How Sweet the Bitter Soup

by Lori Qian

  “Fine with me, but I’d like William in the ELC.”

  “Okay, Lori, let me think about who we could put there, but that should be fine.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I was smiling as I walked back to my office.

  Since the day I discussed William’s placement in the ELC with Shelly, I’ve thought about how I was able to make that change happen. Because my mom had some deep insecurities, I’d taken some of those on as well, especially as a teenager. My core, though, had always been tough. I was the advocate for our family from a very young age.

  As young as eight years old, I would stand up for Chrissy if she were teased or not included with friends. At age nine, I took it upon myself to arrange a meeting for my family with our bishop at church. I was concerned that Chrissy was not being reverent and that she was running around playing instead. I felt my parents needed some tips for how to keep her quiet. I remember arranging the time and Mom, Dad, Chrissy, and I going into the bishop’s office after church to discuss strategies. If memory serves, I believe I kept a file on their progress in following through.

  I often felt that people didn’t give my dad the respect he deserved. Perhaps because of his humility, people may have assumed he was beneath them. It bothered me because I knew how smart and wonderful he was. At the same time, I know there were times I felt embarrassed by his appearance, but it never stopped me from standing up for him when I felt it was needed.

  When I was 15, my dad had been pulled over by a police officer when I was with him. Like many people from a lower socioeconomic level, my dad was scared of the police. Anytime he would see a police officer, he’d get very tense. “Uh-oh, cops! Wonder what they want,” he would say, even if the officers were nowhere near him. On this day, though, we’d been pulled over, and this particular officer was pretty condescending—the worst stereotype of a police officer. I didn’t like the way he was talking to my dad.

  “Sir, your registration sticker is expired,” he’d said. I watched how nervous my dad was.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry about that. I don’t have it.”

  The officer smirked. “Well, you can’t just drive around without the proper registration. You can’t just get it when you feel like it. You’re supposed to get the sticker first, then drive the car,” he said, chuckling at his own attempted joke.

  I started to say something and my dad gently put his hand toward me and gave me a “shh, I’ve got it honey” look.

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t have the money and I’m driving my daughter to her physical therapy appointment. I’ll get it tomorrow, sir, I promise you that. My daughter was in a car accident and she needs her therapy and. . . .

  The cop interrupted, talking right over my dad.

  “Well, I can’t just accept that. There are laws. . . .

  I couldn’t listen anymore. Who did this guy think he was talking to my dad that way?

  “Excuse me, but maybe not everyone has the money to get a stupid sticker on their car. My dad was driving safely and has every intention of getting the sticker as soon as he can. And by the way, there are people out there doing way worse stuff. My dad was obeying the laws, and he’s doing this for me, and I don’t think you have the right to just. . . .”

  The absolute panic in my dad’s eyes and his gesturing me to be quiet happened at the same time the officer bent down, put his head in the window, and shook his finger at me, inches from my face, his arm reaching right in front of Dad.

  “Young lady, one more word out of you and I’ll have your dad arrested right here. I’ll slap those handcuffs right on the old man! You want that? I’ll do it right now.”

  I saw his anger and sick pride right alongside my dad’s fear and panic. I wanted to talk back to him and tell him to stop using his power to intimidate an old man and teenage girl, but I knew it would get worse. I knew what to do. Do as my dad was doing, do as he always did.

  “No, I don’t want that. I just don’t want my dad in trouble when he’s only trying to help me.” I could feel tears coming, as suddenly I worried I’d just made this so much worse for my dad.

  The officer looked at me, looked at my dad, and wrote a ticket.

  “Sir, you’ll need to appear in court on this date. Bring the proof of registration and you shouldn’t need to pay the fine. But do not drive this vehicle until you get the proper registration. Do you understand me, sir?”

  I was fuming at the way he continued to talk to Dad, like Dad was stupid or something. But I kept quiet.

