American Panda(40)

His lip quirked up on one side (the right, never the left). “No, not a panda.”

“Well, whatever it is, make it disappear. Then this would be easy.”

He waved his arms like a conductor. “Kiemasu!”

I shifted away, startled.

He laughed. “It means ‘vanish.’ There was this Japanese magician my sister and I loved as kids. We used to practice terrible magic tricks and yell ‘kiemasu’ at each other.”

I committed the new word to my vernacular. “Can you show me a trick?”

He swept his hand over his hot chocolate, yelled “kiemasu,” then shook the cup, the absence of sloshing proving his trick successful.

I laughed, deep and unladylike.

He grinned at me, so huge I could see most of his teeth, and my eyes immediately homed in on his slightly tilted lower canine, the one that became visible only with his biggest smiles. “I think ‘kiemasu’ sounds better than ‘abracadabra,’ don’t you?” he asked.

“Definitely. And it’s better than ‘bújiànle,’ too, for the record.”

“Do you speak Chinese fluently?”

I nodded. “And I had to go to Chinese school every Sunday from ages two to fifteen to learn how to read and write.”

“I’ve always wondered, do you translate everything in your head first?”

I paused for a second. Wo x?huān shu?jiao. I like dumplings. “No. I guess you could say I think in Chinese and English. Meaning, I don’t stop and translate, like I did in high school Spanish.”

“Wow. That’s amazing. Sometimes I wish I had grown up speaking Japanese . . . though I’m glad my parents didn’t send me to school without knowing English.”

“It doesn’t have to be so black-and-white,” I said, nudging him lightly. “And you already know ‘kiemasu.’?”

“Yup, that and ‘arigato.’ Just a couple more lessons and I’ll be hosting my own Japanese magic show. Together we can be the Nutty Magic Duo—I’d let you saw me in half. And”—his right eye crinkled—“I’m sure your mom would totally approve of you being a magician.”

We laughed together—loud, long, resounding belly laughs—before falling into a comfortable silence.

The wind swirled snow flurries around the icy lake and in my heart. I could feel some of the resistance planted by my parents melting away, and it was terrifying.





Voicemail from Nǎinai

Mei Mei? Study hard and go to acupuncture, okay? I hear about your bad grade. Remember, seven eggs a day will improve your memory. And eat your vitamins.





CHAPTER 17


ANCESTOR LU


AS XING AND I WAITED in line for our museum tickets, he thanked me for accompanying him to the limited-time Terracotta Army exhibit. “I’ve been dying to see these my whole life. Remember when Mom used to tell us about them?”

“Of course.” I could picture us clearly, sprawled across Xing’s childhood bed, looking at pictures of clay soldiers and listening to Mǎmá tell us about Emperor Qin Shi Huang and his desire to protect himself in the afterlife. “I’ve always wanted to see them too.”

The memory helped ease some of the guilt, but there was still a whole buttload left. I had thought maybe it would get better the more I saw Xing, but obviously that made zero sense. The fewer times we met, the easier it would be to explain away if my parents ever found out, so each additional visit was diving further “into the fire pit,” as my mother always said (and yes, she had used that in reference to Xing choosing Esther).

Esther was busy with work (as a dentist, I’d learned recently), and while I wanted to meet her for Xing’s sake, I was relieved. I wasn’t ready to put a personality (especially a good one) to her face. I was weighed down by enough guilt for just seeing Xing. If meeting Esther had been added to my sins, I would have—poof!—combusted on the spot, destroyed by my own biānpào secrets. Every Chow Chow visit, I felt like a spy—a terrible one who sweated through all her clothes. But every time my thumb hovered over the delete contact button or I considered turning down an invitation to meet up, I heard Xing’s laugh, our chopsticks clicking together, and I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it.

At least we’re doing something Chinese today. Learning about our culture, I tried to convince myself.

After Xing waved my Hello Kitty wallet away and paid for both of us, we strolled through the introductory hallway in silence, reading about the discovery of Qin Shi Huang’s tomb. Was Xing also hearing our mother’s voice, imagining her reading to us from the Xiao Kēxuéjiā (Little Scientist) books of our childhood?

In 1974, a farmer dug a well and found the collapsed tomb and broken terracotta warriors, I heard her say as I looked at black-and-white photos of the excavation site. The paint from the soldiers flaked off when exposed to air, she said as I looked at a replica of what the soldiers would have looked like in their original colorful glory. Since the technology is not there to preserve these relics, most of the tomb has not been excavated yet, she reminded me as I stared at an aerial photo of the mausoleum, the giant unearthed mound screaming, Think of all the treasures in there!

I desperately clung to these memories, to this version of my mother, the one who just wanted to spend quality time with me. No clucking tongue. I wish I knew how to bring her forth.