The windows are open, and light spills into the living room. It’s as tidy as any cluttered room can be, filled with knick-knacks ranging from the expected (some thick red vases, adorned with white cherry blossoms that I guess are Chinese in origin) to the inexplicable (a plastic, moving clock-slash-telephone featuring Felix the Cat, whose tail ticks the seconds away).
Mr. Chen grunts as I gingerly seat myself on the opposite side of the couch from him.
Some people—like my father, for instance—are loud news watchers. They yell out insults anytime they disagree with anyone, and growl anytime someone is wrong—which, according to my dad, is usually everyone all the time.
By contrast, Mr. Chen seems abnormally quiet. “Hmm,” he says in response to a discussion on the volatility of oil prices. “Hmm” is also his only commentary on some ongoing protests in New York. When the news engages four pundits in a back-and-forth discussion on the prospects of a presidential hopeful, he listens quietly, shaking his head. At the end, he delivers his longest comment yet: “Hmmmm.”
I wait until a commercial comes on before I try to engage him in conversation. “Do you enjoy watching the news?”
He looks over at me. For a second, I think he’s going to say, “Hmm.” Instead, he shrugs. “Yes. If they don’t say anything stupid. Today, not so much.”
“Is the news much like this in China?”
He mulls this over. “I don’t think so,” he says. “But if it was, I wouldn’t know. We didn’t have a television.” He smiles. “I watch a lot of television now.”
“Just news, or everything else?”
“Everything. I like MTV. Basketball. I really like football.”
“Did you learn about football when you moved here, or were you a fan before?”
“I learned when we came over.” He has less of an accent than Tina’s mother—maybe because he watches so much television. There’s a glint in his eye. “I had to learn. All my favorite TV shows would get…what’s the word? Ah, preempted. Yes, preempted by football. So I learned.”
“Who do you root for?”
He shrugs. “I always want the Rams to win.”
I glance sideways, but he doesn’t seem to be joking about this. Maybe he’s just naturally stoic.
“And you?” he asks politely.
“I’m a 49ers fan.”
“Of course.” He smiles at this. “You spent your whole life in Palo Alto. That’s natural.”
“Yeah. Although that’s not the only reason…” I stop suddenly. We talked about my major. We talked about my fake version of Dad’s job last night. We didn’t talk about where I lived, and most of what Tina has said about me to her parents is that I’m not her boyfriend.
The news starts again, and he leans forward, focusing on the screen. For the next few moments, he doesn’t say anything. It shouldn’t feel this awkward to sit and watch television in silence. I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable, but there’s nothing physical about my unease. For some reason, Mr. Chen makes me nervous. I look across the room, making eye contact with Felix the Cat. The plastic sculpture rolls its eyes at me and waves its tail. Maybe it’s a cultural thing.
“So,” Mr. Chen says at the next commercial break, “does Tina know your father is one of the richest men in the world, or are you only lying to us?” His tone is utterly calm.
My throat grows dry. I glance over at him and lick my lips.
He doesn’t look angry or mean; he’s watching me with his head cocked, as if my answer is about as interesting as our small talk about the news.
“Tina knows,” I croak.
“That’s okay, then.” He leans back.
I still can’t tell if he’s serious or sarcastic. He’s smiling just a little bit, but there’s a sharpness to his eyes. “How did you know?”
He smiles. “I told you already. I watch a lot of TV.” He doesn’t say anything more, and after the silence stretches on and on, into the next commercial break, I realize that he’s finished with the subject.
Tina told me once that people underestimate her father. I suspect I just did, too. He’s quiet and soft-spoken. He watches MTV, for God’s sake. I had kind of thought that Tina got her backbone from her mother.
Somehow, I’d missed the fact that her father withstood three months of torture by the Chinese government.
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” I try again. “This whole thing is complicated and my dad and I are…even more complicated at the moment. Tina and I decided it would be easier to not go into too many details.”
