The Leavers(62)

“Hello?”

“It’s me—Deming.”

“Hello, Deming. I’m glad you called again.”

Hearing her voice made his breath catch. “Hello, Mama.”

“It’s you. You sound like an adult.”

Now that he was talking to her, he didn’t know what to say.

She said, “Are you okay?”

“I’m good.” The accusations he’d been poised to let loose remained stuck at the back of his throat. He sat on the couch, on top of his dirty laundry. Here he was, making small talk with his estranged mother. “I’m living in New York City, in Manhattan, not that far from where we used to live.”

“You’re twenty-one now.” Why was she whispering? “Are you working? In school?”

“Both. In university. I have a job in a restaurant. I also play the guitar with my friend, in a band.”

“You always liked music.”

“How are you, Mama?” Each time he said the word, he got afraid. She’d change her mind; hang up on him. He removed a sock wedged between the cushions and flung it across the room. He wanted to ask why she hadn’t called him back but didn’t want to scare her away.

“I’m good. I live in Fuzhou, in an apartment by West Lake Park. I’m married. My husband has his own textile factory. I’m the assistant director of an English school.”

My life is perfect. That’s what she was saying. Daniel switched to English. “How did your English get so good?”

“I practiced,” she said in English, and her accent was so thick he wasn’t convinced. She switched back to Fuzhounese. “How did you get my phone number?”

“I spoke to Leon.”

“Ah.”

“He said he hadn’t spoken to you in seven years.”

“Yes, it’s been a long time. We were in touch before, but it’s hard now. Work is busy, you know.”

Daniel walked to the window, returned to the couch. “I found Leon because I saw Vivian. Through Michael. He found my e-mail address, which wasn’t easy, because I don’t go by Deming anymore. I go by Daniel Wilkinson.”

“Daniel Wilkinson?”

“My parents gave that name to me.”

There was a short silence. “So you saw Michael.”

“I had dinner with him and Vivian. He told me she had gone to court as my guardian and given me away to a foster family.”

A longer silence ensued.

“Hello?” He should end the call. This had been a mistake.

“That bitch,” his mother said, but her words were too measured and quiet, lacking the fire he remembered. “How could she do that?”

He wished he could see her face, wanted to be able to place her in a room. “Mama?”

“Yes?”

“What do you see right now?”

“I’m in my apartment, in our office room. I see curtains, a desk. We’re on the twelfth floor. If I look out my window, I see other buildings. Fuzhou is a big city these days, like New York. What do you see, Deming?”

“Some shelves. My computer, my clothes, my guitar. There’s a window, but it faces another building.”

She asked if he remembered riding the subway, and he mentioned the time they had met their doppelg?ngers. In Ridgeborough, when Deming Guo was no longer a name that was said aloud, he used to picture the Other Deming and Other Mama, still living in Queens. It was a sort of comfort, bittersweet; at least they’d remained together.

“I have to go,” she suddenly whispered. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

SHE CALLED HIM THE next day, Wednesday evening in New York, Thursday morning in Fuzhou. He was at work, didn’t see the message until later. “Hello, Deming,” she said. “I wanted to say hello, but you’re probably at school. Don’t call me, we need to set up a time to talk in advance. But I’ll call you again tomorrow.”

All next day he kept his ringer on high, but she didn’t call. After work, he called and left her another message, asking her when they could talk next.

He went back to the apartment, ate takeout enchiladas from Tres Locos, and tried to work on a song, deciding against going out. He hadn’t touched his own music in weeks. If he made himself unavailable she would call, like bringing an umbrella for insurance against the rain. He took a long shower, changed into sweatpants, folded his clothes, did the dishes crusting away in the sink. Finally, he looked at his phone. She’d called, left him a message suggesting five thirty Friday morning, New York time. That night he slept well for the first time all week.

The next morning, he was ready. He got up earlier than he ever did, bought a cup of coffee and a bagel at a deli on Sixth Avenue, then sat at the kitchen table and dialed.

At first it was the wrong number and the call didn’t go through. Panicked, he double-checked, dialed again.

She picked up. “Deming?”

“Is this a good time?”

“Yes, my husband is out. I’m on our balcony right now.”

He’d made a list of things he wanted to ask. “Remember the time you pushed me off a swing?”

“What made you think of that?”

“I just remembered it.”

“I never pushed you off a swing. You fell off. I remember when I asked the school to put you with another teacher. They wanted to move you to a remedial class.”