Like Spilled Water

by Jennie Liu

  “I thought Bao-bao was a pretty good student,” I say, still stuck on this, but Mrs. Hu’s expression is closed off. It’s clear that she’s done talking. I remember Mama mentioning some older neighbors who were shidu fumu, parents who had lost their only child, and I realize Mrs. Hu must be who she was talking about. I don’t ask her anything more about Bao-bao, figuring that her thoughts must be on her own loss. Still, my mind races with questions.

  I remember Bao-bao last winter in the village, sitting hunched over his phone with his earbuds on, shutting the family out, while Nainai, Mama, and I bustled around cleaning and cooking. He didn’t seem stressed at all. How could he have snapped so drastically from a bad score? To kill himself! What sort of impulse was this?

  I know a person can take the gaokao over, although it’s only given once a year in June—practically a national holiday, the way the roads shut down and construction work pauses around the testing sites and parents keep vigil all day outside school gates. But another year would have given Bao-bao plenty of time to bring up his score. Did he give up hope of ever testing into a good school? Was he so ashamed of crushing the plans of our parents? Did he so dread the thought of working as a laborer?

  The truth is, I have no idea what Bao-bao was thinking, or what he was feeling. After he left me behind in the countryside, I didn’t know him at all.

  When Bao-bao first left the village for middle school, Mama used to put him on the phone during our weekly calls. At first, we missed each other and he was eager to talk to me, but soon he was prattling about the special foods Mama was cooking for him, the yogurt drinks Baba bought him, the zoo with the two-headed goat, and the underground metro the city was constructing. After a few months, I could hear Mama wheedling him to come talk to me. He would only say, “Hi, Sister” or “How are you, Sister?” when prompted by Mama until eventually she wouldn’t even bother to hound him to get on the line.

  Instead, she gave excuses. “He’s so tired from school. He’s studying, I don’t want to disturb him.” From Mama, I’d hear about the extra classes Bao-bao took on Saturdays, the special gifts bought for his teachers, his new desk, his rankings in every subject, his favorite study snacks.

  It stung that Bao-bao was pulling away from me, and of course, I was envious. He was being pampered as much as any singleton. He was headed to an elite college, a promising career. He would take care of Mama and Baba in their old age. It’s terrible to admit that I harbored such an awful bitterness toward Bao-bao, but I’m a tiny bit glad now that he didn’t care enough about me to have ever known about it.

  ***

  When Mrs. Hu and I get back to the apartment, Baba is in the front room hunched on a stool beside Mr. Hu, nursing a cup of steaming water. His eyes are bleary and he looks hungover. Mr. Hu is reading the newspaper to him, but when we come in, he stops and folds it up.

  “Here they are,” Mr. Hu tells Baba as he rises from his stool. “You see, your daughter, like I told you!” Mr. Hu waves me over to stand in front of Baba.

  “Baba, I’m here. I’ve come to help you and Mama.” I know by now not to mention Bao-bao.

  Baba’s head bobs on his neck and he gives me a mournful, grateful look. “Na! Our little Na. Not so little anymore.” His eyes try to focus. “You’ve grown up!”

  I wince at the peculiar way he speaks to me, like he hasn’t seen me since I was just a small girl. Fearing he’s going to become maudlin, I pull out one of the buns. “Eat this, Baba. Mama said I had to make sure you eat something.”

  As he reaches for it, he nearly topples off his stool. I move to help him right himself and take his cup away. I can smell the alcohol on him. He tears into the bun and starts chewing.

  Mrs. Hu says, “Old Hu, let’s go home and eat.” She turns to Baba. “Now, no more of this yelling today! You know Old Hu and I have to sleep after we eat or we won’t be any good at our recycling tonight.” She pats me on the shoulder and ticks her head toward my things in the corner to remind me where she hid the baijiu.

  When they’re gone, I’m nervous being alone with Baba. He blinks sleepily and sways on the stool while he eats. I don’t know what to do with myself and I cast my eyes around for something to occupy me. I take the groceries out of the bag and lay them on the cart, trying to be as unobtrusive as I can.

