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After Dark

Mai Wang

My mother and my father and I slept in the same bed until I turned fourteen. No one knew about our arrangement, not even my best friend Eva, who lived three buildings down and a world away. We shared two salvaged twin mattresses pushed together to form a semi-queen. As I grew older and taller, I felt more and more trapped by Mama and Baba’s bodies, which only widened as they aged.

At school, I thought of our uncomfortable bed whenever my classmates shared stories about their family’s new houses and the Disney World resort hotels they visited once a year. My family never left our neighborhood, not even to go to Miami Beach, but I told myself that since we came from China we were on a permanent vacation in America. Besides me and Eva and the other immigrant kids whose parents had fled the insane rules of Chairman Mao and Fidel Castro, the students at Palmetto Middle were white and so rich they fed their dogs steaks. None of them knew anything about China, and though I barely remembered our old life, I made up stories about a country where everyone knew kung fu and karate and taekwondo. In China, I lied to my classmates, my family lived in a gated compound once owned by an emperor that made American mansions look like sandcastles. Never mind the fact that in real life, my family’s Communist apartment had no shower, only a wooden bathtub we set on the concrete floor to take turns washing ourselves every Sunday. Instead of telling the other kids about gray bath water, I told them about walking through moon gates and eating moon cakes, fake-remembering the good times I had never experienced.

But I only knew how to lie well at school. At home, Mama and Baba wanted to know everything about me: why I didn’t want to join any sports teams—I told them I was allergic to grass and soccer balls. When they asked whether I was going to become a doctor or a lawyer, I said neither and wished they would stop treating life like a multiple-choice test where you were forced to spend your limited time filling in Scantron blanks. Part of me was always annoyed with them, but the other part was glad they regarded my life as the most interesting subject in the world. I thought the three of us would remain a unit forever even if Mama and Baba were drifting apart.

Mama had been angry at Baba ever since I could remember, but her anger had intensified the previous spring, when Baba dropped out of his PhD program in philosophy to study for a master’s degree in computer science. Baba defended his decision. He was tired of reading Western classics he didn’t understand. Plato and Socrates were dead, and Kant and Nietzsche were lying next to them in their own separate graves. The future lay in information technology. Computer concepts were a foreign language to Mama. All she knew was that she valued money in the bank more than the promise of any future salary. She asked Baba why he would surrender the scholarship that kept us housed and clothed and semi-fed in exchange for new classes that each cost more than a week’s worth of groceries. After a while, Baba sank into a silence that made me wonder if we were now so poor we needed to ration words, as if spending too much time talking had become another luxury we couldn’t afford.

To cover his new tuition bill, Baba worked part-time delivering live lobsters and dead fish for a seafood wholesale company tucked away in a neighborhood where the warehouses collided with the beach next to the Atlantic Ocean, two English words Baba and Mama regarded as cruel tongue-twisters. When he wasn’t obsessing over the new computer textbooks at his desk, Baba devoted himself to his job, which kept him driving from restaurant to restaurant in a Nissan minivan borrowed from his boss. The first time Baba pulled up in the parking lot driving the old Nissan instead of his even more ancient Mazda, he stepped out of the driver’s seat wearing a lottery winner’s grin, but all I could see were the dents and scratches.

“Get inside and take a look,” Baba said.

Baba thought he was sharing his good fortune, and I couldn’t bring myself to correct him as I climbed in.

“What do you think?” Baba asked.

“It looks like all the nice cars my American friends’ moms drive,” I lied, and Baba seemed to believe me. Maybe I was getting better at covering up the truth.

With the backseats removed and the floor covered with wooden crates, the interior resembled the cargo hold of a pirate ship on wheels. As he crawled around the crates, Baba looked like the unsteady first mate to a captain hiding below deck, forcing his crew to do all the work. The inside of the minivan reeked of brine. The smell lingered on Baba’s skin and kept me awake that night, while Mama competed with him by filling my nose with her scent of fried crab rangoons and greasy potstickers with thick skins no Chinese mother would serve her kids at home.

“Your pay at the seafood place is too low,” Mama told Baba a few nights later. “You should ask for more hours instead of spending so much time studying.”

“There are only twenty-fours in a day,” Baba said. “Don’t forget my F-1 student visa is keeping us in America, and you’re my F-2 dependents.”

“I don’t care if I’m F-2, F-3, or F-100,” Mama said. “I just know our rent is going up.”

“You worry too much,” Baba declared as if his diagnosis would instantly cure Mama of her chronic condition. “I can make good money in a few years once I find a job coding computers. We’re living in the middle of a new revolution, Chen Yan. This one is different from the one we saw as children. Soon guns and tractors won’t matter anymore. American software will rule the world. Computers are the new gold.”

