5

After lunch, Mama goes to work for a few hours. Baba carries Bao-bao’s urn to the bedroom and sets it on the desk with the lamp shining down on it. He comes back out for the beer he pressured Mama into buying on the way home, then retreats into the bedroom and shuts the door.

In the front room, I chew on my thumbnail, wondering about Baba’s drinking. When he was home for the Spring Festival, he always drank a lot, but most of the men did because it was the holidays. He’s been sober enough all morning, but with the alcohol he’s taken to his room, I’m afraid it’s just a matter of time before he has another episode like yesterday. Take care of him, Mama said, but I’m not sure what that really means. There is nothing to do but wait.

I take out my phone to finally text Gilbert. The girls at college tease me about Gilbert being my boyfriend, but I’m not really sure. When he and I are together, I feel a spark, a charge, something between us, but he’s never acted on it other than to give my hair a playful yank when we pass each other on campus. Whether this is because our parents drummed a no dating rule into us, or because Gilbert is as shy as I am, I don’t know. But in truth, I don’t mind that nothing’s happened yet, because it’s reassuring to think he has as little experience with romance as I do.

The message window blinks at me to start typing, but I don’t know what to say about what’s happened. I hesitate for a long minute. Eventually, I just come out with it.

Bao-bao died.

I stare at the phone waiting for an answer, but I know that if Gilbert’s in Willow Tree Village, reception at his house might be poor, and he may not get my message right away.

There’s no reply, so I make myself useful by cleaning up, washing the dishes, then washing some clothes in the utility room down the hall. While I’m hanging the laundry up on the line strung across the front room of the apartment, my eye falls on a book in the stack of clutter in the corner. Harvard Girl Liu Yiting: A Character Training Record.

Baba’s wet undershirt slips off the line as I reach for the book. The cover shows a girl proudly displaying her Harvard acceptance letter. Of course, I’ve heard of the book: one couple’s detailed methods and techniques for helping their daughter achieve her full academic potential! The book is still famous even though it was written years ago

Mama’s copy is well-thumbed. Several pages are dog-eared, and lines are highlighted in yellow. I can envision Mama, with her middle school education, underlining, highlighting, marking down important points to remember for Bao-bao’s sake.

I feel like crying, but instead I rip the cover off the book, then rip it again in half and crush all the pieces into a ball.

When Bao-bao went to live with Mama and Baba, I turned my resentment to my school work. I studied and studied and studied, finishing middle school with the highest rank. I knew education was the best way out of the countryside, the best way to avoid menial labor. I wanted to go on to high school, then to university. After that anything was possible. Mama and Baba said it all the time to Bao-bao.

But high schools are costly, and there wasn’t one in the village anyway. Mama and Baba’s finances were stretched with Bao-bao’s education and with the cost of living in the city. They talked about me going out to work in a factory.

I wanted to leave the village, live in a city. Everyone did. But not to work in a factory.

Now with the crumpled book cover in my hand, I suddenly remember all the money Mama and Baba won’t be spending on Bao-bao anymore. It occurs to me that Baba and Mama might direct some of that money toward me now. It’s a self-serving thought, I know, but my heart races, wondering what that would mean for my education, my future.

My phone dings and I jump as if I’ve been caught in some guilty act. I quickly stuff what’s left of the book into the bottom of my bag.

Are you kidding?! The text is from Gilbert.

Me: No. I type out the big-eye-short-mouth emoticon.

Gilbert: How?

I hesitate, then type the horrible word. Suicide.

After I hit send, I instantly regret it, knowing Gilbert will probably tell his family and soon the whole village will know and Nainai, all alone out there, will be even more distressed. Maybe people will be sympathetic, or maybe they’ll think our family is unlucky and avoid her, but they will certainly gossip about us.

I add, Ma and Ba can’t talk about it. Too sad.

Gilbert: Why?

Me: ?? Bad score on gaokao.

Gilbert: @#!!4&*! Are you okay?

No one has asked me this. And in truth, the question strikes me as wrong, misdirected, as if, because of the distance between Bao-bao and me over the years, I have no claim to anyone’s sympathy. Shock is the only thing I can convey.

Me: I can’t believe it.

I grope for something else to say, but nothing comes to mind. I don’t want the conversation to end. This stuffy, cluttered room and Baba’s closed door are too grim.

Gilbert: Wanted to save face?

Me: I’m not sure what to think.

Gilbert: Depressed?

Me: I didn’t know him at all.

The conversation stalls because I can’t express the feelings roiling inside me. How could Bao-bao have scored so poorly after everything our parents did to help him, all the money they spent on him, rather than on themselves or me? He could have tried harder, or at least tried again next year. He threw away everything they invested in him. And then he threw away his life.

It seems so wrong to be angry at my own dead brother, even selfish. But wasn’t he selfish to kill himself and make our parents suffer so much? I chew on the idea of dialing up Gilbert to talk, but Baba is just in the next room, and talking about everything out loud seems even more overwhelming.

My phone dings again. Gilbert has sent me a link. Tragic Consequences for Gaokao Takers. I click on the article and read about two separate incidents of students who’ve killed themselves due to exam stress. A disturbing pattern each year in June… Competitive job market . . . future prospects . . . entrance to a top university is the first step to upward mobility . . .

