Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(56)

“Tina knows,” I croak.

“That’s okay, then.” He leans back.

I still can’t tell if he’s serious or sarcastic. He’s smiling just a little bit, but there’s a sharpness to his eyes. “How did you know?”

He smiles. “I told you already. I watch a lot of TV.” He doesn’t say anything more, and after the silence stretches on and on, into the next commercial break, I realize that he’s finished with the subject.

Tina told me once that people underestimate her father. I suspect I just did, too. He’s quiet and soft-spoken. He watches MTV, for God’s sake. I had kind of thought that Tina got her backbone from her mother.

Somehow, I’d missed the fact that her father withstood three months of torture by the Chinese government.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” I try again. “This whole thing is complicated and my dad and I are…even more complicated at the moment. Tina and I decided it would be easier to not go into too many details.”

“Lying to me is easy because you don’t think you’ll see me again,” he says with a nod. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind.”

I’m fumbling for an answer that doesn’t sound completely awful, when he shakes his head.

“I can tell it was Tina’s idea anyway.”

I pull back. “Don’t blame her. If I tell a lie, I’ll take responsibility for it.”

“I’m not blaming anyone. Things are complicated for her.”

“It isn’t Tina’s fault,” I tell him. “And it’s complicated for me, too. If I had my way, Blake Reynolds would completely disappear.”

I hadn’t expected to say that. He looks at me. His eyes are wide, one eyebrow cocked. I know how stupid it sounds. I know that if I tried to explain why I wanted out of my life, he would think I was spoiled.

And—with more than a month of living Tina’s life behind me—at this point, I realize that I probably am.

But he only says one thing. “Hmm.”

The tinny sound of the chipper news anchor is no longer a welcome distraction. It makes me feel almost sick to my stomach. I am spoiled for not wanting that burden on my shoulders.

I’ve been trying not to think about it, but now it sinks in. I’m taking over for my dad in a matter of weeks, and I’m not strong enough. I know it, deep in my bones. When I fail, the whole world will be watching. My failure will be documented in books, academic articles, and derivative shareholder suits.

God, this is such a f*cking mess.

“Things are complicated,” Mr. Chen says. “People always jump to conclusions. People think I don’t understand English because I don’t speak loudly. They see my lucky leg and think I have a bad life.” He smiles faintly. “I try not to conclude too much too early.”

I turn back to Mr. Chen. “Are you being ironic when you call it your lucky leg?”

“No.” But instead of smiling, his face goes blank. His eyes shift inward. “Of course not.”

“Then why…?”

“When I came to America, there was another man who came with me. Chun Donghai. He also practiced Falun Gong, and was also in the same reeducation camp as me. We both left China at the same time.”

I fold my hands and wait for him to continue.

“We both filed paperwork for asylum. We even had the same lawyer. When it was my turn, the man who heard my story believed me when I said I was tortured in China. After all, I had proof it happened.” He points to his leg. “So my family stayed. Donghai went back to China.”

I swallow.

“I call it my lucky leg as a reminder. Every time I tell myself ‘if only,’ I know the answer. If only I hadn’t been injured, I would have been deported. If only I had a different leg, my wife would have been sent for reeducation and she would have been…” He pauses, picking among words. “Killed,” he finally settles on. “Probably. Without my lucky leg, I wouldn’t have a second daughter, and Xingjuan would have quit school at sixteen and worked in a factory, just like I did.” He looks up at me. “So yes, I think it’s a lucky leg. Do you disagree?”

I envy him his certainty. If only my dad didn’t run Cyclone. The last few months have been nothing but a giant if only. And the main thing I’ve learned is that there is no escape. There are no pat realizations to be had, no giant handoffs.

“Sounds lucky to me.”

“Yes.” He turns back to the television. “You see, it helps me remember that there is one place I most want to be, one time of my life I most yearn for.”

There is no end to my father’s ambition. Whatever it is he wants, he lays out a plan and grabs it, and once he has hold of it, the only thing he can think about is the thing that is next on the horizon. If Dad heard Mr. Chen talk, he’d call it a load of crap—“bullshit hippy happiness,” he’d say, something I’ve heard so much it’s like Dad is here, rolling his eyes himself. I’m sure that whatever Mr. Chen wants, whatever place he imagines, it’s somewhere tranquil—somewhere like the restful retreats that my father’s doctor is always suggesting.

Dad tried one once. He made it two hours before he left and went rock climbing.

“Where do you imagine yourself?” I ask.