“Lying to me is easy because you don’t think you’ll see me again,” he says with a nod. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind.”
I’m fumbling for an answer that doesn’t sound completely awful, when he shakes his head.
“I can tell it was Tina’s idea anyway.”
I pull back. “Don’t blame her. If I tell a lie, I’ll take responsibility for it.”
“I’m not blaming anyone. Things are complicated for her.”
“It isn’t Tina’s fault,” I tell him. “And it’s complicated for me, too. If I had my way, Blake Reynolds would completely disappear.”
I hadn’t expected to say that. He looks at me. His eyes are wide, one eyebrow cocked. I know how stupid it sounds. I know that if I tried to explain why I wanted out of my life, he would think I was spoiled.
And—with more than a month of living Tina’s life behind me—at this point, I realize that I probably am.
But he only says one thing. “Hmm.”
The tinny sound of the chipper news anchor is no longer a welcome distraction. It makes me feel almost sick to my stomach. I am spoiled for not wanting that burden on my shoulders.
I’ve been trying not to think about it, but now it sinks in. I’m taking over for my dad in a matter of weeks, and I’m not strong enough. I know it, deep in my bones. When I fail, the whole world will be watching. My failure will be documented in books, academic articles, and derivative shareholder suits.
God, this is such a fucking mess.
“Things are complicated,” Mr. Chen says. “People always jump to conclusions. People think I don’t understand English because I don’t speak loudly. They see my lucky leg and think I have a bad life.” He smiles faintly. “I try not to conclude too much too early.”
I turn back to Mr. Chen. “Are you being ironic when you call it your lucky leg?”
“No.” But instead of smiling, his face goes blank. His eyes shift inward. “Of course not.”
“Then why…?”
“When I came to America, there was another man who came with me. Chun Donghai. He also practiced Falun Gong, and was also in the same reeducation camp as me. We both left China at the same time.”
I fold my hands and wait for him to continue.
“We both filed paperwork for asylum. We even had the same lawyer. When it was my turn, the man who heard my story believed me when I said I was tortured in China. After all, I had proof it happened.” He points to his leg. “So my family stayed. Donghai went back to China.”
I swallow.
“I call it my lucky leg as a reminder. Every time I tell myself ‘if only,’ I know the answer. If only I hadn’t been injured, I would have been deported. If only I had a different leg, my wife would have been sent for reeducation and she would have been…” He pauses, picking among words. “Killed,” he finally settles on. “Probably. Without my lucky leg, I wouldn’t have a second daughter, and Xingjuan would have quit school at sixteen and worked in a factory, just like I did.” He looks up at me. “So yes, I think it’s a lucky leg. Do you disagree?”
I envy him his certainty. If only my dad didn’t run Cyclone. The last few months have been nothing but a giant if only. And the main thing I’ve learned is that there is no escape. There are no pat realizations to be had, no giant handoffs.
“Sounds lucky to me.”
“Yes.” He turns back to the television. “You see, it helps me remember that there is one place I
most want to be, one time of my life I most yearn for.”
There is no end to my father’s ambition. Whatever it is he wants, he lays out a plan and grabs it, and once he has hold of it, the only thing he can think about is the thing that is next on the horizon. If Dad heard Mr. Chen talk, he’d call it a load of crap—“bullshit hippy happiness,” he’d say, something I’ve heard so much it’s like Dad is here, rolling his eyes himself. I’m sure that whatever Mr. Chen wants, whatever place he imagines, it’s somewhere tranquil—somewhere like the restful retreats that my father’s doctor is always suggesting.
Dad tried one once. He made it two hours before he left and went rock climbing.
“Where do you imagine yourself?” I ask.
Mr. Chen simply gestures to the room around him—to the plastic flowers, the wall hangings, to Felix the Cat swinging his tail with every second. “Where else?”