  “Yes, Officer. Thank you, Officer. I’m very sorry, Officer.”

  I felt so bad for my dad, and I felt so bad for my whole family. Why didn’t we have any power? Why did people feel they could talk to my parents like they were nothing? I’d guessed it was because we didn’t have money. I told myself then, as I’d told myself as a ten-year old researching career options, that I would never be poor.

  The more I considered it, I’d always been one to advocate for others and for myself. Sometimes there had been periods of insecurity, but I’d always managed to get past them, and even when I was intimidated or downright scared, I could usually muster the strength to fake enough confidence to get through a given situation.

  Maybe my faith had been part of my confidence. My level of spirituality had deepened recently, at least in the area of understanding the importance of my body. The application of all those gospel principles was finally taking shape. I had always believed that my body was a gift from God, but I don’t think I’d really internalized all the beautiful teachings about my body being a temple”—something holy—and that it was a privilege to care for it. After all, I had spent a lot of my youth feeling confused about what a normal body size was, and why my mom looked so strikingly different from my friends’ moms. I’d felt embarrassed by her size and then I’d felt shame for feeling that embarrassment. It was a lot for a teenage girl to deal with.

  During my ninth grade year, we had a family therapy session with a child psychologist. The school counselor had referred our family to a counselor because she and my parents were concerned about my rapid weight loss. No one was really saying that I had a specific eating disorder. I probably didn’t, but I certainly had an unhealthy obsession with losing weight. Part of it was pressures from the ballet world in which I was so immersed, and part of it certainly had to do with being afraid, perhaps irrationally, that I was destined to be obese like the other women in my family. My parents were at a loss, and this was an incredibly difficult time for my family.

  This was the first family therapy session we’d had—I actually think it was the first and last. Mom, Dad, Chrissy, and I were gathered together in a small room with Dr. Krane, the psychologist I’d been working with individually at the suggestion of my school counselor. None of us knew how to “do” therapy— this was so far outside the norm for us. I know that my parents were desperate to help me.

  Early on in the conversation, Dr. Krane had said the purpose of this meeting was just to try and help me and to help our whole family as we were all dealing with this sickness— and of course my being sick affected the entire family. I didn’t like being referred to as “sick” but I also knew something was wrong and that I worried about this way too much. I did feel that talking with Dr. Krane helped me. I could share how I felt different from my family, although I loved them. And that I felt guilt for feeling different. That I wished my parents were younger, healthier, and that we had a nicer house and a car that didn’t often break down. I told him how I longed to just feel normal and to not have so many worries.

  As Dr. Krane shared the goal of the session, my mom inched forward on her chair. I looked at her with her tan polyester pants, her blousy blue-and-green shirt, flowing down past her stomach. She’d done her hair, used the curlers, I’d guessed. Almost immediately after Dr. Krane had finished his introductory comments, Mom began. Lip trembling, voice soft, hands folded, my mom said that she’d like to say something. She said that her childhood had been difficult and there had been some
abuse in her family, that she was not well-cared for. She gathered her strength to go on: “I just think it’s why Lori is sick. Maybe it’s my fault.” she said through her tears. I winced as she spoke. I felt sorry for her but I wanted to tell her to pull herself together. This was so awkward and I wanted to run out of the room but I knew I should show compassion. She never expressed these kinds of emotions and I wasn’t ready for this. I felt extremely uncomfortable, followed by guilty for feeling uncomfortable rather than compassionate.

  In hindsight, I know she thought it would help to say aloud that she’d had bad experiences in her childhood which made her parenting harder, making it hard for her to set boundaries and teach us important things we needed. But none of that was clear then, and it would be years before we would talk about it any further. They just knew I wasn’t eating enough, I was sick, and that I had a lot of worries. They all just wanted to know why. I guess I did too.

