Like Spilled Water

by Jennie Liu

  Well before I get there, I hear the shouting. It’s Baba. And I’m sure he’s drunk.

  When I round the bend, I stop with a stitch in my side, heaving for air in the thick heat. I see down the hill that Baba’s kneeling at the grave while Mama stands over him shrieking.

  “Go away!” he roars at Mama. He reaches backward and pushes at her legs before he turns back to Bao-bao’s grave and plows into the dirt with his hands.

  I go cold when I notice the cloisonné urn with the lid removed on the ground beside him, and Mama screams, “Let him be!”

  He’s digging up Bao-bao’s ashes.

  Mama’s crying. Her hands are fisted up near her shoulders. As she leans in to yell at Baba to stop, I’m afraid she’s going to pummel him. He ignores her and keeps digging.

  “Leave him alone!” Mama drops down and pushes the dirt back in. I’m frozen in place as my parents are caught in a whirl of dirt circling in and out of the hole, until Mama finally lunges at Baba and shoves him. Baba topples over, bumping the urn, but he doggedly clambers back onto his knees and resumes digging. He slurs, “Can’t let him disappear . . . turn to dust . . . not right!”

  “Stop it! Stop it. Leave him alone. You have no right. You did this! You killed him! You killed my boy!”

  “Mama! Don’t say that!” I dart down the hill, appalled that she would blame Baba like this when he blames himself already. “It’s not his fault!”

  “Not his fault!” Mama turns on me with wild rage. “He did this! He did it. With his own hands! He hit my boy and knocked the life out of him.”

  “No, Mama! No!” I grab her by the shoulders, furious that she’s torturing Ba like this. “Bao-bao did it to himself. Bao-bao ate rat poison.”

  “No!” She twists out of my grip and turns away, her shoulders shuddering as she sobs. For a moment she seems to be calming down, but suddenly she spins back around. “It wasn’t the poison that killed him,” she screams. “Ba hit him. His head smacked the bedstead, and Baba just left him.”

  “No, Mama!” I shake my head. “Mrs. Hu told me it was rat poison!”

  “We put the poison there! Put it in his mouth, in his hands, to cover up that your ba killed him!” She doubles over and puts her face in her hands.

  She’s wailing, and the noise becomes a distant ringing in my ears as I stare at her with a great rising dread. It can’t be true. I don’t believe it. I look to Baba, wanting him to deny it. He has stopped digging and just sits there, shaking. His fists are mashed to his chest, covered in dirt.

  “Baba!”

  He rocks back and forth.

  “Ba!” A great lump pushes up into my throat.

  Tears stream down his face, making a smeary mess. He begins to mumble. I lean forward to make out what he’s saying.

  “I did it. I killed my boy. I did it.”

  My eyes go back and forth between the two of them. “But it was an accident?” My voice cracks, sounding hollow.

  Mama is still hunched over on her knees. Her hands now clamp over her mouth, and she gazes wretchedly into the excavated grave.

  Baba drops his hands into his lap, muttering on and on, “I did it. I did it.” With his eyes closed and his face streaked with dirt, he looks dead himself.

  I feel myself go white. Mama, Baba, the tree, the cloisonné urn, and the dirt spiral around me. I back away, stunned and horrified.

  The next thing I know I’m scrambling down the path toward home. From out of nowhere Nainai appears, reaching her arms out as if to stop me. But I don’t stop. I skirt a wide arc out of her grasp and keep going. Briefly, I wonder if she knows the truth, but I smudge the question out of my mind. It doesn’t matter, I don’t want to know.

  I burst into the yaodong and stand, panting, sweat trickling down my back. The walls, covered in peeling newspaper and our old family photos, close in on me. My eyes flit around the curved room, from Nainai’s chair, to the stove where I cooked for Nainai and me, to the table where Bao-bao and I did our homework.

  Bao-bao’s drawings are fanned out on the kang. I left them rolled up when Nainai sent me out to Baba and Mama. She must’ve opened them. What she must’ve thought . . .

  I see the Ai Weiwei quote is lying top and center, and suddenly, I know what I’m going to do.