  “Baba, I’m going to clean up your room while you eat. Then it’ll be ready for you to take a nap.”

  He agrees by closing his eyes and ducking his head forward.

  I slip into the room with an empty bag. The tiny space is still dim and shadowy despite the circle of light the gooseneck lamp throws on the desk. I empty the ashtray first, then begin placing the empty beer and liquor bottles carefully into the bag so they don’t clink.

  My eyes run over the room as I work. Posters cover the walls: bands I’ve never heard of, the basketball players Jeremy Lin and Chen Nan. Textbooks and composition books are stacked neatly on one side of the desk and on the floor. There’s a pencil holder with the Harvard logo. The pens are lined up neatly on one side and all the pencils in the other half are sharpened to a point. Two plastic baskets of folded clothes sit under the desk with Bao-bao’s school uniform folded neatly on top.

  So this was Bao-bao’s room. When I helped them move into this apartment last year, we put the bigger bed in here. I remember it took up nearly all the space. Now the desk is here alongside Bao-bao’s smaller bed, the old hospital cot with the iron frame Baba proudly scavenged years ago. It’s clear now that Mama and Baba gave up their room to Bao-bao. My hand tightens around my trash bag. I can easily hear Mama say something like Bao-bao needs his own place to study with no distractions.

  I’m examining the papers tacked in rows on the bulletin board above the desk when Baba stumbles in to stand beside me. He has lit a cigarette and takes a long pull on it before tapping the ash onto the floor. I try to smile at him.

  “Na, I see you’re looking at your brother’s certificates.” A tormented smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Look at this one.” He jabs a finger at one near the top. “Best composition!” He moves his hand over the four sheets below it. “And here’s his report cards for his first four years. All 97 or above! His class rankings were always good then.”

  He swings around and gestures at me to shut the door. “Behind there! Look at that. That one was for the art competition he won in middle school. You remember how he loved to draw? How good he was at it?” Baba heaves out a breath and his whole body sags. “We thought he should quit the art elective in high school for more study time. He was on the science and engineering track. Did you know that?” His face lights up for a moment, and I nod, pulling my braid around and absently stroking it while he talks. Although my old jealousy is blistering up inside me, my heart also aches for Baba, so proud of Bao-bao, desperately hanging on to his achievements.

  “He quit the art, but we let him do the music for a time, because music helps to develop the mathematical part of your brain. He did piano lessons for a few months. We wanted to get one for him, but there was no space in the apartment . . .”

  I tilt my head with exaggerated interest while Baba rambles on and on, repeating all the details of Bao-bao’s hard work and talents that I’ve heard so many times before. But as much as I trying to pay attention to Baba’s good memories of my brother, my mind wanders to the question, With all that rigorous study, how did Bao-bao manage to score so poorly on the test?

  4

  The next morning, a Saturday, Mama doesn’t go to work, but she doesn’t sleep in either. I make rice porridge for us, and while we’re eating, Baba comes out of Bao-bao’s room dressed in a short-sleeved, white button-front shirt and black trousers. I watch with enormous relief as he plugs in an electric razor, shaves, and combs back his hair. He’s mostly steady on his feet. I try to catch Mama’s eye to see if she notices the change in him, but she stays focused on her bowl.

  My flash of optimism drains out of me as I look between the two of them. Mama has always seemed s
o mindful of Baba in the times I’ve seen them on the holidays—asking him to taste this or that as she was cooking, telling him to put a scarf on. And he was always agreeable to her plans. They got along well. But now they seem like two strangers occupying the same space.

  “Baba. Eat something!” I ladle up the porridge for him and hold it toward him.

  He shakes his head and perches on the edge of the bed like he’s waiting for something. His hands are folded in his lap and after a moment they begin to tremble.

  “Na, where’s the baijiu?” he asks me.

  Mama glances up at Baba, taking in the sheen of moisture on his forehead and the tight clasp of his hands as he tries to stop the shaking. She flicks her wrist at me to go ahead and get it. I dig out the bottle from my bag and hand it to Baba. After yesterday and last night, it’s been drunk down to a third. Baba takes a long swig and closes his eyes, letting the alcohol take effect. After several moments he hands the bottle back to me.

