Page 12 - My FlipBook

year. Mama said they had to economize and move to an even
smaller apartment—so they could afford more tutoring and
extra English classes on Sunday for Bao-bao. She worried about
how the underground conditions might affect him, but she told
herself that he would be at school from seven in the morning to
nearly eleven each night, so he wouldn’t suffer too much from
the dank air and cramped space.
The sublevel is damp and smells of cooking odors and stale
cigarettes. Through the unfinished drywall and hollow-core
doors, I can hear people snoring, music and videos playing
as we weave our way through the warren of apartments. The
doors are mostly unmarked, and I can’t remember which one is
theirs, but Mama locates it and lets us in.
She snaps on a lamp clamped to a cart just inside the door.
The apartment is as tight as I remember. There is only one
bedroom, and the bed in the main room is in disarray and takes
up nearly a third of the space. The cart next to the door holds
a hot plate, an electric rice pot, and a small fan that whirs qui-
etly and stirs the air in the room. There are plastic baskets of
clothes, books, and other miscellaneous items in another cor-
ner, a couple of plastic stools. I look for a spot to put my bags.
Mama reaches for them and piles them on top of the other
things in the corner.
“Tired to death!” she heaves again. “I should make you
something to eat.” She points at some packages of instant noo-
dles stacked on the lower shelf of the cart among some kitchen-
ware and other foodstuffs.
My stomach grumbles, but I say, “Don’t bother, Mama, just
go to sleep.”
Her head dips in agreement, or from exhaustion. “You
remember where the toilets are?” she mutters.

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