The Leavers(102)

They sat on a bench, next to each other. “This is my favorite place in Beijing,” his mother said. “The Empress had her summer vacations here, in the Qing Dynasty.”

He saw an arched bridge, small boats with yellow roofs. Fatigue rippled through his body. He was fried. Four days ago, he’d been in Ridgeborough.

“It’s a man-made lake. Like West Lake Park in Fuzhou. I go there when the walls start to come. Did you go when you were there?”

What did she mean by walls? “Leon and I just walked around the neighborhood.”

“And Leon, he’s doing well?”

Her fingers knotted over one another like pigeons fighting for a discarded hotdog bun. Daniel did the same thing when he was nervous, played with his hands. He wanted to separate her fingers and calm her down.

“He’s good. I met his wife and his daughter. They have a nice apartment.”

“Yong said in his e-mail that my son and his father came to visit and for a minute I didn’t know who he was talking about. I thought he meant Haifeng. Your real father.”

“Haifeng?” She’d never mentioned his name.

“I haven’t spoken to him in years. Before you were born, even. I hear he’s in Xiamen now.”

“Yong seems like a good guy.”

His mother’s expression brightened. “He is. When I told him I wanted to travel more for my job, he didn’t like the idea at first. He said he’d miss me. But eventually he understood.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t like to stay at home for too long. The same walls and roof. I get a bad feeling. I get nightmares.”

“So he knew about me. Even before I saw him.”

“Yes, he knew.”

Daniel smiled. His eyelids patted open and shut.

“Where do your parents work?” his mother asked. “The ones who adopted you?”

“They’re teachers. In a university.”

“They must be smart.”

He didn’t know when he would see Peter and Kay next. He dreaded the prospect of talking to them again, yet he was scared they wouldn’t want to talk to him either. This woman next to him, his mother, a stranger, was the only true family he had. “They want me to be like them, to go to college and study what they study.” He struggled against his impulse to defend them. “I’m not sure if it’s what I want, though.”

They watched the boats float. Daniel needed a nap. He wondered when they would talk, really talk. His mother picked up his hand, squeezing so hard he nearly pulled away. But he held on and sandwiched his hand between hers. He remembered how trapped he used to feel when Kay kissed his cheek and told him she loved him, as if he was supposed to respond in the right way. He didn’t feel like that now.

She released her grip. He wasn’t sure when the Qing Dynasty had taken place, only that it was long ago, and he imagined the Empress being rowed across the water on a long, gliding boat, the pavilions and temples full of people. Now the rooms were empty and the only sounds they heard were shouting tour guides. It was a sad place, a palace of ghosts.

“Are you hungry?” His mother let go of his hand and tapped his arm. Did they look as alike as Yong had said? “I want to take you out to eat.”

He wasn’t that hungry; he’d eaten a big breakfast on the train. But he let her take him to a café in a neighborhood where the storefronts were glass and chrome and people carried shopping bags and leather handbags. The café had a French name.

“Take a seat,” his mother said. “I’ll go in and order.” Daniel found a table on the patio and watched her walk inside, a slight shake in her heels. She rubbed her temples and shut her eyes, then opened them, her features rearranged into a blank pleasantry.

It was like being at a Starbucks in SoHo. He leaned back in his chair and was drifting off when his mother came out with a tray full of food.

“This café is famous for sweets.” She passed him a plate with a slice of chocolate cake, the icing already melting, and a plate of egg tarts. Two coffees, one for her and one for him, and a pile of sugar packets and plastic pods of creamer.

“Thank you.” He took the spoon she offered and a bite of the cake. The frosting was so sweet it made his tongue curl.

His mother watched him. “Is the cake good?”

“It’s good.”

She took a small piece and washed it down with coffee. He could see a smudge in her eyeliner, and she’d drawn in her eyebrows with a pencil that left a tiny clump in the hairs. “Have an egg tart.” She nudged the plate toward him.

He picked up a pastry and took a bite. “It’s good,” he said, though it was a little stale.

“You always loved sweets.”

He pressed cake crumbs beneath his spoon, self-conscious under her gaze.

“Have more.”

He took another bite. It was true, she had his eyes and mouth. Their lips had the same curve and dip in the middle—he’d always thought his mouth was a little too delicate for a guy’s—and their eyes the same large pupils and thick eyelids. Whenever he had looked into a mirror during the past ten years, it had felt like nobody resembled him. But she had been with him.

She rested her palm against his cheek. Just held it there. Her hand was warm, and he couldn’t move. Like if he twitched, the ground would open up beneath him.