If You Could See the Sun (45)

I do know. I know all too well what she means.

But my next decision still doesn’t come easily.



* * *



In the dead of night, long after Chanel’s fallen asleep, I make lists.

Lots of them; pros and cons, risks and costs.

I map out where and how I’d be able to find the exam answers, the probability of me getting caught in the process, the chances of me getting kicked out, thrown into jail (which sounds super melodramatic, I know, but according to a quick Google search, two students were actually sent to jail for cheating a year ago).

I think about why I’m doing this. I think about why I want—no, need, always need—the money. More money. I think about how ironic it is, that in order to become the person I’d like to be, I might have to do the last thing others would expect of me. I think about guilt and karma and survival and how being good doesn’t ever promise you anything in this world—only power does that.

Power I finally have.

And as the night drags on, I can’t help but think of Mama.

I think of the thin, ugly cut slicing through her worn hands, where once there was an open gash, flowing blood, a dark red river running past her fingertips.

I remember the sound of the robber breaking into our store—the only Asian grocery in our tiny rural Californian town, how proud Baba was to be the owner of the very first one, to “share a slice of our culture” with the locals there.

I remember Mama’s sharp cry of alarm—then pain, the metallic clatter of the knife hitting the floor. The robber’s grunts as my father raced to the cash register, tackling him from behind.

The shrill blare of the sirens afterward.

I’d been helping stack the back shelves when it happened, two cartons of salted duck eggs balanced precariously in my hands. And I’d just stood there, frozen, my body shutting down in shock. Only once the scene had already unfolded and the police had arrived was I finally jerked back into motion, the cartons falling to my feet, the soft crunch of egg shells all I could hear over my ragged heartbeat.

The police were nice enough about the whole incident, but dismissive, the way parents might console a crying child. Look, we get you’re upset, one of the older policemen had told me, patting my shoulder a few times. I fought the urge to slap his meaty hand right off. But there’s no evidence this was a hate crime. I mean, this kind of stuff can happen to anyone, you know? Try not to think too much into it.

And maybe he was right. Maybe it really was just a matter of bad luck, bad timing. Maybe the person standing behind the cash register could’ve been a tall blond man with a nice smile, whose words came out smooth and unaccented when he called out for help, and the same thing would’ve happened.

Maybe.

But here’s the thing about living in a place full of people who don’t look like you—whenever shit like this happens, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been singled out for a reason.

After the incident, I felt certain Mama would run out of the hospital and book the first plane ride back to China. But I’d forgotten this was a woman who’d grown up in the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution, who’d poured ice water over herself every night for a month just to stay awake studying for her gaokao. She was not so easily fazed. In fact, she seemed more determined than ever to remain in America (What we do wrong, huh? Your Baba and I work hard, pay tax, obey law—then this man stab me and I run like criminal? How come?).

In the end, it wasn’t fear that sent us packing for Beijing, but money. Or, well, the lack of it. Our little grocery store never brought in much cash to begin with, and whatever my parents managed to save up, they spent it all on me—on tuition, piano lessons, swim classes, weekend Chinese school. Then came the recession, and business seemed to sputter to a stop entirely.

My parents fought it at first, because that’s just what they did; they tried, they fought. When things didn’t work, they fought harder. They started selling things to stay afloat: Mama’s favorite jade bracelet, Baba’s only winter coat, a porcelain vase, the dining table. Mama found a job as a janitor at the nearest hospital, the closest thing she could get to her old nursing career in China, and Baba made a few extra coins every day by collecting and recycling used plastic bottles.

But even then, it wasn’t enough. Nowhere close.

The breaking point came on Chinese New Year. We celebrated it alone in our dark, rented home, sitting around the plastic tablecloth that now served as the table, passing around a plate of those frozen, store-bought dumplings we’d heated in the microwave.

Mama had taken one bite of the dumpling and gone very still.

“What is it?” Baba asked in Mandarin, peering over at her with concern. “Does it taste that bad?”

She said nothing.

“Because we still have a few cups of instant noodles left,” Baba continued. “I could boil the water now—we might even have an egg—”

Then Mama’s face crumpled. Her voice cracked. “I—I want real dumplings.”

“What?”

“I want to go back,” Mama whispered, her dark eyes misting over. It terrified me, seeing her like that. She hadn’t even shed a tear when she was stabbed. “I want to go home.”

Understanding passed over Baba’s face like a shadow. He reached across the tablecloth and put one hand over hers, covering up the half-healed scar. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”