CHAPTER 17
ANCESTOR LU
AS XING AND I WAITED in line for our museum tickets, he thanked me for accompanying him to the limited-time Terracotta Army exhibit. “I’ve been dying to see these my whole life. Remember when Mom used to tell us about them?”
“Of course.” I could picture us clearly, sprawled across Xing’s childhood bed, looking at pictures of clay soldiers and listening to Mǎmá tell us about Emperor Qin Shi Huang and his desire to protect himself in the afterlife. “I’ve always wanted to see them too.”
The memory helped ease some of the guilt, but there was still a whole buttload left. I had thought maybe it would get better the more I saw Xing, but obviously that made zero sense. The fewer times we met, the easier it would be to explain away if my parents ever found out, so each additional visit was diving further “into the fire pit,” as my mother always said (and yes, she had used that in reference to Xing choosing Esther).
Esther was busy with work (as a dentist, I’d learned recently), and while I wanted to meet her for Xing’s sake, I was relieved. I wasn’t ready to put a personality (especially a good one) to her face. I was weighed down by enough guilt for just seeing Xing. If meeting Esther had been added to my sins, I would have—poof!—combusted on the spot, destroyed by my own biānpào secrets. Every Chow Chow visit, I felt like a spy—a terrible one who sweated through all her clothes. But every time my thumb hovered over the delete contact button or I considered turning down an invitation to meet up, I heard Xing’s laugh, our chopsticks clicking together, and I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it.
At least we’re doing something Chinese today. Learning about our culture, I tried to convince myself.
After Xing waved my Hello Kitty wallet away and paid for both of us, we strolled through the introductory hallway in silence, reading about the discovery of Qin Shi Huang’s tomb. Was Xing also hearing our mother’s voice, imagining her reading to us from the Xiao Kēxuéjiā (Little Scientist) books of our childhood?
In 1974, a farmer dug a well and found the collapsed tomb and broken terracotta warriors, I heard her say as I looked at black-and-white photos of the excavation site. The paint from the soldiers flaked off when exposed to air, she said as I looked at a replica of what the soldiers would have looked like in their original colorful glory. Since the technology is not there to preserve these relics, most of the tomb has not been excavated yet, she reminded me as I stared at an aerial photo of the mausoleum, the giant unearthed mound screaming, Think of all the treasures in there!
I desperately clung to these memories, to this version of my mother, the one who just wanted to spend quality time with me. No clucking tongue. I wish I knew how to bring her forth.
When we stepped into the room with the life-size terracotta warriors, Xing and I both froze, taking it all in. The sculptures had clearly been broken into many pieces and put back together, the break lines still prominent despite the rehab. Their dusty, pewter-colored faces were more lifelike than I would have predicted, with wrinkles and expressions sculpted in.
Xing pointed to the warrior in the display case to our right, the one wearing sleeveless armor and long trousers. “Doesn’t that one look like us? Maybe we’re related to him.”
Every face was different, unique, based on a real-life soldier. I took in this warrior’s slightly bulbous nose and pronounced cheeks. He was so familiar, what I would picture my ancestor to look like. I felt tied to these artifacts, as if a piece of me were in them as well. Perhaps that really was the case with this soldier here. Possibly a Lu. I knew he was inanimate, just a lump of molded clay, but when I stared into his blank, pupilless eyes, the shadows from the dim lighting made it appear as if he were staring into my soul, judging me and all my secrets.
I spoke to the glass. “Sometimes I’m so proud to be Chinese, and other times I resent it so much. The obligations. Duty to family. Xiàoshùn.” Each word felt like charcoal in my mouth—bitter and out of place.
“I know what you mean,” Xing said. “Sometimes I wonder if Mom and Dad are particularly tough because they immigrated here. Maybe they feel like they have to hold on to traditions tighter to make up for leaving.”
I nodded as he spoke. “And since they’re not there,” I realized, “they can’t evolve with the times—they’re still holding on to traditions they grew up with from an entirely different generation.”
I turned away from my possible ancestor to face Xing. He had traces of resentment around his eyes, the same shadows that had first appeared the night of the disownment and never left, only took root.
