Page 9 - My FlipBook

and hip. I don’t know which way to go, but I have to do some-
thing to get her to stop crying.
Slowly, it works. She sniffs fiercely, as if determined to
inhale her misery, and swipes her face. We cross the bus sta-
tion, our shoes clicking on the tile floor. As soon as we’re out-
side in the shadows and spills of city lights at night, Mama is
recovered enough to lead me toward the metro station. Her
tears have stopped and she seems intent on hurrying us there.
We have good timing; the train arrives just as we’re
descending the steps. Once we sink into our seats, Mama looks
at me. Fatigue is still written all over her face, as if she hasn’t
slept in days. “I should have brought you something to eat,” she
says with an apologetic grimace.
I shake my head. “I ate.” The last meal I had was in the
midafternoon, fried bread I grabbed on the way to the bus sta-
tion. My stomach is an empty pit, but I don’t want her to worry
about me now.
She sighs, and her shoulders slump like wet concrete has
been poured over her. Her round pale face, usually so luminous,
is pasty gray in the fluorescent light of the subway car. She looks
so old, though I know she is only forty-five. I want to ask her
about Bao-bao. I want to know, and my tongue itches to ask, but
it’s not the right time. I’m too afraid she’ll start crying again.
“You’re here,” she says absently, her eyes vacant. She pats
my arm with her hand. I can tell she’s still struggling to hold
herself together.
I nod, and we fall into silence as the train speeds under-
ground. The silence is like an insurmountable space between
us, a void. I fret over it, but Mama is lost in her own thoughts.
We get off at the next stop and Mama carries one of my bags
as we walk to the bus stop. There’s more silence between us as

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