Mama and Baba continued to argue as I read and re-read the same page of Little Women. I imagined the March sisters—like all the other white families from the old books I read—speaking in kind, gentle voices to each other as they gathered around a fireplace with their needlework. Meanwhile, I was stuck in the same old apartment. The humid night air sailed in through the open window, and my mother and father’s voices blended with the whooshing of traffic and the chirping of tropical birds that seemed to fly away and disappear every time I stepped outside.

▪

ONE MORNING, I woke to the sound of the mattress creaking. Baba walked over to the dresser, put on the button-down shirt Mama always ironed for him, and combed his thinning hair. He removed his glasses and wiped them with the precision he reserved for special occasions. I’d seen him perform all these rituals before when he was heading to an interview, but I hadn’t heard him mention a new job. I wondered if he was making an urgent lobster delivery at a fancy hotel restaurant in Miami Beach.

“Where are you going?” I whispered. Mama remained asleep beside me, her hair released from its waitress bun. A long black tendril remained stuck to her forehead.

“I’m going for a walk,” Baba said as he tightened his belt. “I can’t sleep.”

“Can I come?”

“No. You have school in a few hours,” Baba whispered before he left the bedroom.

Mama didn’t stir. I lay there looking at her sleeping face, wondering if my parents had ever been happy together. Then I remembered when Mama told me happiness was an American invention like cotton candy and dishwashers—nice to have, but you could easily survive without them. Maybe she was right.

I turned to the other side of the bed. Baba had left his flea market Rolex on the nightstand. It was his birthday gift from me and Mama, and normally he wore it everywhere like a knockoff good luck charm. How could he leave it behind now? I grabbed the watch and squinted at the time: six in the morning.               

I tried to fall asleep again, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Baba’s strange behavior. He didn’t believe in exercise and never asked how I was doing in P.E., so why would he start a new routine at this hour? Besides, he often complained of how he needed more rest after lifting and hauling all those crates of seafood. Something was wrong. A strange sensation got under my skin, and before I realized what was happening, I found myself lifting the corner of the blanket, sliding out of bed, and following Baba’s path out of the apartment without bothering to lock the front door, an omission Mama would find unforgivable.

Outside it was still dark. I weaved through rows of parked cars trying to find Baba, who must have transformed into an Olympic sprinter. Everywhere I looked, there were endless blocks of identical units. The stucco apartments in the Villas of Dadeland were once painted shades of Barbie pink and Tang orange, but the sun had faded them into nondescript shades better left unnamed. The windows were all covered with the same plastic blinds, and I was reminded of our old high-rise building in Beijing. The bicycles and occasional rickshaws crowding every street in China were gone, replaced by used Toyotas and Hondas with side mirrors held together by duct tape, but when I looked up it was easy to imagine we were back in our own country. Our luck had carried us all the way to America, yet we hadn’t managed to get very far. We were living in a complex built decades ago for a generation of retirees who had all moved onto heaven or nicer gated communities.

Finally, I spotted the back of Baba’s neatly combed hair and ironed shirt. He was walking so fast anyone would think he was on a top-secret mission to save the world. For a second I pictured Baba as Clark Kent throwing on his cape, but I knew my father was no secret superhero. Deep down, I suspected Mama was right in her angriest moments, and Baba was just a useless man who only knew how to spend money and never saved a cent.

Soon I realized Baba was heading towards the pool, which was always deserted at this hour. I maintained a safe distance between us as I trailed behind him. The pool was surrounded by a chain-link fence, and Baba sped up as he swung the loose gate open and headed towards the filthy lounge chairs. To my surprise, a woman seated on one of the chairs stood as soon as she saw Baba. I stopped walking and ducked behind a beat-up sedan so I could stare at her long black hair, which looked smooth and silky even from my hiding place.

“I’m glad you’re here already,” Baba said too loudly and too politely, and I recognized the same voice he used when he spoke English over the phone. “I know it’s early, but I needed to talk to you.”

“You should be glad I managed to sneak away,” the woman said in a voice sweeter than Splenda, and instantly I knew it was Auntie Su. The past few years of me being held hostage at late-night Chinese parties while my father sang karaoke and played cards while Mama waitressed came back to me, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized Baba always found an excuse to sit so close to Auntie Su at the card table their thighs were practically touching.

“I couldn’t wait any longer to tell you,” Baba interrupted her, as if he was trying to spit out all the words at once. “My studies aren’t going well here. I want to do something new with my life.”

“I don’t understand. You told me you’d have no trouble studying computers and landing a good job,” Auntie Su said, sounding more like Mama than Baba would probably care to admit.

“That plan will take years,” Baba said, dismissing the idea he had just defended to Mama a few days ago by borrowing her logic. I wondered how his mind worked, or if it was working at all. “Actually, I’m thinking of going back to China. I hear they’re opening universities everywhere. I can get a job teaching philosophy again, even start a business on the side. Beijing isn’t the same place anymore. My old friends tell me they’re eating fish and pork every meal, and the Party sold them their apartments for a cabbage price. What do you think? Want to come with me?”

