Fiona and Jane(7)

“What happened?” I was mesmerized.

“He flew in for one week only, we married, and he flew back. Few months later, after the visa cleared, I came over. Everything fast.” She snapped her fingers three times quickly. “Just like that.”

“That’s why you got married?” I said. “Because your parents forced him?”

“We loved each other,” she said sternly. “Then God stepped in to help.”

“In Taiwan,” I said, “Baba told me you could’ve married anyone you wanted.”

“Good, that turkey remembers,” Mah said. “Anyway, everyone agreed we made one perfect match.” Then, her expression darkened. “All except for one of Baba’s friends. Think of it now, he showed up at my job, I remember.” Mah shook her head. “What a lunatic!”

My throat tightened. I knew she was talking about Lee.

“Remember when Baba was in bed all day? Reading those comic books?” Mah said. I nodded. The boy at sea who lost all his memories. She went on: “Baba was sick like that, before. When he was young, after college.” She peered into my eyes, as if deciding whether she should go on.

“We all thought it was because he studied too hard,” she said. “You don’t know this about your father. I never told you.” She paused for a moment. “He hurt himself—he tried to do it—too much pressure. He couldn’t handle.” The light in her eyes had changed. They were dimmer now, like embers glowing at the end of a beach bonfire. “He almost died. Before you came.”

“He was alone? By himself, in the US . . .”

“Only after I told him I was going to have a baby, then he was able to walk out of the dark that time,” Mah said after a moment.

“Do you still love him?”

“I never loved anyone else.” Mah smiled. I hardly recognized her like this. “I’m telling you this story,” she said, “because you have to know your father loves you. From the beginning to now. You are his reason—”

“No,” I said bitterly. “I’m not.”

Then I did something regrettable.

I told my mother about meeting Lee at the night market in Taipei with Baba. “You called while we were all sitting there,” I said. “He and Baba—they’re—they’re together now.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I was sorry to have said them out loud.

I had no way of knowing then that I’d regret everything that followed, for the next twenty years of my life.

Mah pressed her fingers to her brow and kneaded her forehead. The phone rang again, but neither one of us moved. The answering machine picked up; in a cheerful tone, a man left a message saying he hoped to see my mother at the dinner soon. I thought I recognized the voice as one of the church dads who had shown up years ago to sing my father out of his depression.

“His friend named Lee,” Mah said. “He was the one at the department store. He scolded me—he said I should let your father go free, start over in America—”

“They’re in love,” I said.

“Baba said that? That’s what he told you?”

“He said I’m old enough to know the truth—”

“The truth!” Mah said. She gave a hard little laugh. “In love?”

“You told me he was going there for a job. But now—”

“Mah knows everything, you understand?” she said. “You think it’s so easy to hold this family together?” Her voice was suddenly quiet, and cold as a knife. This was the mother I recognized, not the one who’d shown me kindness earlier. “For years, that man writes letters to Baba.” Her eyes were black now, no light in their depths at all. “I read them. I know your father better than anyone. I know him better than he knows himself.” Her words chilled me. “All those comic books—he sent those to your father. Presents. Each time a letter inside.”

Mah stood abruptly and walked out of the living room, and I heard her unhook the cordless roughly from its cradle in the kitchen. She strolled back in, the phone in her hands. As she punched the keypad, Mah began chanting for Jesus.



* * *



? ? ?

“We’re all here,” Mah shouted when Baba answered. She always shouted when we had him on speaker, even though he told her, every time, that he could hear us just fine.

In Taipei, it was ten o’clock in the morning, Saturday. Baba was in the future. I imagined him in the midmorning light, gripping a battered badminton racquet, bouncing on his feet. He wore a pair of scuffed white Reeboks, the bottoms squeaking on the green rubber court as he chased the shuttlecock. Lee on the other side of the net, returning the volleys.

Or maybe they were in my father’s apartment, having breakfast. Did they spend nights together? Lee in my father’s bed, where I’d slept. I wondered if Lee had a family; I hadn’t thought to ask.

“Is Jane okay?” Baba asked. “What’s wrong?”

Who do you belong to? I wanted to ask him. Who do you belong to, Baba?

“You tell her, Shen. Tell your daughter it’s lies. She’s confused.”

There was a silence.

I thought of a call with Baba from last summer, before Mah hired Ping. On the phone, Baba had dismissed her prejudices and said that Mah was being paranoid. China wasn’t the mess it used to be, he said. That afternoon, he’d reminded her that we were all Chinese, separated only by geography, politics, civil war.