  “Put it away now,” he says. “We have to go.”

  My eyes widen. “Where are we going?” I ask eagerly, pleased that we’re getting out of the apartment, that we’re going somewhere. Together.

  He doesn’t answer. Mama gets up and nosily chucks her bowl into the plastic tub for washing dishes. She finds a white blouse and pulls it on over her tank top.

  “Come on,” she says, picking up her purse. “We have to get your brother.”

  My mouth falls open in confusion, but in half a second I catch on to what she means. I don’t know why I haven’t wondered where Bao-bao’s body is before now. Hospital, morgue, cemetery? I guess I had so many questions about his death that where he ended up was the least of them. Yeye and some old folks from the village are the only people I’ve known who’ve died. I don’t know what happens to the dead in the city.

  Outside, the morning sky is hazy, with the ball of sun in soft focus over the rows of apartment complexes. Except for a group of ladies doing tai-chi, the plaza of the Glorious Towers is empty as we cross the expanse of concrete. We’re halfway across when a woman comes in through the front gates, her short boots echoing with each step.

  I see that she’s young, not much older than me, dressed as if she’s just coming in from a night out. Her long hair is messy and loose, and heavy makeup is smudged around her eyes, but her lips are bare. The short black dress she wears is studded with metal grommets along the side, and the neckline hangs sharply off one shoulder, revealing a large red-orange tattoo blooming across her pale skin.

  Her stride is languid and confident. I see her eyes drift over me, move off, and jump back, suddenly alert. Her mouth parts slightly and she gazes at me steadily with a look I can’t decipher. Mama and Baba, with their heads bent, don’t take any notice of her since she passes with a wide berth. But she is close enough that I can see that the flaring tattoo, which I thought was a flower, is actually a nine-tailed fox.

  I glance back once more as we exit the gate, but Mama picks up the pace. We walk several blocks while the city begins to wake up. Soon Mama has no choice but to slow down because Baba is dragging behind, patches of sweat showing up on the back and under the arms of his shirt. We have to stop so he can mop his face and smoke a cigarette. Mama doesn’t say anything, but her face is cramped, anxious and miserable, and I sense the intensity of her impatience.

  The bus takes us to the north edge of the city, and we get off at Farewell Row. Mama charges ahead, but I look left and right at the hearses parked in the potholed street, at the funerary shops selling firecrackers, incense, and wreaths. In the windows of several shops, women hunch over tables, scissoring and pasting elaborate three-dimensional papercuts of everything from oxen and gold mountains to refrigerators, cars, and Gucci purses.

  Baba’s lips are trembling when we arrive at the small brown brick storefront of Feng’s Crematorium. An exhaust pipe rises up through the roof near the back of the building, expelling plumes of smoke. I flinch, registering that Bao-bao has been burned up, transformed into dust and smoke. With Yeye, there was an elaborate procession through the village with music and wailing, seven days of rites, endless offerings and gatherings. I suppose we’ll take Bao-bao to the village and do the same, only without the coffin.

  Inside, a large desk claims the center of the room, with shelves on three walls holding urns of every shape and color with price cards propped against each one of them. Mama tells Mr. Feng, a tall man with thin lips, that she has come to pick up Bao-bao’s ashes.

  “You want to take them?” Mr. Feng’s forehead crinkles up. “You should have told me beforehand. It’s not customary. Parents aren’t supposed to show respect to their child!”

  Mama clutches her hands against her middle and dips her head, but her jaw is set stubbornly. “That may be so, but times are changing,” she says quietly.

  Mr. Feng shakes his head. “The unmarried sons are left with us and we take care of . . . burying the ashes.” He seems awfully keen for Mama to leave Bao-bao here. I wonder if he has already buried him.

  “We want to take him home!” Baba bellows, his voice booming off the walls of the small shop. He pivots to scan the urns, his eyebrows furrowed in a way that seems almost belligerent.

  He moves toward a blue and green cloisonné urn with an intricate design of orange carp swimming among water lilies. An upraised white oval on the side marks space for an image of the deceased. Over his shoulder, I see the price card is marked 300 yuan. I expect him to move away, so when he picks up the urn and passes it to Mr. Feng, a strangled noise escapes me.