Auntie Su turned away from Baba, revealing her face in profile. She had nice lips and better skin than Mama, but there was nothing special about her, and she looked older than I remembered. Baba must be mistaking her for some Chinese movie star whose name I didn’t know.

“It won’t be easy,” Auntie Su said after a long pause. “I can’t just leave my husband. At least not now. Besides, how do you know your friends are telling the truth? The Party is still in control.”

Baba cleared his throat as if he was preparing to give a long speech. “Why would they lie? We were comrades when we were sent down to the countryside, and now they’re all getting promoted and making real money for the first time. Next to them, I’m nobody these days.”

“What about your family, Li Fei? Won’t your daughter have a hard time keeping up with school in China? Or are you planning to leave her behind?”

“Don’t guilt me like my wife.” Baba’s words were harsh, but he was pleading with Auntie Su. “I have enough trouble at home.”

My familiar world was dissolving. Baba seemed to think that switching to a different life was as easy as ordering from a menu. I thought of Mama asleep back home, her messy hair splayed out in a black fan behind her. She was scheduled to wake up soon, and she would face another twelve-hour shift inhaling fumes and wearing out the soles of her Dr. Scholl’s and fending off white men flirting with her in a language she barely understood. What would I tell her? Or should I keep the bad news to myself?         

A police car drove by blasting its sirens, as if the cops were announcing Baba’s crime to the world, and the noise shielded my footsteps as I tiptoed away from my hiding place. Baba and Auntie Su were still debating each other. As soon as I got away from the pool, I started to run, but I knew I couldn’t run away from my secret forever. If Baba was really thinking of leaving us, then part of me blamed Mama for being mean to him and making him feel bad all the time.

In the bedroom, Mama was lying on her side, beads of sweat gathered on her upper lip. I crawled in beside her and pretended I had never woken up in the first place, but the rustle of the blanket woke her.

“Where did you go?” she mumbled.

“Nowhere,” I lied before I decided Mama wouldn’t believe me. “I went to the bathroom.”

“Well, stop making so much noise,” Mama said as she shut her eyes again.

I obeyed and willed myself to remain silent. A long stretch of time passed before Baba returned. His damp arm brushed against mine as he climbed into bed. He started snoring as he faced me with his mouth open. I saw the dark gaps where he was missing teeth from a lifetime of missed dental appointments. He must have been telling the truth about not owning a toothbrush during the years Chairman Mao sent him to a labor camp in the countryside, but I didn’t feel sorry for Baba since he loved China more than he cared about us. Soon a broad, wet circle of Baba’s spit stained the pillow. Did Auntie Su’s husband drool like Baba? If so, she would only be trading one disgusting man for another.

▪

AS SOON AS MAMA RETURNED from the late shift around ten, she turned on the TV and raised the volume. I was reading The Catcher in the Rye on the couch, but I put my book down when Mama sat next to me. Holden Caulfield could wait in Manhattan and keep dealing with his rich people problems.

Like every other night, Mama flipped through the English channels quickly. In America, she once told me, nothing was made for her. The TV shows starred police arresting men who had already surrendered, or white women walking little dogs dressed like children, or airplanes bombing a devastated part of Earth where the last inhabitants were asleep, and she couldn’t tell the real from the fake. Finally, Mama settled on the Mandarin channels beamed in from her Chinese satellite dish, her one extravagance, and tuned into the CCTV nightly news from Beijing. It was censored, she admitted, but it didn’t matter to her. The Communist Party omitted the sad events out of everyone’s control.

The polished anchorwoman began the broadcast by talking about the new high-rise apartments being built in Beijing, complete with modern interiors and Western-style bathrooms. She was more beautiful than Auntie Su, and when I glanced over at Baba, he was staring at the TV anchorwoman with an intensity he usually reserved for his studies.

When the news ended, Mama turned off the TV and leaned back against the salvaged couch.

“I almost forgot,” she told me loud enough for Baba to hear it too. “A two-bedroom is opening up soon. It’s time for us to think about moving.”

Baba continued to ignore her and kept his gaze fixed on the blank screen as if he was expecting the TV to turn on by itself.

“You finally decided to listen to me,” I told Mama as my excitement grew. For years, I had been begging my parents to sign a new lease on a bigger place so I could have my own bedroom. Now the pink walls I had once imagined were morphing into a light purple or even a deep navy, a prep school color Holden Caulfield would approve.

“How did you learn about the two-bedroom?” Baba asked, finally turning to Mama, who was twisting her arms behind her back to massage her own shoulders. She looked like a Chinese acrobat who had wandered off stage and ended up in the wrong country.

“Su Tien told me about it,” Mama said.

I looked away. I wasn’t ready to share my secret with Mama.

“I ran into her on my way to work,” Mama continued. “It’s a unit in Building B.”