  I wondered if it really was possible to be different, and to not have so many worries, to just let things go, but I could never do that. My worries translated into the need to take control in order to fight off insecurity. I put a great deal of effort into always being ready and willing to stand up for my family—to make sure nobody teased Chrissy or mistreated my parents. At fifteen, it just seemed that was my place. No one asked me to take it on. I just did.

  chapter 21

  As I sat in my office on a Monday evening, I should have been planning for the next day, but instead I was trying to think of an excuse to talk to William. It certainly hadn’t been conscious, but looking back, I wondered if on some level I’d known I had better keep him up there with me in the ELC so I could become his friend and fall in love with him. As strange as it sounded, even to me, I felt like I was heading in that direction. I had never really been in love, true love, before, so I wasn’t sure how to identify this feeling. We had never even had a real conversation; he knew nothing about me; and yet there was something about this man that both comforted and excited me. Just thinking about him simply made me smile.

  Mike came in to tell me a parent was waiting to talk to me. Jia Jin had been my student the previous year and was now in Mike’s class. She was struggling with her literacy skills and was exhibiting some behavioral problems, so Mike had called a parent conference and asked me to be present for it.

  I walked in to the meeting to discover that William was there, too, so he could translate for Jia Jin’s mother. She talked for what seemed like forever, but she was a good woman and was concerned about Jia Jin. We talked out some possible plans for working with Jia Jin and before I knew it, it was already seven o’clock. We thanked her for coming and Mike ran out behind her, already late for a date with his wife. William and I were left sitting at the kiddy table in the ELC lobby.

  “Sorry you had to miss your dinner, William,” I said, knowing the school cafeteria where he usually ate was now closed.

  “No problem,” he said, looking at me and, I thought, hoping I would continue the conversation. I wanted to, but I didn’t know what to say.

  Luckily, he thought of something to say first. “What will you do for dinner?”

  Okay, do I say I’ll go out? That I’ll go home? I told him the truth: “I’ll probably just go home.”

  Okay, was I really thinking he would take this cue to ask me out? That would have been too bold, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “Oh, well, you’d better get going. It’s late.”

  “Yes, you too,” I said as we both stood up and pushed in our chairs.

  I gathered my stuff and heard him say goodnight. He’s probably got a date with his girlfriend. Duh, Lori! What are you thinking? I walked down to the bus . . . and there he was.

  “Oh, hi again,” I said. “Aren’t you heading back to your dorm?” This bus only went up to the front of the Estates.

  “No,” he said, “I think I will go to a restaurant and get something to eat.

  The seconds between this statement and the next were an eternity in my mind. Please, just ask me. Ask me and I’ll say yes. He did, thank God. “Would you like to join me?”

  Bless this man!! That was a very bold move, especially for a Chinese man talking to a Western woman. But right now, he obviously wasn’t letting that stop him. We were just two people waiting for the same bus, both of whom were hungry. He’d done the natural thing, and I was so thrilled that he had.

  “Sure,” I said, grinning, “that sounds much better than going home and eating a sandwich.”

  The bus came and he motioned for me to get on first. Ever the gentleman.

  Dinner was wonderful. William told me of his hometown and his life before coming to Guangzhou. He was not overly talkative but was careful not to let the conversation lull, either. When it did, though, it wasn’t uncomfortable. We kept seeing people from school passing by, and I wished they’d all go away; we lived in such a bubble existence there, and it was almost impossible to separate work from life. Still, William and I had a wonderful dinner, and I was so happy to be with him.

  When it came time to pay, he went to take care of the bill but I suggested we go Dutch. He didn’t argue, which I appreciated. I made about a zillion times the amount he did, and I didn’t want to put him on the spot.

  It was so lovely simply to walk next to him, to be with him. He was kind and smart. I enjoyed his company. The walk back to the bus went quickly and suddenly we were walking toward my apartment, and it was time to say goodnight.

  “Thank you so much, William,” I said. “What a nice dinner.”

  “Thank you, Lori,” he said. “I’m so happy to have dinner with you.”

