The Astonishing Color of After(76)

Birds. My hairs stand up on end.

A knock at the door makes me jump.

When we open it, Fred says, “Here is a map. See this? This is back of old street. Walk down steps and turn right, there is old street. Lots you can eat—xiaochi. Do you understand?”

Little eats, I remember Feng telling me. “Yes.”

“If you go to front of old street, there is a Seven. Convenience store.”

Seven. As in 7-Eleven. Right.

“Breakfast from eight to ten, right here.” He points down the hall. “Have any questions, call me.” He points to a number scrawled at the bottom of the printout. And with that, he shoves the paper at me and starts to pull the door closed.

Waipo calls out something loud and angry.

Fred’s face twists, a mix of rage and indecision. “Fine. You see first star on the map? Wait for me at the teahouse. I meet you after I finish my work.”

He pauses, and for a moment there’s something nervous in his expression. “Don’t talk to someone about Chen Jingling. Okay? And tell your grandmother: no funny business.”

He turns away and slams the door.





78





Light rain pricks its way down into the narrow alley between the little shops and stands. It’s impossible to take two steps without running into someone, but the crowd thins as the rain picks up. Red lanterns swing overhead in long lines. The sound of rhythmic drumming winds its way down to the street. Outside a shop selling carved stamps, a little dog with floppy ears and caramel fur sleeps snugly curled, oblivious to the bustling around him.

In the teahouse, we sit all the way up on the third floor against the windows, peering out over the town and the water. The waitress brings us a glass pot filled with a reddish tea. Dried fruits crowd the belly of the teapot. Cheerful little goji berries swim just below the surface.

Waipo peers out the window, distracted.

I sip at the tea, slightly sweetened by the fruits. That heavy feeling is returning, that thick fog creeping into my brain. With each blink, it takes a bit longer for the world to resettle and sharpen.

Careful not to get anything wet, I turn to a fresh page in my sketchbook and start a portrait of my grandmother. Her faraway, wistful eyes. Thin, pensive lips. Flowy tunic draping down the rounded slopes of her shoulders. Soft fingers wrapped around a cup of tea. Fat wooden beads and a glassy jade bangle knocking together on her wrist.

It’s hard to imagine her arguing with my mother. It’s hard to think that their relationship could fray to the point of breaking, to the point of someone snipping the thread between them clean in half, deciding to never look back.

With just the one pencil, I try to capture all the colors of her aliveness in gray scale.

By the time I finish the portrait, the sun has gone to bed. It was tricky, the way the shadows against her face kept shifting. But she was good at sitting still. That must’ve been some bottomless thought she got stuck in.

“Hua wo a?” says Waipo. You drew me?

“Shi ni,” I confirm.

“Gan ma hua wo?” She laughs a little and shakes her head.

Outside the window the sky has gone black. There are the lights of the town, flickering in oranges and yellows and blues and greens. The fat red lanterns are lit up, festive and bright. And more lights are out over the water, their reflections twinkling faintly. Proof this little world is still wide awake.

My grandmother summons a waitress, who brings us a menu. Waipo points to the photographs of the dishes, asking questions about each one, gesturing with her hands as she speaks. I listen to the rolling cadences of their conversation, busy myself with a doodle of our second pot of tea.

It’s not long before platters arrive: dumplings, stuffed lotus root, sautéed yam leaves, noodle soup, a bamboo basket full of steamed buns.

“Baozi,” says Waipo, pushing the basket toward the center, where we can both reach. A little white napkin unsticks itself from underneath the bamboo structure.

Actually, not a napkin. A square of paper, half soaked with the condensation from the steam, so I can see that there’s text on its underside. It takes a few seconds and a few careful fingers to peel it off. Handwritten in blue pen:

If I could see you in a year,

I’d wind the months in balls,

And put them each in separate drawers,

Until their time befalls.



That’s all. Nothing else.

What the actual heck?

I know only through pure, unshakable instinct: It’s by Emily Dickinson.

“Shenme?” says Waipo, seeing my face.

I have no idea how to answer her. The tremors start in my toes, making their way up the rest of my body. I am an earthquake. Any second now, I’m going to split apart.

Gripping the poem hard, I slide out of my seat, searching for the waitress who served us. “Hello? Excuse me?”

A different woman comes over and says something to me in Mandarin.

“I need to know who gave this to us,” I tell her, holding out the wet square of paper.

She gives me an uncertain look.

“Do you speak English? Is there someone who speaks English?”

“Deng yixia,” she says, and she turns back, click-click-clicking away from me fast in her heels.

I try to still the panic.

My grandmother has stood up, too, now. She takes the poem from me, her eyebrows scrunching together at the sight of the English words. “Shenme?” she says again.