only bleed in newer and rawer places over time.
I was hidden in the shadows as I stepped towards her. For some reason, I stopped. Perhaps I would have said, “ Ah-ma, ” and put my hand on her shoulder, and she would have turned around and embraced me. Perhaps. But I stood frozen behind her.
Then she sensed me. For a long time she didn’t say anything. She sniffed hard but kept quiet, possibly hoping that I would just leave. She didn’t want me to see her like this, eyes smeared over with grief. But I didn’t leave, and she finally said, “Please go back to bed, Xing.”
“Are we returning to China?” I asked.
“No,” she said with a soft finality.
“Why not?”
“Because we have no choice. Because we have to stay. Because of you.”
I did not understand what she meant. And then I felt it for the first time, the silent accusation taking shape, a hideous presence that would never completely leave my life.
“Now go back to bed,” she said.
My answer came many seconds later in quavering yet resolute words. It was all new to her when I said in English, “Yes, Mother.” I never called her Ah-ma again.
At school, I was taught that you can’t really feel your heart beating inside, not even when you’re scared or have just run hard. You can feel only the pumping of blood; the heart itself, that muscular organ, can’t be felt. And how true. Because that night, as I made my way slowly back up the stairs, I felt nothing inside me. Nothing at all.
DECEMBER 5
I awoke with a start. Night. Cold. The house silent.
I got up and went to the window. My mother was home, the car parked in the driveway under a deepening layer of snow. Delicate flakes softly peppered the window. A cast of mercury moonlight spread over the homes, the streetlamps, the cars, the lawns. I loved this time of night, when the house was dark and quiet, when the neighborhood was asleep and unaware. When it seemed like I alone in the world was awake.
Very softly, I began to sing. My breath frosted the windowpane.
There were three hesitant knocks on my door.
They startled me—I hadn’t heard any approaching footsteps in the hallway outside. I turned around, staring at the door, doubting my ears.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
They came not from the door, but from the wall, right above my bed. Three gentle, almost apologetic knocks from the other side of the wall. Miss Durgenhoff.
There was a long pause, and then, once again, three knocks.
I tiptoed over to the wall and hunkered down. I pressed my ear against the wall, unable to shake the impression that she was doing the same on the other side, our ears separated only by the thinnest of barriers. I waited, and I sensed her waiting, too.
When I could take it no longer, I whispered, “Yes?”
And her voice came back almost immediately, muffled from the other side. “Can I come over?”
She came in with a tray of crackers and two cups of green tea. “Just in case you’re hungry,” she said.
We ate the crackers silently, soft crackers which broke easily in the mouth. I sipped at the tea and felt warmth cascade down my throat.
“You have quite a remarkable voice,” she said, breaking the silence.
“I thought I’ve been singing quietly. Have I been waking you?”
“Nonsense, child. Sleep comes fleetingly at my age, in little snippets. I don’t so much sleep anymore as take multiple catnaps throughout the day and night.” She looked around the room. “It’s a little bare, don’t you think?”
“Well, it’s the way I like it.”
“A teenage boy should have more sports paraphernalia, swimsuit posters, stuff—” She came to an abrupt stop as her eyes came upon the painting. “My, my, my. Now that’s an interesting painting.” She stood up to take a closer look.
“It’s just a painting.”
“Yes, but…” She craned her neck forward, scrutinizing the painting.
“It’s just a painting,” I repeated. “Somebody painted it for me once.”
“A long time
I was hidden in the shadows as I stepped towards her. For some reason, I stopped. Perhaps I would have said, “ Ah-ma, ” and put my hand on her shoulder, and she would have turned around and embraced me. Perhaps. But I stood frozen behind her.
Then she sensed me. For a long time she didn’t say anything. She sniffed hard but kept quiet, possibly hoping that I would just leave. She didn’t want me to see her like this, eyes smeared over with grief. But I didn’t leave, and she finally said, “Please go back to bed, Xing.”
“Are we returning to China?” I asked.
“No,” she said with a soft finality.
“Why not?”
“Because we have no choice. Because we have to stay. Because of you.”
I did not understand what she meant. And then I felt it for the first time, the silent accusation taking shape, a hideous presence that would never completely leave my life.
“Now go back to bed,” she said.
My answer came many seconds later in quavering yet resolute words. It was all new to her when I said in English, “Yes, Mother.” I never called her Ah-ma again.
At school, I was taught that you can’t really feel your heart beating inside, not even when you’re scared or have just run hard. You can feel only the pumping of blood; the heart itself, that muscular organ, can’t be felt. And how true. Because that night, as I made my way slowly back up the stairs, I felt nothing inside me. Nothing at all.
DECEMBER 5
I awoke with a start. Night. Cold. The house silent.
I got up and went to the window. My mother was home, the car parked in the driveway under a deepening layer of snow. Delicate flakes softly peppered the window. A cast of mercury moonlight spread over the homes, the streetlamps, the cars, the lawns. I loved this time of night, when the house was dark and quiet, when the neighborhood was asleep and unaware. When it seemed like I alone in the world was awake.
Very softly, I began to sing. My breath frosted the windowpane.
There were three hesitant knocks on my door.
They startled me—I hadn’t heard any approaching footsteps in the hallway outside. I turned around, staring at the door, doubting my ears.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
They came not from the door, but from the wall, right above my bed. Three gentle, almost apologetic knocks from the other side of the wall. Miss Durgenhoff.
There was a long pause, and then, once again, three knocks.
I tiptoed over to the wall and hunkered down. I pressed my ear against the wall, unable to shake the impression that she was doing the same on the other side, our ears separated only by the thinnest of barriers. I waited, and I sensed her waiting, too.
When I could take it no longer, I whispered, “Yes?”
And her voice came back almost immediately, muffled from the other side. “Can I come over?”
She came in with a tray of crackers and two cups of green tea. “Just in case you’re hungry,” she said.
We ate the crackers silently, soft crackers which broke easily in the mouth. I sipped at the tea and felt warmth cascade down my throat.
“You have quite a remarkable voice,” she said, breaking the silence.
“I thought I’ve been singing quietly. Have I been waking you?”
“Nonsense, child. Sleep comes fleetingly at my age, in little snippets. I don’t so much sleep anymore as take multiple catnaps throughout the day and night.” She looked around the room. “It’s a little bare, don’t you think?”
“Well, it’s the way I like it.”
“A teenage boy should have more sports paraphernalia, swimsuit posters, stuff—” She came to an abrupt stop as her eyes came upon the painting. “My, my, my. Now that’s an interesting painting.” She stood up to take a closer look.
“It’s just a painting.”
“Yes, but…” She craned her neck forward, scrutinizing the painting.
“It’s just a painting,” I repeated. “Somebody painted it for me once.”
“A long time
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