Third Hangzhou — Page 53

#01

The Arrivals Gate, Together

PVG arrivals, 2:42 PM.

Mom is at the railing. She's smaller than the last time — slightly bent in the shoulders, the new glasses, the cream quilted jacket. She waves. Doesn't hold up a sign — "you know my face, I know yours," she'd said on a voice note three weeks ago. She hugs me first. At 70 she's started hugging first, for the first time in my life. She says welcome back. I say I came. In the Uber she looks out the window. She says the bridge is the same bridge. The river is the same river. I say yes. The trip has begun.

#02

The Apartment, Returning

The grandfather's chair is still in the middle.

His glasses still on the TV-tray. Mom goes to the kitchen. At minute twelve I ask about the chair. She says I don't want to sit in his chair. I say for how long. She says for nothing. It just waits. Sits in hers; I sit in mine. She pours tea from the Longjing tin — by 2038 nearly empty, almost nine years of making it last. She says I have been making it last. I say of course. The apartment is, on day one, still hers. The chair waits.

#03

The Walk by the Lake

We walk the West Lake every morning.

In 2029 it was five kilometers. On day four Mom says let's do three, my hip prefers. By the seventh morning, two and a half. Same lake. Same path, shorter. We settle into a small arrangement: Mom on the lake side, me on the outside. A five-minute bench sit every morning. Mom's thermos; mine. The lake is the lake her mother walked with her mother in the 1940s, that Mom walked with her mother in the 1970s. We are walking it in the 2030s. The lake doesn't notice.

#04

The Soup, Together

Day four.

Mom says show me how you make it now. I say I learned it from you. She says show me anyway. I do it the way I've been doing it since 2029 — bones first, ginger second, cilantro last. She watches. At minute fourteen: you do it well. Then: the ginger is a half-coin thinner than mine. That's right — I have been doing it thinner the past few years too. The soup is the best version I've made. Mom eats her bowl. She says very good. Pause. I won't, this time, say "otherwise." She laughs at her own callback. I laugh too. It is a very good soup.

Day six, the small dumpling shop on the grandmother's old corner

#05

The Dumpling Shop, Third Generation

The son's son has been running the shop for six years — his father died in 2034, heart attack, 64.

He looks up when we walk in. Says jia from New York? — the exact line his father said in 2029. Mom says yes. He brings the small additional plate of vegetable dumplings on the house. Mom protests three times. He ignores three times. The dumplings are 皮刚好 — just right. Mom says it to the table. He doesn't hear. She finishes her plate, then mine. Don't waste. I was not going to waste anything. The neighborhood is running on its grandchildren now, and they are doing it right.

#06

The Balcony, Empty

Day eight, 4:14 PM.

Mom goes out to the balcony. I watch her from the doorframe — I haven't seen this yet, what she does every afternoon alone. She sits in her folding chair beside the grandfather's empty one, drinks her tea, watches the school across the street. She turns and sees me. She says come sit. She set out a third chair this morning, which means she knew I would come. I sit. The grandfather's chair is between us, empty. The street does the street thing. The bird cage does nothing. The afternoon is the afternoon. After a while Mom says nothing, which is also a thing she is saying.

#07

The Old Tin, Empty

Day ten.

Mom says we're going to finish his tea tonight. The tin has been on this counter for fourteen years. Two cups' worth left. I say are you sure. She says of course. Together. She brews it. Two small cups. We drink standing, the way the grandfather drank there. She says he did it right. I say yes. She says some things, you finish. The tin is empty. She rinses it. Dries it with the kitchen cloth. Sets it back on the shelf above the stove. It stays on the shelf.

#08

The Bed, Together

Day twelve, 9:42 PM.

Mom is making tea. I say can I sleep in your room tonight. She says of course. She doesn't ask why. I don't have a reason — I just want, once, at 40 with her at 70, to be in the same room as my mother for one night. She moves over the same way she did in 2029 when the radiator broke. No broken radiator this time. I have no excuse and she doesn't ask for one. She falls asleep by 11:14 PM. The bed is warm. She breathes the way she breathes. I stay awake for a while. The bed is warm.

#09

The Airport, Going Home

Day fourteen.

Mom doesn't take the Uber to the airport. She says the apartment is mine to come home to today. She hugs me at the lobby. She says call me when you land. Eat well. Take care. She says, in English: I love you, Jan. In English first. I say I love you too, Mom. She gets in the elevator. On day eleven, without telling me, she slipped a small bag of fresh Longjing into the empty tin — from the village west of Hangzhou, from the grandson of the grower the grandfather had always bought from. She hadn't said anything. I found it at the airport, checking my bag. The tin was not empty. The tin, kept-going. I fly home. June is on the chair-arm.