24

In the afternoon Mama, Nainai, Gilbert and I, all clad in white shirts, set out for the hike to our family burial plot. Baba has gone ahead.

He and Mama argued about the burial when we arrived at the house earlier. He didn’t want her to pour Bao-bao’s ashes into the box, didn’t want to bury him, but Mama took the urn from the windowsill and hissed that he was her son too, and she would have his soul rest. Baba spun on his heel and left the house, but not before he grabbed the bottle of baijiu.

Now, the brown hills and green terraced fields are scorching hot, the sky big and open overhead. We pass fields of bright yellow rapeseed, castor bean, and tall sunflowers with their heads as large as ours that seem to rotate and watch us as we tread single file up the path. Ahead, at the top of a hill, I see the tablets marking our ancestors’ graves in the shade of three jujube trees. I’ve been there many times before on Tomb-Sweeping Days, and during the Spring Festival break when we always come to show our respect. But as we mount the hill, I don’t see any sign of Baba.

I’m surprised when Gilbert leads us past the family graves, but when Mama and Nainai don’t even slow their steps, I’m almost sure that this must be the custom of a sad ending: Bao-bao must be separated from the rest of the family.

We go down the other side of the hill and around another bend before I finally see Baba standing beneath a straggly pear tree. As we get closer, I see the neat square hole he and Gilbert have dug beneath it. The upturned dirt is piled up next to it. Baba sways on his feet, staring into the small pit, his face cloudy with emotions. He doesn’t acknowledge our arrival. The bottle of baijiu is slipped in his pants pocket, so I can’t see how much he’s drunk.

I stand back a little with Gilbert while Mama places the biodegradable box into the hole. She backs away to stand next to Nainai, their heads bent down in their private pain. Baba glowers at the white box. His bitter expression makes my stomach contract. He seems to be on the verge of another breakdown or at least an outburst.

I bite my lips, holding back my own feelings. I am sorry about Bao-bao’s death now. But we didn’t know each other as a brother and sister should, and I’ll never have the chance to know him like Min and Wei did, so I still find myself more moved by my family’s agony, by the trouble his death has caused, than by Bao-bao’s death itself.

I have such an awful uneasiness rising in my chest, I can’t think about him here. I reach for Gilbert’s hand hanging beside mine. He grips it hard and gives me a comforting look. His kindness almost makes me cry, and I lightly lean my shoulder against his arm.

I’m anxious for the burial to be finished. I have a tiny hope that maybe Mama and Baba can start to move on after it’s done. I’m glad when Gilbert lets go of my hand, takes up the shovel leaning against the tree, and edges around Mama and Nainai to fill in the hole.

Baba moves like lightning, seizing the shovel, breaking the silence. “I’m his father! I’ll do it myself!”

Gilbert releases the shovel and steps back beside me. We all watch as Baba spades the dirt. The only sounds are of the shovel cutting into the earth, the dirt showering the box, and Baba huffing. His movements are lurching, and the soil doesn’t always make it into the hole. Almost immediately he’s drenched in sweat, and I can smell the alcohol coming out of his pores.

Mama closes her eyes. Her face is white as marble. I hold my breath against a dreadful sense of foreboding, but Baba manages to get it done. He throws the shovel down and buckles to his knees and pats the earth tight. Tracks of tears are now running down his face.

Mama kneels down. She fishes inside the bag she brought, pulling out Bao-bao’s glasses, his math book, and some of his old certificates rolled up and tied with a ribbon. She lays them out on the grave with a defiant set to her jaw.

It’s all very peculiar, not like the days-long funeral we had for Yeye when I was very small with the coffin and the wake, the crowded meal in the courtyard for all the villagers, the long funeral procession and the noise of wailing echoing in the hills. Even our yearly visits to Yeye’s grave are almost festive, with food laid out, fireworks, and the burning of paper money and goods.

I look at Baba and Mama, their wet faces swollen and blotchy. Before this summer, I never saw them fight, other than minor squabbles about Baba getting too rowdy during the holidays, Mama being too bossy, or some other small complaint, always followed by good-natured headshakes and suppressed laughs. Now, they don’t even acknowledge each other, much less try to comfort each other. All their affection seems to be gone.

The sun is blazing down on my black hair. I have no tears for Bao-bao, or for Baba and Mama. I’m so tired of the heaviness that I just want all this be over. I want to go back to the house, back to the city, back to college, which starts in just another week. I can’t help thinking of the days when I had time to read, play with makeup, and huddle at Xioawen’s laptop watching shows. But those times are already like an old memory, and I know I can’t go back there. My heart pounds, longing to be away from all this, to be gone.

Gilbert takes my hand once more. His grip is firm and reassuring. I clutch tightly as if he’s the only thing preventing me from hurtling off into oblivion. Nainai glances back at us. I see her look down at my white-knuckled hand intertwined with Gilbert’s before her sad eyes run up to my face. She studies me with what looks like pity, and after a long moment she gestures with her head for Gilbert and me to go back.

I don’t hesitate. Gratefully, I tug on his hand, and we leave. Mama and Baba don’t pay any attention to us.

We’re up the hill, past the family plots and heading back down the other side before I can breathe.

“That was rough. Are you okay?” Gilbert says softly.

I nod curtly and keep my head down. I sense Gilbert is casting about for more sympathetic remarks.

“When do you have to leave?” I say to head off any more talk about the burial. Gilbert already explained that he has a work conference tomorrow in Changyu Township about an hour away. There’s no early morning bus on Sunday, so he has to stay in a hotel there tonight.

“I should go get my things together now. The bus leaves at 4:30. I’m so sorry that this meeting is tomorrow of all weekends.”

“It’s okay, you can’t help it.” I try to keep the heaviness out of my voice.

He eyes me with a mix of sorrow and guilt. “Maybe I should stay. Skip the meeting.”

“You can’t miss the meeting. You just started your job a few weeks ago. I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be back after lunch tomorrow. And we’ll also have Monday evening to see each other when I get home from work.”

He’s trying to make me feel better, and I smile to let him know that I understand. It touches me that he’s sorry about leaving me alone here, missing our time together.

We walk silently for a few moments before he says, “Oh, did you ask your English language boss about changing teaching times?” He suggested this a few days ago after I asked him to check when the village internet café was open.

“Yes. She said she’ll give me students and eight and nine at night for the next three days, though it means I’m back to teaching the younger kids.”

“Good! The café is open until eleven. The other thing is that they only have six computers so you’d better get there early. Will your parents mind you being out so late?”

I shrug. I’m not sure if they’ll fret over me or if they won’t even notice that I’m gone. Both scenarios depress me. “Do you mind if I tell them that I’m with you?”

“Of course not.” He’s quick to answer, and with such understanding as to why I have to lie that the tears that I’ve been suppressing all day come to my eyes. I turn away, surprised and embarrassed by them.

“Oh no. Come here!” Gilbert pulls me close and wraps me in his arms. I lean against him and for the next moments, there’s only his solid warmth as everything else falls away.