Another link pops up from Gilbert. This one is a YouKu video. Student Leaps to His Death from School Window. The video is a classroom monitor showing the students at work at their desks. It’s been edited to fade out everything except one boy in the front row who stares blankly ahead rather than poring over his books. Suddenly, he rises, takes three steps to the left, and throws himself out the window. I gasp and slap my hand over my mouth to smother my horror. The newscaster narrating the video rambles on about enormous pressure.

Pressure.

I always thought Bao-bao was the perfect high-achieving son who got all the attention, but I suppose Mama and Baba were always telling him what to do, pushing him to study, looking over his shoulder. I never considered how stressful the long hours of study and the intense competition must have been for him.

I picture him scrolling down to his score, falling back against the chair, despondent at having failed Mama and Baba. Did he sit there numbly like the boy in the video until he rose and swallowed the poison in a daze? Or did he jump up and pace his room, tearing at his hair, until the idea of eating the poison sprang into his head?

I chew my fingernails, wondering if there’s a news article about his death. I consider searching, but I hear a tap on the door.

When I open it, a man wearing thick glasses and a button-down short-sleeve shirt is standing there.

“Who are you?” he asks.

I tell him my name.

“Ah, the daughter? You haven’t come to live here, have you?”

People are always so nosy, but it’s clear he knows my parents so I try to be polite. “Why are you asking?”

“I’m the rent collector. Is your ba or ma home?”

Baba is in the bedroom, of course, but he’s probably drunk, and I don’t want to wake him. “No,” I lie. “They’re working extra shifts. They’ll be home tonight.” I have no idea what time Mama will be home, so I add, “Late. Or tomorrow.” I hope Mama doesn’t go to work on Sunday.

The rent collector glances at Bao-bao’s door and purses his lips. Baba’s snoring is loud through the thin walls. I hear the cot creaking as he shifts.

“My brother,” I say stupidly.

The rent collector gives me a look that is both withering and pitying. He shakes his head slightly. “I know what happened to your brother.”

I bite my lip, embarrassed I’ve been caught in a lie. “Baba’s sick. It won’t do any good to talk to him now,” I say.

“Sick?” He eyes me in a questioning, doubtful way that infuriates me, but I don’t show it. I just want him to leave.

“Yang!” Baba roars out Mama’s name from the other room. “Yang!”

“No, Baba, it’s just me!” I call over my shoulder. I have the urge to slam the door in the rent collector’s face.

“Yang!”

I bolt to the other room, hoping to calm him, but Baba is already lumbering up to the door. “Who’s out there? Who’re you talking to?”

“It’s no one. I’ll—”

“It’s me, Zhang Chu!”

I twist around and give the rent collector a murderous look.

Baba pushes past me, still in his good clothes, but they’re wrinkled. “Rent’s due already?”

Mr. Zhang nods. “Yes. And you’re already two months behind.”

Two months behind on the rent? My stomach plummets to my feet.

I edge in to stand beside Baba. Creases from sleep are etched on his face. He looks dumbfounded by this news and he pats at his pockets as if he’s searching for his wallet. I know he doesn’t have any money. He spent it all on Bao-bao’s urn.

His head swivels, scanning the room, as if he’s trying to find something to focus on. “My wallet . . . Na, have you seen . . .” He staggers. I grab his arm and try to lead him over to the bed.

“No!” Baba jerks his arm out of my grasp; his long pinky nail scratches my cheek. I gasp and reach up to touch the wound, but Baba doesn’t notice because he is yelling.

“I have to get this bastard his money!” He shambles across the room, swatting aside the damp clothes on the line. He grabs the basket and begins to toss out the laundry I haven’t hung up yet. It’s as if he doesn’t notice that they’re wet. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Baba!” I’m scared and frozen in place. My mind scrambles to the baijiu hidden in my bag.

“Have to get his money so he’ll go away,” Baba roars. “So he’ll GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” He twists around and narrows his eyes at Mr. Zhang, utter disgust scrawled on his face. “After a day like this! Don’t you have any kind of soul?”

Mr. Zhang’s chin is pulled back. Baba’s made him angry but he doesn’t say anything.

“Mr. Zhang.” I force myself to be polite and swallow my embarrassment for Baba, for lying. “My mama handles all the money. I would really appreciate it if you’d come back tomorrow.” I’m desperate to get him to leave. I almost consider playing on his sympathy about Bao-bao, but that would shame us and Baba would probably fly apart.

Mr. Zhang’s mouth is small and tight. I see him eyeing the scratch on my face. I cover it with my hand.

“Tell your ma to come to my office first thing tomorrow,” he says.

I shut the door after he leaves. Baba is jerking down the wet clothes and slapping them into the basket and muttering, “Where’s my wallet, where’s my . . . Bao-bao.” He doubles over and heaves. Nothing comes out at first, but he heaves again and thin vomit shoots from his mouth into the basket of wet clothes.

“Baba!” I cry out. I grab the plastic dishpan and thrust it under him. He retches and retches. The sour smell has me gagging.

The door opens and it’s Mama, carrying several empty cardboard boxes. She drops the boxes and darts over to take the dishpan from me. I scuttle over to a stool and press one hand over my mouth and the other hand against my seizing gut, trying not to throw up myself.

My eyes are squeezed tightly shut, but I can hear that Baba’s retching has slowed. He’s sobbing, moaning, “Bao-bao, my boy, my boy, my boy is gone!” Mama says nothing.

I open my eyes and see tears running down Mama’s cheeks. Their anguish kills me. There is nothing more frightening than to see one’s parents cry.