American Panda(59)

Even the crickets didn’t chirp. They left the room as fast as they could to avoid the inevitable Lu-suvius eruption.

Suddenly, Esther’s billowy wedding dress, the loose qípáo, Xing’s comment about how his salary was more important now than ever . . . it all made sense.

Xing stepped between Esther and my parents. “None of you will be in his life. You made damn sure of that.”

“His life?” My father’s eyes were glued to the baby bump. “How is this possible? You said she couldn’t get pregnant.”

Xing shook his head. “I never said that. I just said she may have some trouble.”

I threw my hands in the air. “So is this all over now? She’s pregnant. Your one objection is moot. And it’s even a boy. The Lu family line will indeed carry on.”

My father turned away. “Xing still disobeyed us.”

“So did I. I guess that’s it for us, then. No redemption.” I turned to my mother, my last hope. Her eyes were downcast, shoulders slumped.

My voice dropped to a whisper. “Look at all of you, pushing away every relative you have for no good reason. Maybe I should ask myself if I even want to be a part of a family like this. I’m open to reconciliation if we can learn to talk like adults, but until then I’m going to stop trying so hard. Let me know when you’re ready to have a real, open conversation.”

Xing glanced at Esther. “We’ve discussed it and we’re open to reconciliation as well if you apologize.”

I held my breath. He’d finally done it. He’d made the first step. My father had to acknowledge that, be moved enough to take a step forward too, right?

But he just folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.

Xing shrugged as if they were discussing where to have lunch. “Then we’re done here too.”

“This is so ironic,” I said, some spit flying out. “Bǎbá, you disown Xing for disobeying you, not providing grandchildren—which isn’t even true anymore—yet that’s what you’ve done too, since according to you, you have no kids. How can you stand in front of Nǎinai like this? You failed.”

My father’s tears proved I had struck his Achilles’ heel. The rare sight filled me with guilt, but I couldn’t back down now. I fled, Xing and Esther close behind.

We crammed onto a park bench, Esther in the middle. It was silent for some time as we processed.

“Do you think they’ll ever come around?” I asked quietly.

“I don’t care.” Xing’s words sent chills down my spine.





Voicemail from my mother

Mei? I, um . . . <pause> Can we . . . ? <pause> Please call me. It’s . . . your mǔqīn.





CHAPTER 24


AFFAIR


AFTER MY 5.111 LECTURE, I walked home along the Charles, wondering why I didn’t take Memorial Drive more often. The air was nippy but also invigorating, much fresher than the stale Infinite Corridor air breathed in and out by so many passing students. Every fifty feet sat a bench, clones of the one I had shared with Darren. Each of them sent both a thrill and a pang through me.

My phone rang exactly five minutes after the end of class. Only one person knew my schedule that well.

My mother’s picture filled the screen. God, that moment felt like a lifetime ago. Before picking up, I paused to take in the bright pink MIT MOM shirt and the hint of pride at the edge of her eyes.

The line was silent, and I stilled, exhaling only when I heard my mother’s sharp intake of breath—an indication the call was intended, not a butt dial.

Her voice was choppy. “Can we meet? At Bertucci’s?” The Italian restaurant marked the farthest she was willing to drive herself.

I nodded, then realized (duh) she couldn’t see me. “Okay.” I hung up first so she wouldn’t hear the tremors in my voice.

I arrived first and waited outside, rocking back and forth on my heels atop the brick sidewalk. I crossed my arms, worried I looked too aggressive, then forced them down by my sides.

My mother’s sea-green minivan pulled up, identifiable by its two dents, one on each bumper. She didn’t notice me on account of her laser focus on the road. The front seat—or death seat, as she called it—was piled so high with Chinese newspapers I could see them from where I was standing.

She pulled the van across three parking spaces, braking every few feet so the car appeared to be breakdancing (more accurately, brake-dancing, heh . . . at least I crack myself up). Aware of her poor parking job, she readjusted but ended up in the same position as before. Drive-reverse-drive-reverse. Eventually, she managed to straddle just two spaces.

The familiarity of it all made me hug her when she got close enough. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but when she patted my back with a cupped hand, I realized I had been expecting nothing. Maybe even rejection. Encouraged, I reached an arm out to put around her shoulder, but she ducked under and maintained a few feet between us as we walked.

Inside, my mother scoured the restaurant like a spy. An incompetent, nearsighted spy too vain to wear glasses.

I grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the unsuspecting patrons. “What’s wrong with you?”

She clucked her tongue. “If you had done this when you went to dim sum with Xing, Bǎbá and I would’ve never found out. Use your head!”