Baba frowned. “We can’t afford to move now. My boss called and told me not to come in tomorrow.” He opened his textbook and pretended to study again.

Mama’s hands dropped to her sides. “You mean he fired you?”

“It’s not my fault. He needs someone who can work full-time nonstop.”

“I don’t understand. You can take on more shifts.”

“That’s impossible. I have classes in the afternoons.”

“You know what else is impossible? Staying in this place. Jin Jin is getting too old to share a bed with us,” Mama said, eyeing me so intensely I could feel her take in every inch of my newly gained height.

I copied Baba and opened my novel, but the words on the page blurred. When I looked up, Mama was still staring at me, but now she looked like she wanted to apologize for not being able to give me what I wanted.

“I don’t mind staying here a while longer,” I said before Mama could open her mouth.

“I’ll start looking for other work,” Baba told us, looking back and forth between me and Mama as if he was playing a game of ping-pong with his eyes. “I’ll ask everyone I know.”

“That’s what you always say,” I blurted out.

Baba didn’t bother to reply before he shut his book and pushed his chair against the wall.

“I can live anywhere as long as I can enjoy some peace,” he said to no one in particular before he stomped to the bathroom to take one of his endless showers. Soon Mama yawned and retreated to the bedroom while I remained seated, dreading another night wedged between them, sharing the twin mattresses. I wished my parents would learn to move over and give me more space to stretch out my body.

▪

AFTER SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY, I met Eva by the bus stop. The number five arrived first to pick up a group of rich kids and take them back to Kendall Lakes, the neighborhood with stucco castles and backyard swimming pools that looked like the real America. We waited for the number twelve. It was known as the immigrant bus since all the brown and yellow-skinned kids who rode it lived in the apartments tucked away in the wrong side of our district.

On the way home, I grew light-headed as usual. I was too proud to eat the free school lunches and too ashamed to bring real Chinese food to school, so most days I skipped lunch and tried to ignore my empty stomach. My hunger was all mixed up with my worries about Mama and Baba, and suddenly I felt sick enough to throw up on the overheated seat.

“What’s wrong with you, Jin Jin?” Eva asked, nudging me with her elbow.

“I’m fine, just a little bus-sick,” I told her. She looked like she didn’t believe me, so I decided to make up a new story. “Actually, I forgot to tell you I’m moving soon. My parents are going to buy a new house. It won’t be super fancy or anything, but I’ll have my own room. You can come over once it’s done.”

Eva’s eyes widened. From her few visits to my apartment, she knew Baba as a silent man who spent all his time at his desk and Mama as an absent mother who left saran-wrapped plates of shredded potatoes for me to heat up in the microwave. She must have been wondering how my parents had managed to save enough money to buy a house.

“When are you moving?” she asked. “You won’t have to change schools, will you?”

I was growing annoyed at Eva for asking too many questions. My lies only worked when they weren’t scrutinized too much. “We’re looking at houses near Kendall Lakes, but we’re not sure which one we’re going to buy yet,” I said.

“You better tell your parents you need to stay at Palmetto. I can’t survive this place without you,” Eva said as she smiled at me. Her teeth were white and straight, even though her family couldn’t afford braces either, and I remembered the way her mother and father always laughed together when I visited their apartment, which smelled of fried plantains and yellow rice and red beans everyone ate together at the same time, not in staggered shifts the way we ate our meals. I wished I had been born Cuban instead of Chinese.

“Don’t worry, I’m not moving too far,” I said before I realized I was accidentally telling the truth.

I stared out the window. We sped down Ponce de Leon Street, which was lined on both sides by shopping centers that looked like giant Lego sets built in slightly different configurations. We passed a Publix, a Wal-Mart, and a Dollar King, and the houses behind the stores got smaller and sadder looking until they faded away and massive apartment complexes took their place. I wished the bus driver would keep driving past the city limits across state lines to a random place where Mama and Baba couldn’t follow me. It didn’t matter if it was New York or California or the moon as long as I could forget about their endless problems for a while.

▪

THAT NIGHT, Mama came home late and paused in the threshold of the front door, clutching a stained twin mattress that threatened to knock her over as she dragged it inside.

“This is for you,” Mama told me. “Auntie Zhang’s son is away at college, and they don’t need his bed anymore. Sorry I can’t give you your own bedroom yet.”

The new-old mattress didn’t make up for the fact that we weren’t moving to a two-bedroom—let alone a house—anytime soon.

“Where are we going to put that thing?” I asked, not bothering to hide my disgust.

“We can make space in the bedroom,” Mama said as she sat on the couch. “Any luck finding a new job?” she asked Baba.

Baba shook his head. “No one is hiring deliverymen at this time of year,” he said.

“Try something else,” Mama snapped at him. “You can be a busboy.”

Baba stared at her, as if he was struggling to understand her words. “I’m not you,” he said. “I can’t just work anywhere.”