  28

  I sit in the very first seat behind the driver, my eyes fixed straight ahead over his shoulder and through the windshield, as if the force of my gaze will spur the bus to eat the asphalt even faster.

  The bus grinds in and out of little towns. People climb on and off the bus, but I take no notice of them. At times I’m aware of a dull hum in my ear as if my brain is trying to shirr itself together after being ruptured into thousands of pieces.

  A few times, when my phone dings with a text, I see in my mind Mama screaming and Baba digging up the grave, but I don’t look at the messages. Instead I swiftly shake my head until the images blur away with the passing landscape and the miles of road between us.

  Only when the sun begins its slow setting and the lanes of the highway begin to double, then triple, do I force myself to organize my thoughts. I check the time on my phone. The first thing I have to do is to get to an internet café. Now more than ever I can’t afford to miss my teaching sessions, because it’s the only sure thing I have at the moment.

  When the bus pulls into Taiyuan, I go straight to my regular café, with just enough time to text Min and tell her I need to see her when I finish here. I see the texts from Mama, but I don’t read them and I don’t call her. My hair, freed from its band, has messily come undone and sticks to my damp neck. I smooth it back as best I can while I wait for a response from Min.

  She doesn’t answer before I have to sign on with my students. I’m distracted while I teach, glancing repeatedly at my phone beside my desk even though I’ve shut it off. Somehow I manage to fix a smile on my face and chatter to my students over the next two hours, though a riot of urgent plans and suppressed thoughts has begun to bounce in the back of my mind.

  For the first time, I’m glad when the lessons are done. It’s after 10:00 p.m. Min has answered that she and Wei are going to put up her exhibit in the park, and I can meet her there. The day has been so jarring, so disturbing and depleting, I’m surprised by the blip of cheer that passes through me, knowing that I’ll get to see her installation before I go.

  My hand slips down to grasp my travel bag. That Wei is with Min is another stroke of luck, because I intend to sell Bao-bao’s designs to him. I need money if I’m going to go back to Linfen, to finish my degree in coal technology.

  If I can just get enough for the first month’s tuition, I’ll manage after that. I plan to beg Min’s friend for more online teaching sessions, and if that doesn’t cover me, I’ll find cleaning work or wash dishes at a restaurant. But for now I need to get that first 350 yuan, and after I sell Bao-bao’s designs, I’m hoping I can borrow the rest from Min. I know it’s a lot to ask of her, we’ve only known each other for a short time, but I’m sure she’ll want to support what I’m doing.

  Coal technology may not be as ambitious as studying for the gaokao or getting an English degree. But it’s a first step, and for now, like Min said, it’s enough to be riding the donkey to find a horse.

  A sign at the entrance states that the park closes at nine, yet a few lampposts still light the main promenade. I peer down the paved winding walkway. The park seems deserted. I hesitate, wondering if Min is here after all, if she’s already left.

  No one is around to stop me from going in, so I decide to run over to the area where the Marriage Market is held and see if Min and Wei are there. The quiet is eerie, and I hear insects buzzing, something I’ve never heard in the city before.

  When I come out the other side of the ornamental bridge, my gaze is drawn upward to a fluttering display above the path. I stop to take in the sight. For at least fifty meters, widely spaced clotheslines crisscross overhead.

  Min’s photos of women hang from the lines with their
statements interspersed. They’re strung low enough that I can read the words written in large red characters and see the warm, strong expression of each woman as I begin to move under the exhibit. Their faces are glowing and vibrant, set against solid colored backgrounds and strewn from tree to tree, giving the whole exhibit the effect of Tibetan prayer flags, rippling in the wind.

  It takes my breath away that Min herself has imagined this, shot all the photos, produced all the pieces and executed such a stunning display. I realize that I had a small part to play in it, and tears spring to my eyes.

  With the hard events of the day catching up to me and seeing Min’s vision carried through, I’m no longer able to dam up my emotions. I want to admire each woman and reread every statement to shore myself up, but I hear voices ahead and remember what I’ve come for.

