did smile, she did not have deep dimples, as Ingrid had. At age five, a few months before Ingrid was born, Mary’s parents sent her to the countryside for two years to stay with a family they barely knew. She did not return to the city until Ingrid had learned to walk and talk. Probably thinking that Mary was too young to remember things, her parents never explained why they had sent her away, as if it had never happened.