“Our lease is almost up, and the rent is going up,” Mama said. “How am I going to find fifty extra dollars a month now that you’re earning nothing? You haven’t earned much since we moved here, and who knows if you’ll make more later?”

Mama enjoyed reminding Baba of his past, present, and future failures. Sometimes I almost wanted to defend him, but then I remembered Baba’s morning meeting with Auntie Su, and the urge to help my father faded into my usual state of confusion.

▪

AS THE DAYS PASSED and my father’s unemployment continued, Mama’s fear of being broke became her only focus. At least I was sleeping on my new-old mattress on the floor and no longer slept between Baba and Mama, who surprised us both when she announced a new plan one night.

“From now on,” she said, “every Saturday and Sunday morning, we’re going to sell watches and jewelry at the Tropicana Flea Market next to the airport. A friend of my boss deals in Chinese wholesale goods. He’ll give us a discount on our first order. We’ll see what sells and get more.”

Baba removed his glasses and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“What about your job at the restaurant?” he asked.

“The other waitress can cover lunch,” Mama said. “The flea market closes in the afternoon. I’ll still be able to work dinner shifts.”

Baba grimaced. “I didn’t move to America to display junk. Don’t you remember who I was back in China?”

Mama shrugged. “The same person you are now, only a little younger.”

▪

ON SATURDAY MORNING, Mama woke us before sunset and told us to skip breakfast in order to load our Mazda with the merchandise and arrive at the flea market early. As I sat in the backseat, I struggled not to think about food until we drove past the entrance and the scent of grilled chicken reminded me of Eva’s mom’s cooking.

The Tropicana Flea Market was a different country. Instead of the shopping malls and green lawns that covered the rest of America, an enormous parking lot had been converted into a maze of stalls populated only by immigrants. Cuban, Haitian, and Brazilian, flags greeted me, a relic from fifth-grade geography class. Spanish words drifted through the air. Vendors wearing tank tops and blue eyeshadow stood waiting for customers to buy toilet brushes, fried plantains, snorkeling gear, posters of Che Guevara, pressed Cubanos, polyester bikinis, children’s bikes, Jesus candles, Christmas ornaments, and every kind of barbeque.

“I’m too hungry to work,” I announced as the smoke from the grills wafted over.

Mama shot me an angry look as she lifted boxes of merchandise from the trunk. “We’re here to make money. Don’t act like a stupid child.” My mother threw out insults like random arrows, not caring where they landed or who they hurt.

“No, she needs to eat breakfast,” Baba said, coming to my defense for the first time I could remember. He searched his pockets for money. “I only have two dollars,” he confessed.

“I don’t have any cash to give you,” Mama said.

“Two dollars will have to be enough then,” Baba muttered.

As Mama and I guarded the boxes, Baba scanned the menus of the nearest food stalls. My eyes followed him. Even the cheapest dishes of rice, beans, and fried plantains cost five or six dollars. After wandering up and down, Baba found a man selling long stalks of sugarcane. The man was holding a small machete that reminded me of Mama’s stories of harvesting wheat under moonlight and cutting her legs with a rusty blade during her two years at a labor camp. I wondered if she blamed Chairman Mao or Baba for the way our life had turned out.

“One give me please,” Baba said as he handed the man both dollar bills. The man chopped up a long green stalk and put the pieces on a paper plate.

Baba rushed back to us balancing the plate between his hands. “Try this,” he told me.

As I chewed the sugarcane, I forgot to be mad at Baba. I tried to convince myself he would never leave us and return to China to start a new life with a new family.

We followed Mama as she found our rented stall, which turned out to be a blue vinyl canopy held up by four rickety metal poles. A plastic table and a few lawn chairs were strewn beneath the canopy. Mama stopped in front of the table and instructed us to set down the merchandise before she started ripping the boxes open. We kept our distance from her as she removed a tangled mountain of golden necklaces with large animal pendants I recognized from the Chinese zodiac—pieces no one would wear in America. Next, Mama pulled out a pile of rings covered with rows of fake diamonds so small they looked like baby’s teeth and a handful of watches, their hour and minute hands frozen at different times. All the costume jewelry looked cheaper than the worst prizes from Chuck E. Cheese, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her.

Mama’s hands were a blur as she sorted through the merchandise. Once the necklaces were displayed in neat rows, I helped her lay out the rings as she dug around and pulled out the small metal box she used to safeguard her tips.

“I put some money inside so we can give change to customers,” she told Baba.  “Today your job is to be the cashier. Make sure the customers don’t try to cheat you because of your bad English.”

Baba grabbed a lawn chair and took a seat in front of the box, crossing his arms as if to defend himself from the long day ahead.

When the flea market opened, a crowd streamed in to browse the stalls. Kids passed us carrying plates piled high with shredded pork, charred corn, and cheese-filled empanadas. I knew better than to ask for more food before lunchtime.

