Hangzhou with Mom — Page 33

PVG International, late evening Shanghai time, day one

#01

The Arrivals Gate, Reversed

Out through arrivals at PVG at 9:47 PM.

Mom was at the railing. A handwritten sign at her hip: Jan, in her handwriting. She saw me before I saw her. Her face did the small shifting of the not-quite-smile into a quarter-smile. We don't, as a family, hug first in airports. Mom said eat the orange and handed me a mandarin from her pocket. Ate the orange. Got the cab. Mom said 很多人. A lot of people. I said yes. In the eight minutes to the apartment Mom didn't point at anything. She let Shanghai be Shanghai. At the lobby: welcome back. In Mandarin. The trip had begun.

#02

The Grandfather, in His Chair

The grandfather had moved into Mom's apartment two years ago.

On the morning of day two he was in his chair by the balcony window. Up since six. Made his own tea. He looked up when I walked in. He said jia. He said you look like your mother. I said yes. He said sit. I sat in the chair beside him. For the next ten minutes he didn't speak. We watched the street. The chair he was in had been my grandmother's. It held him now. In eleven years I'd forgotten how still he could be.

#03

Mom's Kitchen, the Soup (Right Order)

Day three, I asked Mom to make the soup.

In Brooklyn I'd been making the third-try version for almost two years — good enough, I thought. Mom's version was missing one thing: nothing. The one thing my version was missing was the order. Mom said first the bones. The ginger comes second. I'd been doing it wrong for two years. Hadn't thought to ask why mine never quite tasted like hers. She showed me. I wrote it down. She said the order matters. She said some things require a sequence. In that kitchen on that morning, Mom didn't say more than fourteen sentences. The sentences were the recipe.

#04

The River at Dusk, Returned

The river at dusk on day four.

In 2027 I'd seen it for the first time, alone. Now it was the place I came with Mom in the actual physical evening. We walked the railing for a long while. Mom said the bridge was new in 1999, so still new. Mom said, in the voice she saves for the things she's been waiting to say: I had not, before today, walked here with my own daughter. Once. She didn't return to it. The city lights came up. We walked four kilometers and talked, mostly, about other things.

The small dumpling shop from Pack 09, day five afternoon

#05

The Dumpling Shop, with Mom

The dumpling shop on day five.

The son recognized Mom first — he hadn't, technically, recognized me. He'd been told who I was. He said jia from New York? Mom said yes. He said I remember your mother — meaning my grandmother — and brought out, on the house, a plate of vegetable dumplings. Mom refused three times. He ignored the refusal three times, the way a vendor does in Hangzhou. The wrappers weren't too thick — they were the right thickness, the way the platonic ideal of pork-and-chive wrappers exists in Hangzhou. Mom said: 皮刚好. The wrappers are just right. The son didn't hear her. She said it anyway.

#06

The Balcony, Alone

Mom went out at 2:14 PM on day seven.

Forty minutes, the two of us on the balcony. The chairs faced the street five floors below. I sat. For a long while, neither of us spoke. Said, eventually, in slow Mandarin: I am glad I came back to see you. Eight seconds. Then, quietly: 你回来好. You came back. Good. He said it once. He said it the way Mom says important things — once, soft. For the rest of the forty minutes: the weather, the school across the street, a bird on the railing, the tea. Didn't, on day seven, fully understand the weight of the line.

#07

The Note

The grandfather knocked at 9:32 PM on day nine.

He hadn't knocked on the door any prior night. Handed me a small folded piece of paper. He said for you. for later. Went back to his room. Eight characters in his careful handwriting. 我替你妈妈感谢你. I thank you on behalf of your mother. Read it three times. Four. He hadn't thanked me directly — he'd thanked me on Mom's behalf. The deepest direct thing he'd ever given me. By day ten, day eleven, he didn't refer to it. Neither did I.

#08

The Last Morning

Day eleven was the airport.

For the first time in eleven days, he came to breakfast in his sweater rather than his robe. I registered this as a care he'd done. We ate. Mom drank two cups of tea. He drank one. At 9:14 the car was downstairs. I hugged Mom in the apartment. He patted my shoulder twice. He said go well. He said come back. I said I will come back. He said yes. He stayed at the kitchen table. Mom walked me to the elevator. The doors closed.

Jan in the window seat of the Pacific flight, eight hours in

#09

The Plane

Thirteen hours.

Eight hours in, somewhere over the Pacific, I took the note out of my coat pocket and re-read it. 我替你妈妈感谢你. I thank you on behalf of your mother. Three times. The reading-light on. The rest of the cabin dark. I hadn't registered that the come back had carried specific weight. Folded it. Put it back. Closed my eyes. The apartment would be the apartment. Mim would be furious in the proper way. The trip had ended.