TINA
After the hearing in the courtroom, the families come together in the parking lot just outside the courthouse. They chatter and talk. It has been a while since I accompanied my mother to a gathering, and I’m immediately reminded why that is.
My mother doesn’t boast about her children directly in company. That would be gauche. Instead, she practices the indirect boast/insult.
“Ah,” my mother says to Mrs. Ma. “Lucky you that Annie is so consistent in school. My Mabel is all over the place. She never remembers anything except saxophone and band all the time. Practice, practice, practice—all we ever hear about is practice.” Of course she doesn’t mention that Annie had one ignominious piano recital years ago and has never played again.
“You’re so lucky,” my mother says to Mrs. Chan, “that Tommy is staying at home for school. He’s there for you for support. Tina is always gone, studying to be a doctor. It’s hard on me.”
I stand under a cluster of palm trees, fixing my gaze on the Spanish-style courthouse beyond. If I don’t react, maybe it won’t hurt.
Or, my favorite: “You’re so lucky to have a grandchild so early. I wish Tina had a baby at nineteen. But she isn’t even dating the nice boy she brought home. Oh, yes, he’s okay for a white boy. He even speaks Mandarin.” My mother shakes her head sadly. “And he’s going to walk away. Sometimes I think that Tina is missing out on life.”
That’s the one that really sinks under my skin. I make my excuses and go wait for her in the car. It’s stupid to let myself get upset about things like this. I know that to Western ears the practice sounds a lot ruder, a lot more passive-aggressive, than it really is. This is my mother’s way of telling everyone how proud she is of me, of boasting without really boasting. But I can’t help it. I am westernized, and there’s enough truth in those backhanded compliments that it stings.
Tina works so hard; she never has time for me.
Tina is missing out on life; she isn’t even dating that nice boy.
It hurts. It really hurts. I’m here, aren’t I?
My mother comes back to the car thirty minutes later, beaming and happy, filled with all the latest gossip. I’m reining my emotion in as best as I can.
“You shouldn’t have left so early,” my mom says as she pulls out of the lot. “You’re so serious. Why don’t you ever have any fun?”
“I don’t know,” I snap back. “Why do you think I never have any fun? Maybe it’s because I’m the only one who has any sense of responsibility in this family.”
Mom goes silent. The light turns green, but she’s a few seconds too slow, and she misses her turn onto the freeway despite the angry honking of the cars behind us. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t pay the electric bill,” I say. “You barely make rent. Every month, it’s one thing after another. You don’t get Mabel’s meds, you don’t see a doctor until everything is at its worst. You don’t take anything seriously and so I have to do it instead. Why do you think I’m working all the time? It’s not because I love work so much. It’s because you can’t afford for me to stop.”
“Tina…”
But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop talking. “Do you think I want to be a doctor? I don’t really care. But I have to do something to take care of you guys. All I want is to not worry.”
Her face sets in grim lines—furrowed forehead, flattened lips.
“I wish I was fun, too,” I tell her. “I wish that I could just forget myself and have fun with Blake. But I can’t, and it’s your fault. You take care of everyone but yourself, and I’m the one who has to clean up your mess.”
My mom looks straight ahead. “I didn’t know you felt that way. How was I supposed to know? You never said anything like this before.”
“I don’t know,” I snap. “You know what everyone else needs. It’s just your own daughter you never pay attention to.”
She sighs. “I never asked you to do any of those things. I thought you wanted to help.”
I bite back tears. I do. I did. But I also sometimes wish that I was allowed to need her instead. I wish that it was just help, that I didn’t resent her as much as I loved her. I wish I could let myself relax instead of worrying, that I could stop being the responsible one. But I’m the only one who is responsible. I can’t stop. We can’t trade places, her and me, because everything would fall apart. But I’m not going to get my wish. And worst of all, more money hasn’t made it hurt less. I still worry.
“Never mind, Ma,” I say, my throat raspy. “Forget I said anything.”