“Come look! Cheap, cheap!” Mama repeated herself over and over.

In English, Mama was stupid. It pained me to hear her accent and see the teenagers smirk at her.

“We must be the only Chinese here,” Mama said, turning to Baba, who was now scanning a textbook he had retrieved from his backpack.

Baba looked up and nodded. “It’s good to be the only ones selling jewelry,” he said. “No competition for us.”

“No customers either,” Mama snapped at him.

When Baba didn’t respond, Mama picked up a ring and took a step into the crowd, almost colliding with a family heading towards the next stall.

“Ten dollars! Ten dollars only!” she yelled, waving the fake ring overhead. “Fifty percent off!”

Everyone ignored her.

As the morning continued, Mama displayed various rings, necklaces, earrings, anklets, and watches to potential customers. No one made a purchase. Maybe they owned everything they needed already. Maybe they were frightened by Mama’s appearance, or maybe they were confused by her thick, gruff voice, which made her sound as if she had learned English from an Italian mafia movie dubbed by an actress with a Chinese accent. The Miami humidity didn’t help either. Mama’s damp hair clung to the back of her neck, and sweat trickled down her forehead. She was tired, but her eyes remained as alert as a scared rat’s on the lookout for predators. Mama alternated between smiling and frowning, which made me think she couldn’t make up her mind about whether she should look nice or mean.

By lunchtime, we still hadn’t made a sale. Mama’s sad look reminded me of the night Baba told her he was dropping out of his PhD program. His dream of becoming a professor in America was never going to be reality, and now it looked like Mama’s dream of turning into a businesswoman was going to fail too. I wished my family’s problems were as easy to solve as an algebra equation, but I couldn’t find the exact solution to fill in the blank of whatever my parents were missing from their lives.

▪

AFTER LUNCH, a pretty young woman with a tan lingered in our stall. Baba stole a glance at her before he checked to make sure Mama had not noticed. He was safe. Mama was too busy smiling at our first potential customer.

Baba turned to his textbook again, pretending to remain oblivious to everyone around him.

“You want look?” Mama asked the woman, recomposing her face to look as cheerful as possible.

“How much is this watch?” the woman asked as she examined it.

Mama stared at the woman, calculating the odds she could afford to spend some extra money. Mama gave me a subtle nod that betrayed her growing excitement.

“Fifty dollars original price,” Mama said, pronouncing the word original like orange. “I sell you for forty.”

The woman shook her head. “Too expensive for me.”

“Thirty-five dollars?” Mama said. “Final. I give you best price.”

“I can only pay twenty max,” the woman insisted.

“Twenty-five.”

The woman returned the watch to the table. No sale. Mama looked angry with herself and tried to hide it with a hasty smile. The woman wandered over to the other side of the table and began inspecting the smaller pieces of jewelry. She picked up a ring at the edge of the table and accidentally swept most of the other rings to the ground.

As the woman was still apologizing, Mama sprang into action and gestured for me to copy her. The rings were scattered everywhere, and the pavement gleamed with flashes of gold. We knelt and crawled on our hands and knees, scanning every corner of our rented stall as we collected the rings one by one. The woman stepped aside to get out of our way, and when she turned to leave, Mama did not stop her.

When Baba glanced up and noticed our accidental treasure hunt, he looked guilty.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Mama was squatting Chinese peasant style and glared up at him. “Stop asking and just do it,” she snapped.

By the time the three of us picked up all the rings, I had lost hope of selling anything to anyone. I wanted to go home, and I suspected Baba felt the same. Only Mama busied herself rearranging the rings on the table. She was almost done when she looked over at Baba and froze.

“Where is the cash box?” she asked.

Baba stared at the blank space in front of him where the cash box had been.

“Don’t you have it?” he asked.

“No, no, no!” Mama cried out before she turned to me. “Did you take it? Are you playing a joke on me because I didn’t buy you food earlier?”

“I didn’t steal your box,” I said.

“You’re lying,” Mama insisted. “I know you too well. You hid my money.”

I showed Mama my empty hands, then stepped aside to reveal the bare table and chairs behind me. “There’s nowhere to hide it here.”

Mama finally believed me. She leaned against the table as if her feet could no longer support her weight.  “I’m so stupid. I let that thief run away with my tips. I’m going to find that woman and get our money back.”

Mama rushed into the crowd. I moved to follow her, but Baba instructed me to stay behind and take a seat, and I obeyed him without starting another argument.

“Your mother doesn’t think like I do,” Baba told me as if we were already in the middle of a conversation. He never spoke to me like an adult, and for once I felt seen by him as we sat side by side, waiting for Mama to return. “So what if the money was stolen? She can always earn more. Dollars are just a few filthy sheets of paper printed with a dead man’s face.”

In a way, Baba was right, but my thoughts were following Mama through the flea market. What would happen if she couldn’t find her way back to our stall?

