The Leavers(73)

LATER THAT SUMMER, DIDI and Quan got married. Quan had proposed after winning big one night in Atlantic City, kneeling on the carpet of the casino hotel and presenting a diamond ring. I stood with them before the judge at City Hall, sat next to Leon at a restaurant table, clapping as the newlyweds posed for photos. Didi applied extra coats of fuchsia lipstick. Quan’s spiky hair fell over his eyebrows.

One of the other women at our table said I should inquire how much the meal cost in case I wanted to have my wedding here, too. I didn’t. Didi was marrying a man who gambled his paycheck away. Sure, she loved him, but even Leon agreed she was getting the shit end of the deal.

Meanwhile Leon’s back was giving him trouble. At work, his pay remained the same, though he’d been there longer than most of the other men. “You’ve got to ask for a raise,” I said, but there was always another excuse. His boss was in a bad mood. His boss quit and he got a new one. That boss was out that day. Then he was in pain and couldn’t get out of bed, so he missed three days of work, not to mention pay. Vivian and I kept telling him to see a doctor before his back got worse, but he refused, said we were overreacting, he was fine with ice packs and Tylenol.

A former co-worker named Santiago was starting a moving company, and when Leon said he was thinking of joining, I was so happy I pounded my fist on the kitchen table and said, “That’s a great idea!”

Whenever he mentioned it might be nice to have a baby together, I’d say I didn’t want to while I still had debt. But each month I paid only the minimum. I just didn’t want another child. You were almost eleven, and in a few years you wouldn’t need me to look after you all the time. I could work more, get a better job, learn English. Not take care of a baby.

Two months after Didi’s wedding, Leon met me after work, and as we were walking in Riverside Park, he slowed down as we approached a big tree. Then he stopped.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “What, your shoelace got untied?”

He rooted around his pocket and removed a box. My heart started to pound. He fumbled with the lid, finally opening it to reveal a gold ring.

“Do you want to get married?” he asked.

Eyes pleading, brow furrowed, Leon leaned forward with his chest. We stared at each other, and every second that passed, he looked more nervous, and it became clear that whatever I said, I wouldn’t be able to take back. But I couldn’t say no; I couldn’t hurt him. So I said yes.

Vivian and Didi threw us a party to celebrate, and we put on the radio and danced—Vivian loved to dance, had great rhythm, and even you and Michael joined in.

“Now Leon will be my real Yi Ba,” you said.

Vivian raised a bottle of beer. “To my brother and sister!”

All my life I had wanted sisters, and now I was so glad to have Vivian and Didi. Leon wanted to go to City Hall right away, but I said let’s wait until spring, when it was warmer, and we could afford a proper banquet.

THAT MONDAY, I WOKE up alone in the apartment on my day off. You and Michael were at school, and Leon and Vivian were visiting a family friend in Queens. I walked through the apartment, not bothering to pick up your clothing or a pair of Leon’s boxers, lying plaintive on the bedroom floor. I made a cup of tea and let the rare quiet settle over me. On Rutgers Street I had felt alone all the time, even with so many roommates, and now I was rarely alone, though there were times when I was so lonely, like when you and Michael spoke to each other in too-fast English as I sat next to you, or when Vivian and Leon reminisced about their parents and siblings.

For the first time in months, the day was all mine. I got dressed, walked outside into a sunny morning, early October, and boarded a nearly empty 4 train, the rush-hour crowd already at work, the kids already in school. I stayed on as it went underground, through Manhattan and into Brooklyn, got off at a stop I had never been to before, climbing the stairs up into a quiet street with large trees. The buildings, though not too tall, were wide and regal, with wrought iron fences, brick walkways, and arched entrances. I waited for the light to change alongside a young woman pushing a stroller, shoulders shaking to a secret song, headphones in her ears, the baby girl in the stroller dressed in a miniature jacket and denim pants with pink cuffs. I smiled, the baby gumming back at me, and saw myself at nineteen, pushing you in a stroller I’d bought at a secondhand store on the Bowery. That was my first year in America. I would look down as I walked and see your tiny sneakers poking out in front of me. Now your feet were bigger than mine.

I was often fatigued by the city, its bad breath belching through vents in the pavement, a guy testing his cell phone ringtones on a packed subway, but this neighborhood felt peaceful. Leaves crunched beneath my shoes, and the breeze didn’t bite. I turned at the next block, onto a street with narrower buildings. A delivery man, Chinese, bags dangling from his bicycle handlebars, cut me off at the corner.

I looked up at the rows of fire escapes and air conditioners, the barred windows and scraps of curtains. In two weeks, I would be thirty years old. My own mother had been dead at my age. One day Yi Ma had been alive, and the next, gone.

A door opened onto the sidewalk, a bell jangling from its handle. The deliveryman walked into a takeout joint, and I followed him and ordered a plate of chicken and rice, taking the container to eat at one of the two tables.

The food was salty. I asked the man if I could have a cup of water.

“We don’t have water,” he said.