American Panda(45)

How far we had come from my childhood days, when my father would run around the house with me on his back as the xiao jī, Xing and my mother chasing behind as the laoyīng, the eagles trying to catch the little chicken. I would squeeze my father close, especially when he rounded the corners at full speed. Xing would squeal as he ran, one of the few times he didn’t have to be the responsible eldest son.

My chest ached with a mix of nostalgia, longing, and pain, and I had to remind myself to breathe.



For the first time at Chow Chow, I didn’t notice the stinky tofu smell. I was too focused on the sweat pooling in my pits and hands. There was too much weighing me down. Death by secrets or death by my parents.

A vaguely familiar middle-aged Chinese woman approached our table. My mother took over pleasantries, bowing and gushing over the friend’s haircut and outfit. “Goodness, we haven’t seen you in ages. When did you move back to town? Mei, you remember Joyce āyí, of course.”

Joyce smiled at me. “Hello, Mei. It was a pleasure to see you that day at dim sum.”

With the words “dim sum,” I realized she had been the “stranger” staring at me from across the restaurant. Before I could protest, she continued, “I waved to you and Xing, but you must not have seen me.”

My father’s rice bowl, which had been against his lips moments before, fell to the table. If he were a cartoon, steam would have been coming out of his ears.

Joyce backed away slowly, then scampered back to her table.

My parents began yelling at the same time, their words mixing into chaos. I opened and closed my mouth a few times but couldn’t come up with a single thing to say.

Their voices crescendoed, each one trying to be heard over the other. I grasped my head with my hands, partly to cover my ears and partly because I felt like it was going to explode.

My father threw his chopsticks to the ground, and an eerie silence followed.

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. But sorry about what, I didn’t know. There was too much. Sorry we’re so different. Sorry you don’t understand. Sorry I hurt you when I didn’t mean to.

“Did Xing pressure you to see him?” my mother asked, her face so creased with distress I wanted to do whatever it took to fix it. “Did you need help with something and didn’t feel comfortable coming to us? Did you bump into him?”

I could lie. Say our meeting was an accident. Say he came looking for me.

I could agree to stop seeing Xing and Darren, try harder in biology, stop teaching dance. . . . Except I couldn’t. I had already tried. And failed. If I lied, the real me would disappear. I’d become that hollow shell, nothing but the emptiness I saw in Dr. Chang.

I couldn’t keep the secrets anymore. They were already exploding around me. And now that one was out, it felt like the rest of the biānpào were set to blow regardless of what I wanted, regardless of what I did.

I gripped my glass so hard my knuckles turned white. “I saw Xing. On purpose. I reached out first.”

My father shook his head. “That can’t be.”

My mother’s voice was frantic. “Did you need to ask him about medical schools? Did you want advice on how to improve your application? Did you want to visit him at work so you could get excited about your future?” She was so desperate to find an excuse for me that I almost let her.

Almost.

She looked at me, and even though I was using all my energy to keep my face neutral, I knew she could sense my inner turmoil. “What is it, Mei? Just tell us.”

I opened my mouth and my tongue touched the tip of my teeth, my palate, my lip, but no words came out.

“You can tell us,” she repeated, softly this time.

I took a breath. “I reached out to Xing because I miss him. He’s my brother. I just wanted to see how he was doing, make sure he was okay. It had nothing to do with your conflict or taking sides or disrespecting you.” I paused. “I did also visit him at work, but . . . it was really hard. I wanted it to make me excited about my future. . . . I wanted that so much, but it did the opposite. I’m sure you’ve noticed how I have trouble with germs and—”

My father slapped the table. “Mei, this isn’t up for discussion.”

“Bǎbá’s right. We laid out your future because we only want the best for you. You haven’t even given it a try. A few hours doesn’t count.”

I shook my head. “But I have tried, and I know I can’t do it.”

My father straightened his spine. His voice was gravelly as he said, “Can’t? That’s not the daughter we raised. You can do anything. Where’s that passion you once had? You used to be just like Nǎinai. A hard worker. What happened? Mǎmá and I didn’t come to this country and work like dogs, giving up everything we wanted, just so you could throw it all away.”

The wave of guilt hit me full-on, wrapping around and restricting like a straitjacket. I had to muster all my strength to continue down this traitorous path. “I know you sacrificed so much, and I appreciate it. I’m not throwing anything away. I’m still going to have an MIT degree, just like you wanted. I’ll be able to get a good job. Please, just listen to me. I’m trying to tell you how I feel.”

“Stop talking.” His grating tone made me flinch.

But I ignored his command. “I just want to talk, like adults.”