  As I emerge at the end of the exhibit, someone shouts, “Wait! Stop there!” I halt and squint into the darkness of the park searching for Min; I’m sure it was her voice. A flash bursts from a tree. I’m briefly blinded, but after a moment I make out Wei standing under a tree, and Min straddling a branch above him with her camera aimed at the exhibit. The camera flashes a few more times before she calls out, “Thanks, Na! You can move now.”

  She hands Wei her camera and climbs down as I approach. They’re both grinning, clearly proud of this work.

  “Min, you’ve done it! It’s beautiful!” I say. “I didn’t know you were so close to doing the installation.”

  “Well, I decided I needed to do it now. I made some changes with how I planned to display the photographs. Stringing them up is much less costly than what I was originally going to do.”

  “She had to be cheap, because she just rented her studio!” Wei says.

  “That’s wonderful!” I try to sound enthusiastic, though my heart sinks. This means she probably won’t be able to loan me any cash.

  “That’s why I wanted to get the exhibit displayed now, even if it meant making do with just the rope. The photographs and statements are really the important parts anyway. And the publicity I hope it gets. I put out the press release a couple hours ago and I hope it gets some attention before the park officials take it all down.”

  “Take it down? After all your work!”

  Min shrugs. “Probably. I didn’t apply for a permit. I doubt the authorities would’ve approved it anyway. But if they remove it, I’ll make sure to use that for publicity as well. So what did you need to talk to me about?” she asks.

  I force a smile. I built it up in my mind that Min would be able to help me. “I’ve decided to go back to school.” I try to sound resolute, but my plans are on shaky ground again. “Gilbert and I aren’t going to get married after all.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes get round and inquisitive. I can see her trying to decide whether to congratulate me, extend her sympathies, or ask me what led to these decisions.

  “Yes. I don’t have time to go into it. I’m hoping to catch the 11:40 bus tonight,” I say to head off her questions. “I just wanted—to say goodbye.” I turn to Wei. “And I was hoping to meet with you, too.” I drop my bag and crouch to pull out Bao-bao’s drawings. “I brought these back with me.”

  Wei reaches for them and shuffles through the sheets, holding them up to the light of the lamppost. “Oh! They’re so good! Min, look at them.”

  Min leans in to look over his shoulder, murmuring her admiration as he goes through them again. She cocks her head at me thoughtfully. “Na, are you sure you want to pass these on?”

  “Yes. He did them for Wei, and I still have his sketchbook.” I press my lips together, hating to ask for payment, but it has to be done. “Besides, I need the money.”

  Wei’s head jerks up and he gives me a look of surprise. “Na, I guess I didn’t mention it before, because it didn’t matter after what happened, but I already paid Bao-bao for these. I gave him the money up front.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders slump. That never occurred to me.

  Wei pats at his pockets. He brings out a wad of bills and smooths them out. “Take this—twenty-two yuan. I just paid my rent, so I don’t have more on me.”

  “No, no,” I protest and push away the money. “You already paid for them.”

  “If you need it, you need it. You can always pay me back one day.” He pushes it into my hand and I take it, promising to pay him back.

  “I wish I could help you out too,” Min adds, “but the studio . . .”

  “It’s okay. I’ll manage.” I’m not sure how, but I know I have enough to at least get on the bus. I’m eager to go now. My mind is already scrambling. I need to get my other things from the apartment. I want to be on the bus before I lose my nerve, or before Mama decides to come back to Taiyuan.

  What happened to Bao-bao comes rushing back to me. I squeeze my eyes shut against the truth.

  “Na, are you okay?”

  Yes is the reflexive answer that forms in my mouth, but Min looks so concerned, I catch myself before I say it. Of course, I can’t tell her about Mama and Baba, or about Gilbert. Although I’m sure I can trust Min, their secrets aren’t mine to expose.

  “I’m going to be fine,” I tell Min. “I have to hurry, though. Text me how it goes tomorrow!” I stuff the money into my pocket, pick up my bag, and say goodbye. I walk through the installation again, gazing up at the shimmering women as I pass, spurred on by their bold and heartfelt words.