  We said our “see you tomorrows” and went our separate ways. Back in my apartment, I rehearsed the evening over and over in my mind. What had just happened here? Had we had a date? What was he thinking? Was I his boss? His colleague? Or was there a chance that I was a pretty girl whom a handsome guy wanted to get to know? Was it possible?

  I fell asleep hoping that it was.

  chapter 22

  William and I spent the next month finding excuses to spend time with one another. At least I knew I was doing that, and I was almost positive he had been doing the same thing. My ayi had made a special dish for me the previous week, and I’d brought it to work to share on a Friday before I left for Hong Kong. We didn’t finish the dish that afternoon, so I left it for everyone to enjoy.

  I had gotten very used to having household help, and my ayi, Asim, had quickly figured out how to make my life easier. She did the cleaning, the laundry, and the shopping, and helped me handle any maintenance tasks that came up. No more traipsing around with my broken Chinese, trying to get repairs done; she simply took care of things. I also no longer felt guilt or weirdness about having a maid. It was completely normal in China, and the cost was well worth it. I had felt a little strange when I told my mom, but she had been nothing but happy for me and had actually been quite fascinated by the whole concept.

  When I got back from Hong Kong on Saturday, I had a text message from William asking if it would be convenient for him to return my bowl to me. I literally jumped up and down after receiving this request because it was clear he had gone to some trouble; there were several people who could have taken the bowl and washed it, but he’d made sure he was the one to do that. Also, it would have been easy to leave the bowl at work and I could have gotten it on Monday. But no, Qian Zhi Ming had managed to get that bowl and take it to his dorm Friday night so he would have a reason to call me on Saturday.

  I told him to bring it around six and then added, “Maybe we could have dinner together.” I quickly sent the message before I lost my nerve, and then waited for his response, my stomach in knots. He wrote back with, “Great, see you at six.”

  That night we walked around Siqao, looking in shops and talking for hours. The week before, we had also come to Siqao together—I had asked him to help me buy a mobile phone. There were countless other people who could have helped me buy a phone, but I’d wanted William to
be the one to accompany me.

  Almost every day that month, there was something like this; whether it was a conversation or a bus ride to Siqao, we were finding excuses to be together.

  All of that passed through my mind as I stood at the base of the mountain, waiting for William to arrive. Tonight, there was no excuse to meet. Neither of us needed any help of any type. We knew we were meeting simply because we wanted to spend time together. My stomach was doing leaps. I felt sick, but in a good way. “Nervous” did not begin to cover it.

  We had decided to climb a TV tower that was at the top of a very large hill, right down the road from our apartments. People usually climbed this hill for exercise, but William had pointed out to me that if you climbed a little higher, there was a tower at the very top. He was curious about it, and when he’d invited me, I’d told him I was game. Now, though, my heart felt different— more than just racing, it was beating so hard I assumed passersby could hear it.

  Up until tonight I’d had doubts about whether William could be truly interested in me. At one point in my life, I would have attributed his possible lack of interest to my own inadequacies. My insecurity at this point, though, had more to do with all our differences. After all, he was a quiet, dignified Chinese man, and I was an outspoken, American woman who just happened to be his boss.

  There had been moments when I was almost positive he saw more in me. The way his eyes seem to look right through me, and how a smile always began to emerge on his lips when my eyes met his. He could not walk into my office and say anything without smiling, and I could never help but smile back. We could be talking about a student’s assignment or paperwork, or any other mundane thing, yet we both constantly had these gigantic grins whenever we spoke.

  William walked toward me, waving. I waved back and it occurred to me that I had never seen him looking so handsome—which is saying something, because I always thought he was extremely good looking. His white shirt was untucked, and he was wearing khakis and tennis shoes. I had only seen him in formal slacks and dress shirts, and he always wore formal black shoes. He looked so casual and sort of rugged, and I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to kiss him and scream to the stars, “I love you, William!”