“I think I understand your position more now. Because of, you know.” I couldn’t even say it out loud, how I wasn’t going to be a doctor. There were a million different possible careers out there. All I had done was decide one wasn’t for me, and yet it felt like a crime. Because it was. To them. “I was always more hesitant than you to question Mom and Dad or disobey them. But I guess sometimes you’re put in a position where you have no choice.”
He sighed. “I wish you never had to learn that. I wish you were still young and naive and had goggles on to shield you from everything.”
“Me too,” I whispered.
“Mei,” my mother said over the clean clothes she was putting into my drawers. (Sigh, she does so much for me.) “I just heard from Mrs. Ahn who heard from Mrs. Lin that Qin Shi Huang’s terracotta warriors are here! I forget which museum they’re at, but your bǎbá knows. Do you want to go?”
I swear I almost peed my pants. Maybe I did, a little.
I lived in constant fear of messing up one of my lies, and now, ta-da! Here was a mammoth, slap-me-in-the-face opportunity to take a scissor to my finely woven web, which was barely holding up as it was. And if that sounded dramatic, then good. Because this was the worst.
So I definitely couldn’t go because I definitely would let something incriminating slip, but that meant I would need more lies to stack on top of the other lies to explain why I couldn’t go.
Shit. I was a lousy Jenga player.
“That sounds so fun, Mǎmá, but I have exams coming up and I think I should really be studying.” I couldn’t say any more because my heart was threatening to rip in two. Was I giving up a chance to see the version of my mother I craved so badly?
“Of course. Good girl. Are you going to study more with Billy, A-mah, Penny, Kim, Khloe, Kour-ney, and Kendall?” Man, that had really gotten away from me. “Tell me again where Kendall is from?”
“California.”
“Right, right. And Billy?”
Crap. I had no idea what I had said last time. It was easier remembering the Kardashian facts than the random answers I had made up. Why hadn’t I written all this down somewhere? It was like my fifth class, 5.317: How to Lie to Your Parents. (See what I did there? What 5.317 spells upside down? TIM the Beaver would be proud.)
I deflected. “Did I tell you that Billy had to go home for a while because his grandmother got sick with pancreatic cancer? I hope everything’s okay.” And as soon as I said it, I kicked myself because I didn’t know anything about pancreatic cancer, and now I was going to have to do some in-depth research.
“They shouldn’t have told him. Especially with exams coming up.” As she shut the drawer, I heard something fall off the dresser. “Mei, what’s this?”
Since my back was to her, I didn’t know what she was talking about, and there were a hundred things she could be holding that would be a firehose to my web. Maybe I peed a little again.
I turned slowly in an attempt to be nonchalant and ended up moving at way-below-normal speed. So I quickened slightly to make up for it and ended up all jerky and awkward turtle. She was holding my mascara and eyeliner, which I had taken out to make sure I still knew how to do stage makeup.
I didn’t know how MIT’s Association of Taiwanese Students (ATS) had found out about my Chinese dance background, but when they had asked me to be the entertainment for their night market event next week, I had agreed immediately. I felt such a pull to ATS, to Chinese dance, almost as if I was desperate to hang on to the bits of culture I still loved.
But even though no one appreciated a good night market more than my mother, she couldn’t know about this, especially since she was still reeling from my 72. (I had caught her snooping in that drawer again.)
Then I realized why her eyes were so wide. She was jumping to conclusions, that I had a secret boyfriend. Which . . . well . . . crap. I had to steer her away from that, too. I wasn’t doing anything wrong—well, not really—but if she started asking me questions about whether or not I had talked to the Japanese boy, it would get ugly, fast.
“It’s Nicolette’s,” I said as calmly as I could. “You can throw it to her side. She uses up all the space in here.” I hoped it wouldn’t land in a chlamydia hot spot.
As my mother muttered about bribing the dean to swap my roommate, I had to calm my nausea by telling myself everything was fine; the lies weren’t crumbling around me.
Which was, you know, just another lie to add to the bunch.