  Three hundred yuan is almost a month’s tuition at my school! My eyes dart to Mama. Her expression is stony, and I can’t tell if she’s appalled at the extravagance or if she’s simply brooding over Bao-bao and just doesn’t care.

  While Mr. Feng is in the back, Baba searches his wallet for the money. He doesn’t have enough and Mama has to dig into her bag for the rest. As I watch them count out the bills, I suddenly realize that with Bao-bao gone there will be no more private school tuition to pay, no more extra class fees, no more gifts for teachers. At least Mama and Baba’s constant money worries will ease up now.

  Of course Mama and Baba are not concerned about this. They only smooth out the bills and have them ready when Mr. Feng returns.

  ***

  When we get back to Glorious Towers, the young woman from earlier this morning passes through the stairwell door from the sublevel. She has changed her clothes, now wearing jeans and a fitted brown leather vest. A professional camera bag is slung on her shoulder and her hair is pulled back in a tight, high ponytail.

  She hesitates in the doorway when she sees us approaching. Her eyes flick to each of us, lingering on me again so that I’m almost expecting her to speak to me. But instead, her gaze shifts to Bao-bao’s urn cradled in Mama’s arms. She moves aside and holds the door open for us with her head tilted forward in a way that seems solemn and reverential. I’m the last to go through, and as I pass, she lifts her head and draws her eyebrows up and back in acknowledgement of my blatant stare.

  I have to look away to watch my footing on the steps in the dark stairwell. When I get to the bottom of the flight, I glance back up to the door. The woman is gone and the door is closing, but I already have it in my mind that maybe she knew Bao-bao.

  5

  After lunch, Mama goes to work for a few hours. Baba carries Bao-bao’s urn to the bedroom and sets it on the desk with the lamp shining down on it. He comes back out for the beer he pressured Mama into buying on the way home, then retreats into the bedroom and shuts the door.

  In the front room, I chew on my thumbnail, wondering about Baba’s drinking. When he was home for the Spring Festival, he always drank a lot, but most of the men did because it was the holidays. He’s been sober enough all morning, but with the alcohol he’s taken to his room, I’m afraid it’s just a matter of time before he has another episode like yesterday. Take care of him, Mama said, but I’m not sure what that really means. There is nothing to
do but wait.

  I take out my phone to finally text Gilbert. The girls at college tease me about Gilbert being my boyfriend, but I’m not really sure. When he and I are together, I feel a spark, a charge, something between us, but he’s never acted on it other than to give my hair a playful yank when we pass each other on campus. Whether this is because our parents drummed a no dating rule into us, or because Gilbert is as shy as I am, I don’t know. But in truth, I don’t mind that nothing’s happened yet, because it’s reassuring to think he has as little experience with romance as I do.

  The message window blinks at me to start typing, but I don’t know what to say about what’s happened. I hesitate for a long minute. Eventually, I just come out with it.

  Bao-bao died.

  I stare at the phone waiting for an answer, but I know that if Gilbert’s in Willow Tree Village, reception at his house might be poor, and he may not get my message right away.

  There’s no reply, so I make myself useful by cleaning up, washing the dishes, then washing some clothes in the utility room down the hall. While I’m hanging the laundry up on the line strung across the front room of the apartment, my eye falls on a book in the stack of clutter in the corner. Harvard Girl Liu Yiting: A Character Training Record.

  Baba’s wet undershirt slips off the line as I reach for the book. The cover shows a girl proudly displaying her Harvard acceptance letter. Of course, I’ve heard of the book: one couple’s detailed methods and techniques for helping their daughter achieve her full academic potential! The book is still famous even though it was written years ago

  Mama’s copy is well-thumbed. Several pages are dog-eared, and lines are highlighted in yellow. I can envision Mama, with her middle school education, underlining, highlighting, marking down important points to remember for Bao-bao’s sake.

  I feel like crying, but instead I rip the cover off the book, then rip it again in half and crush all the pieces into a ball.