But she just sits straight in her seat. “I can’t forget,” she says stiffly. “I don’t forget. You should know this about me already.”
15.
TINA
I don’t think the rest of the weekend could get any worse, but it does. When I ask Mabel how much a saxophone of her own—as compared to the dented one she has on loan from the school—would cost, my mother interrupts me.
“That’s not your worry,” she says. “It’s my worry.”
Blake is still barely eating my mother’s food, even though he does a valiant job of moving it around on his plate.
My fight with my mom infects everything. I thought it would be better if she didn’t embarrass me, but it’s not. She’s silent, and that cold silence cuts more deeply than any embarrassment.
I try to apologize to her on Sunday morning before we leave.
“Did you mean it?” she asks.
And—because I did—I pause.
She shakes her head. “Don’t say sorry, then, when you’re not.”
By the time I get in the car with Blake, I’m not sure if I’m relieved to be leaving this mess behind me or if I’m heartbroken that I’ve fucked things up so badly with my mom. I wait until we swap our loaned Toyota for his Tesla.
“We should stop and have lunch,” I say. “And breakfast. You must be starving.”
He’s driving when I say this. I can see his face go still. His fingers close on the wheel.
“I’m not hungry.” His tone is casual, but there’s a tightness to his face. “Your mother fed me really, really well.”
“Come on, Blake,” I say. “You don’t need to lie to me. I was watching you the entire weekend. You ate about as much as I did, and you’re a foot taller than me.”
“I’m not a foot taller than you.”
“Nine inches. Whatever. And Dad says you went on a two-hour run on Friday when we were at the hearing. It’s okay. You’re not going to offend me if you don’t like my mother’s cooking. It’s an acquired taste.”
“There was nothing wrong with your mother’s food,” he says quietly.
“Oh, so you eat like that all the time?” I say sarcastically.
This is met with silence. His jaw sets. I rummage through my memory, looking for evidence that he’s lying. But what I remember instead is…
Blake at our first lunch together, eating a handful of bean sprouts. Blake at lunch with his father, taking a spoonful of rice and some dal. Blake telling me he won’t let me cook for him because it would be cheating. I can re
member him eating apples occasionally. And… And…
“Oh my God,” I say, this time with no sarcasm at all. “You eat like that all the time.”
His eyes stare ahead. His face is too still.
“Blake…”
I look over at him.
He exhales.
“Blake. Are you okay?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just drives, his jaw set in a hard line.
“No.” When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “No. I don’t think that I am.” His hand opens on the wheel and then clenches once more. “I have a problem. I’ve been…trying to fix it, but that hasn’t really worked.” He lets out a long breath.
“Does anyone know?”
“You.”
There are now only two weeks until the launch. Two weeks and then I walk away. I’m not supposed to care about him.
Not caring, not worrying—these are not things I can do on command. And I’ve been lying to myself, pretending that it will be bearable to watch him walk away. No. Here’s one thing that will hurt more: knowing that I had the chance to make him feel a little better, and I chose not to.
“I know.” He swallows. “It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid, I’m mad at myself. I know it’s stupid. I know I’m stupid. How hard is it to fucking eat more?” His voice is shaking. “But I don’t. I can’t. And when I try, when I make myself—I end up going out for a run.”
“You need to talk to someone about this,” I say.
“I should be able to fix this myself. Dad thinks I can run a company. I can’t even fucking control myself.”
“Blake. It’s okay.”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s not. You know what? That day in class—that day you got so mad at me? Afterward, you said you didn’t have time for my bullshit apology. And I was so fucking jealous. I wanted to not have time for my bullshit, either.”
“Hey.” I reach over and take his hand.
“You were right,” he says shakily. “I thought your life would be magic. Like it would somehow make this better. That if I just had what you had, I wouldn’t…do this. But we’ve never traded, not really. None of this has done a damned thing. It’s not my life that’s fucked up. It’s me.”
Trade Me Page 17