A long time passed before Mama returned empty-handed and found us still seated. I was expecting her to call us lazy, but instead she turned silent.

“Give me one of those,” she said, pointing to the lawn chair. Baba pushed a chair towards her, and she sat next to him. She made no mention of the thief, and I decided not to remind her. The temporary peace between us wouldn’t last forever.

“We should start packing,” Mama finally said. “I have to work the dinner shift.”

“I think we’re the only vendors at the flea market who lost money,” Baba joked.

“Well, I’m glad we didn’t make too much money before we lost it,” Mama said, and I couldn’t tell if she was telling the truth.

▪

THE NEXT SUNDAY, Mama announced we weren’t returning to the flea market that weekend. Instead, we were eating lunch with Auntie Su, who had run into her in the parking lot and invited us over. As soon as he heard Auntie Su’s name, Baba nodded and hid his face behind his book. I was filled with dread. I hadn’t seen Auntie Su since that morning by the pool, and it was getting easier to pretend she was a figment of my imagination, like an evil Santa whose only gift was breaking my family apart.

It took Mama all morning to make a tray of dumplings, and as we walked out of the apartment, it saddened me to see how much food she had prepared for a meal hosted by Baba’s girlfriend.

Auntie Su greeted us wearing a purple dress and matching belt.

“You’ve gotten so tall, Jin Jin,” Auntie Su said. “And so pretty too.”

Inside I rolled my eyes, but outwardly I smiled.

“Thank you again for trying to help us find a two-bedroom,” Mama said as she presented the dumplings. “It’s a shame we weren’t ready to sign a new lease yet.”

Auntie Su wandered over to her dining table, which was already covered with dishes, and set Mama’s dumplings down. Baba took off his shoes and strolled into Auntie Su’s living room before taking a seat on her brown leather couch. He moved with a familiar ease that made me wonder how many times he had visited her before.

“My husband has a big deadline at work, and he’s putting in overtime,” Auntie Su said to explain his absence.

“Your husband knows how to work hard,” Mama said as she stole a glance at Baba. “By the way, do you know any places looking for deliverymen? We’re trying to make extra money at the flea market, but it’s not easy.”

“I’ll ask around,” Auntie Su promised. “Forget about work for now. There’s lots of food. I made all my Northern specialties.” She gestured at the chicken with chestnuts and the lion’s head meatballs. Steam wafted from a large plate of freshly boiled dumplings. Mama’s were already cold.

Mama went to the bathroom to wash her hands, and while she was gone Baba approached the table. He picked up one of Auntie Su’s dumplings with his fingers and ate it. The absentminded look on his face was identical to the one he wore at home, and it told me he didn’t care about anything as long as there were women around to serve him. 

We sat around the table to eat. Mama could never break her habit of devouring her food as if someone was plotting to steal it from her, and I tried to match her pace. Baba revealed his hunger too. Only Auntie Su restrained herself by sampling small portions of each dish. As we ate, Mama discussed the Cuban families with Auntie Su. They were always throwing barbecues, Mama said, and their cooking reeked of onions. I was working up the courage to defend Eva and her family when Auntie Su gave Mama a strange smile.

“At least the Cuban husbands and wives always seem glad to spend time together—they don’t fight like us Chinese,” she said.

“Sometimes fighting makes both people feel better afterwards,” Mama said. “Isn’t that right, Li Fei?”

As soon as my mother pronounced my father’s name, I realized she had not spoken it aloud in months. Normally they addressed each other using second-person pronouns, and when they talked to me they called each other “your father” or “your mother.” I added the omission to my list of things to worry about.

Baba nodded as he ate another dumpling. “You’ve given me a lot to fight about over the years.”

“I’m stronger than you, so I want to do things my way,” Mama said as she shrugged.

I had not seen her so relaxed in a long time, and I didn’t want to ruin her day off.

“You two aren’t one of the couples I had in mind,” Auntie Su said, her cheeks reddening.

Mama glanced at Auntie Su, then Baba. She must have noticed something was off. Unspoken questions lingered in the air.

“Let me help you wash the dishes,” Mama said to break the silence. “It’s the least I can do.”

Mama carried a stack of dishes into the kitchen. It hurt me to watch her work, but I didn’t stop her. When she was gone, Baba and Auntie Su seemed to forget about me.

“Which dumplings did you like more?” Auntie Su asked Baba.

Baba looked at his empty plate. “I ate more of yours, but I think you should have used less salt.”

The way he said it, I wondered if he was confusing Auntie Su for Mama. I had heard Baba criticize Mama’s cooking many times before, but never at a party. I almost felt sorry for Auntie Su.

Auntie Su gave him a strained smile. “I’ll try to remember that next time,” she said.

