The Astonishing Color of After(95)

And then we hit the other side of the storm. It tosses us high, and I get separated from everyone.

“Dad?” I call out, but it’s a vacuum, my voice simply sucked away.

I land, by myself, in a seat at a table draped with a white tablecloth and laden with food. Younger versions of Waipo and Waigong sit with Jingling around the same table. It’s a fancy restaurant, and totally packed. None of them are eating. The memory smells strongly of flowers.

“How long have you known?” says Waipo, her voice severe.

“Only a few weeks.” Jingling sighs.

“Why didn’t you tell us about this immediately?” Waigong demands. His fingers are wrapped so tightly around his teacup I can see the tendons bulging in the back of his hand.

Jingling shakes her head. “I didn’t think there was anything to worry about.”

“But now you’re worried?” says Waipo.

“I don’t think he’s good for her,” Jingling says slowly. “We were supposed to talk on the phone, and she never answered my call. She didn’t pick up for four days in a row.” The hurt is plain in her words, straining the timbre of her voice. “It’s not like her to do that. We used to talk every day. And when we finally spoke… she brushed it off. I think he’s a bad influence.”

“She told you she’s been spending all her time with this secret American boyfriend?” Waipo presses.

“Yes.”

“This relationship has to end,” says Waigong. He finally sets down the porcelain cup. “Tell her she must break up with him.”

“She’s too stubborn. She won’t listen to me if—” Jingling winces. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she cups a palm to her face.

“What’s wrong?” Waipo pulls her chair closer.

“Nothing. My eye has been hurting a little,” says Jingling. She drops her hand away and blinks several times as if to clear her vision. “I’m fine.”

“She’ll listen to you before she’ll listen to us,” says Waigong, sighing. “How did we come to have such a disobedient child? Why couldn’t she be more like you?” He picks up his chopsticks, prods at a sliver of bamboo shoot, sets the chopsticks back down. “You have to tell her.”

Jingling sighs. “She’s in love.”

“No,” says Waigong, the fury reddening his face. “She doesn’t know what love is. She will love a good Chinese man with a good family, who can give her a good life. Next time you call her, tell her to end this.”

The colors flicker and change; the vague and chemical scent of dryer sheets wafts through the air.

A room I don’t recognize. There’s my father in a wooden chair, his posture stiff and tense. Before him, little clay teacups send wisps of steam up into the air.

On the other side of the table, Waipo and Waigong sink into their brown couch, their eyes downcast. They’re older than the last memory, and they seem very tired, in a permanent way. Worn down.

My mother is nowhere to be seen.

Dad visiting my grandparents on his own? The idea leaves me stunned. Cold numbness settles under my skin.

So many secrets. So many omissions.

“I’ve continued to write to her,” says my grandfather.

“I know,” says Dad.

“Has she read the letters?” Waipo asks. She turns her face up with a hopeful expression.

“I don’t know,” my father answers, though it’s clear he does.

The smile on my grandmother’s face is full of pain. “And Leigh. What is she like?”

“A lot like her mother. Strong. Stubborn.” He smiles a little. “She’s very talented.”

“A pianist?” says Waigong.

My father shakes his head. “She draws. I brought a few of her pictures—”

He opens his briefcase wide and pulls out a folder, passing it over the tea.

Waipo’s shaky fingers carefully extract the loose pages. She stares at each one for a long time. She pauses on a charcoal drawing. “Who is this?”

“Leigh. It’s a self-portrait.”

My grandmother hovers her finger over the paper, tracing the dark lines in the air.

In the picture, I’m wearing Axel’s old headphones, curled up on the arm of a sofa with a sketch pad in my lap. I remember making it based off a photo he’d taken on a crappy camera. We hadn’t known each other for very long, but already we were best friends.

“You can keep those,” says my father. “She won’t notice. She draws so much. Nonstop. I’ll send you more.”

“How long are you in town?” asks my grandmother.

My father wraps his hands around a cup of tea. He sips. “Nine days.”

“You travel often?” she asks.

“Not too much, currently. This is only my second trip abroad since the last time I saw you.” Dad sets the tea down. “I hope I’ll get to travel more in the future.”

“Is she happy?” asks Waigong.

“Leigh? Yes. She’s… in love with her art.”

“And her mother? She’s happy, too?” My grandfather’s eyes are unblinking.

“I think so,” says my father. He draws in a breath and sighs. “I hope so.”