  ***

  On the way to the apartment, my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance at it reflexively and halt when I see that it’s Nainai. For a second, I don’t want to answer it, certain that Mama has pressured her to call me and is hovering at her shoulder—or has taken Nainai’s phone and is using it herself. But I hate to think of Nainai, of all people, staying up so late, worrying about me.

  I click to answer, but in case Mama is on the other end, I don’t say anything.

  “Na?”

  I exhale, relieved. “Yes, Nainai, I’m here.”

  She lets out a rush of breath herself. “Where are you? Your mama and baba are frantic! You won’t answer them?”

  “I’m okay, Nainai.”

  “I went to Gilbert’s earlier this evening looking for you. He told me you broke it off! He wouldn’t say why, only that you changed your mind, that it was up to you to explain if you wanted.” Her voice is urgent, but soft. I sense that she’s alone, maybe standing outside whispering into the phone so Mama won’t hear.

  “It’s not going to work out.” I perch on the edge of a concrete planter full of shrubs. The dark street is quiet and I can hear her breaths as silence falls between us. I know she wants to know the rest, but more than anyone, Nainai understands not to push when I’m not ready to talk.

  “It’s all right,” she finally says. “Doesn’t matter. Just come home.”

  “No, Nainai. I’m not coming home.” I shake my head even though she can’t see me.

  “Is it because of whatever happened with—with your parents this afternoon? Whatever they said to you, Na, they didn’t mean it. They’re just grief-stricken.”

  I can’t reveal what I’ve learned about Bao-bao’s death. Knowing what Baba did would destroy her. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.” I hold back from telling her anything—where I am, where I’m going—she’ll have to share with Mama. “I have to go. But it’s good to . . . hear your voice.”

  “Na!” Nainai says. “Whatever you argued with them about—they’ll come around. The old ways are hard to change, but not impossible.”

  “I’ll call you soon,” I tell her, my chest tightening as I click off.

  ***

  Talking to Nainai has given me one more idea about where to get my tuition money. I scan the alleys between the buildings and keep my ears attuned for the clatter of junk being tossed out of trash bins. Finally, when I’m a few blocks away from our building, I spot Mrs. Hu with her cart in an alley.

  “Hello!” I shout to get her attention and run over.

  “I thought you were going
home for your brother’s burial,” she says.

  “I did.” I pause, torn about what exactly to say next. The lights in the alley throw shadows on her face, but her gaze is on me, solemn and expectant. I suddenly realize that she knows. She’s known all along what happened to Bao-bao.

  The last few hours evaporate, and once again, I’m back at Bao-bao’s grave, flooded with the truth.

  “Mrs. Hu, I know what happened to Bao-bao.” I swallow the rest of the words on my tongue—Baba killed him and Mama covered it up.

  “They told you,” she says.

  “It came out.”

  Mrs. Hu shakes her head grimly and looks up at the gray-black sky. “They’re suffering.”

  My face twists with contempt. I don’t know what to do with the awfulness of the truth. The words They killed him jump back into my mouth, needing to be spat out, but I can’t say them.

  “They—they—stole his youth!” I sputter fiercely, enraged for my brother, for myself. I bury my face in my hands, my fingers pressing over my closed lids as I try to stop up the hot tears that I can’t hold back anymore.

  Mrs. Hu’s thick, rough fingers wrap gently around my wrists. She pulls my hands down and steers me over to sit on her cart stacked with tied bundles of newspapers. My tears gush out, running down my face and dripping onto my lap. I clutch my arms in my lap and bend over them, crying, sobbing, for several minutes, not bothering to wipe away the tears.

  Finally, after my tears start to slow, Mrs. Hu speaks. “It’s true. They stole his youth without meaning to. This is how they showed their love. They thought they were doing their best for him, and an accident of the worst kind happened. It was an accident, you understand. You have to know that.”

  I swipe at my face with the back of my hand. “But if they hadn’t pushed him, tried to control him—if they let had him do what he wanted—”

  “Parents aren’t used to thinking that way. We do what we know.”

  “But Baba hit him! Killed him. And they covered it up!”