“Good,” Baba said, and in that moment I hated him. I told myself I would never get married. I pictured my father leaving my mother and Auntie Su leaving her husband and the two of them growing old in a different apartment. I’d visit them every weekend and hear them shouting. Over the years, they would argue more and more as she grew less and less beautiful. Their double betrayal would plague them like a toothache: they could forget about it for a while, but it would return to keep them awake at odd hours.

I couldn’t sit next to Baba and Auntie Su any longer. I walked away.

In the kitchen that was identical to ours, Mama stood by the sink, washing the dishes one by one. The sound of running water covered the noise of the words I had been trying not to speak.

“Baba has been taking walks by himself,” I blurted out.

“Taking what?”

“Taking walks.”

“When?”

“Early in the morning when you’re asleep.”

“Well, that’s good. He eats and sits too much. Walking is medicine.”

“But he goes out quietly so you won’t wake up and see him leave.”

“That’s nice of him. He’s thinking of me for once.”

“I know where he goes and who he sees.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“He goes out to see Auntie Su.” I wanted to explain more, but I couldn’t think of the right words in Chinese or any other language.

Mama dropped the dish in her hands and peeked through the doorway. Baba was helping Auntie Su mix the two batches of leftover dumplings together on a large plate.

“Stop lying to me, Jin Jin. You’re making up stories.”

I wanted to contradict her, but I didn’t want to insist on the truth. I took a step towards Mama, and she retreated towards the sink.

“I can’t talk about this right now,” Mama said.

Her hands were trembling. Then I noticed my father’s fake Rolex on her wrist.

“Why are you wearing that?” I asked.

She looked down with startled eyes as if seeing it for the first time. “I paid for it,” she said, “and it looks better on me.”      

▪

ONCE I SHARED MY SECRET WITH HER, Mama stopped speaking to Baba for a whole week, but he was so lost in his world of computers and Auntie Su he didn’t notice. After school, I did my homework and steered clear of Baba. I lived for the hour between ten and eleven every night after Mama got home and before she went to bed, when I could see her face clearly in the bright light of our living room. Mama busied herself organizing and reorganizing the remaining jewelry. First, she stacked the boxes in a column by the lamp before she moved them into the closet. Then they made a reappearance in the living room next to the dark TV, which Mama was no longer watching. Finally, Mama lined up the boxes in the entryway and asked me to help her move them into the car, and that was when I knew she was going to be alright.

The next weekend, we returned to the flea market. This time Mama was more determined than ever to succeed.

“Come stand next to me,” Mama said. “You can speak English and help me make a sale.”

I reluctantly took my place next to Mama while Baba lingered behind us and took a seat. When the first group passed by, Mama nudged me, but I couldn’t shout at strangers.

“You’re useless,” Mama muttered as she pinched my cheek affectionately. “I raised you to be too soft. It’s my fault.”

She was right. I retreated behind her back. As soon as the next group arrived, Mama started shouting “one dollar! one dollar!” at everyone. Heads turned, and women lingered to inspect our unsold jewelry. As they browsed, Mama explained her plan: if she sold things for a cheap price, people would buy more than they needed or even wanted. All she had to do was make a small profit off each customer. I told her Americans would call it a win-win situation.

When Mama sold our first batch of jewelry, she counted the fresh bills the customer gave to her and gave a five-dollar bill to me.

“Go buy yourself something to eat,” she said.

 I told her I wasn’t hungry. I was too busy wondering if our good luck would run out soon.

As the morning passed, Mama watched Baba from the corner of her eye. Whenever he looked at a woman, she squeezed her palms together and balled them into two fists that reminded me of the twisted scallion buns she made of leftover dough.

By the end of the day, we had sold seventy-five dollars’ worth of accessories, more than Mama usually made from her waitressing job in one night. Baba was impressed.

“You earned enough to cover our grocery bill for a week,” he said.

“That was the plan all along,” Mama replied. “You should stick with me, right?”

Only I knew what she really meant. Mama looked tired, more tired than she looked on nights she came home speechless from pulling a double shift. Her face sagged, as if it could no longer resist the force of gravity, but I knew she would never sleep in the next morning or take the day off. She would never work up the courage to confront her boss at the restaurant to demand more money or quit and stop collecting tips from regulars whose English names she knew by heart. The flea market was about to close, and we were heading home to sleep in our separate beds before Mama woke to go to work again. For once I wished she could bring me along so I could trade places with her. For once I wanted her to take a break from clearing tables and standing in a corner and taking orders from men who always had a hard time making up their minds.

▪ ▪ ▪

Mai Wang is an Assistant Professor at the University of Texas at Dallas. She holds a Ph.D. from Stanford University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Boston University. Her fiction and non-fiction has appeared in The Hopkins Review, Hyphen Magazine, The Billfold, Upstreet Magazine, and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, among other publications. She has been a Writer-in-Residence at the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center and the recipient of an Emerging Artist Grant from the St. Botolph Foundation.

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