The Leavers(64)

A few roommates had saved enough to buy into marriages of convenience. Didi and I went to City Hall for our friend Cindy’s wedding to a gray-haired white man. “I can introduce you to the woman I worked with,” Cindy said. “Professional Chinese lady.”

“I don’t want to sleep with a hairy American,” I said, then wanted to take it back, because that’s what Cindy had to do.

“You can get a Chinese man who has citizenship. And you don’t have to stay married,” Cindy said, “only long enough for it to work. You don’t even have to sleep with him if you don’t want to. It’s stupid to marry a guy without papers. It’s a wasted opportunity. The way you’re going, it’s going to take a long, long time to get your green card.”

“If ever,” Didi added.

Since you’d left, I’d been working twelve-hour shifts. Sewed more hems than anyone else. On the wall next to my bunk, I taped a piece of paper with two columns, one with the amount I owed, the other with what I’d paid off, the numbers so small I could only see them when I was lying down, and slowly, the number in the first column decreased and the number in the second column increased. But with the months I hadn’t worked after you were born and the money I sent to Yi Ba, it was taking longer than I expected. By the time you were five, I had paid off a little more than half the debt. More than twenty thousand remained.

I called you once a week. At first, Yi Ba would hold the phone to your face and ask you to say hello, and I would talk as you made gibberish sounds. Later, you were able to speak to me, and each time I called your voice would sound fuller and you would know words you hadn’t before.

“Are you listening to your Yi Gong?” I’d ask.

“Yes.”

“What did you do today?”

“Fed the chicken.”

“Do you remember New York?”

“No.”

You turned four, then five, old enough to go to school in New York, but Yi Ba made excuses. “Why not wait until your debt is paid so you can have more time for him,” he said. “Wait until you have enough saved to get your own place. He shouldn’t be living with all those women. And you need to get a better-paying job, with better hours. Who will look after him when you’re at work?” But Yi Ba had softened with his grandson. I’d told him that I’d met your father in New York, though your passport had your birthdate and anyone could do the math. Yi Ba hadn’t demanded details, only accepted the money I wired. For Deming, he said. He told me you had grown three centimeters in a month, that you liked to sing along to music on the radio, had nicknamed the current chicken Feety. I was glad he treated you well; it made me feel less bad about sending you away.

He kept me up to date with village news, which we both claimed to not care about but I always looked forward to hearing. Haifeng was engaged to a woman from Xiamen, whom his mother said was from a good family. I was happy for him, for landing a city woman, as well as for myself. I had escaped.

Visiting his parents on New Year’s, Haifeng had seen you—you were too young to remember—and asked Yi Ba for my phone number. He called me several times, but I never called him back. But maybe I should have let him meet you; it might have made things easier.

It wasn’t even noon yet, I had the day ahead of me, but I could no longer feel as good as I had when I left Rutgers Street for Central Park this morning, wrapped up in a long gray coat Cindy had given me. When I wore the coat over my jeans and sweatshirt, I’d walk a little taller, blend into the crowds on Canal.

I took out my phone and called Yi Ba. It was past eleven at night there, too late to be calling, but I wanted to hear your voice. The phone rang for such a long time I thought I had dialed the wrong number. When someone answered, it was neither you nor Yi Ba, but a woman who sounded familiar. “This is Peilan,” I said. “Who is this?”

“Peilan,” the voice said. “It’s Mrs. Li. Haifeng’s mother.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I need to tell you. Your father died. He had a heart attack last night. I didn’t know how to reach you and I was hoping you would call.”

A high-pitched ringing churned in my ears, like a train squealing to a sudden stop. “No.” My voice sounded strange, but I refused to let it waver while talking to Mrs. Li. “I spoke to him on Sunday.”

“I’m sorry. It was quick. I don’t think he was in much pain.” The ringing intensified. “Deming has been staying with us. I ran over to your house as soon as I heard the phone inside. Will you be able to send him to America soon?”

Somehow, I was able to inquire about the funeral, which my relatives would arrange and which I could not afford to attend, and to walk to the subway and back to the apartment, where later Didi found me in my bunk with the newspaper spread over my face. My father and I had been apart for so long he only existed on the telephone, but I’d always hoped we would see each other again.

I cried into my sleeves when walking down the street, tried to sniff the tears away at work, and when I couldn’t hold them back I let them drip, let my nose run onto the sewing machine. I thought of how, when I returned to the village after working in Fuzhou, one of the neighbor women had pulled me aside and said, “Your father is proud of you.”

I called Mrs. Li every night so I could speak to you, to make sure you were still there. I cried for weeks, lay in bed on my days off. Mrs. Li called and said one of Yi Ba’s cousins was able to get a loan due to having a relative in America—I was the relative—and apply for a tourist visa. He agreed to take you with him on the flight to New York, as long as I bought the tickets.