The second my plane touches down in Beijing, I take my phone off airplane mode, and then texts pop up. Ken, Glory, and Camille all wish me luck, but I don’t have time to text back right now. Instead, I scroll through my emails. I see what I suspected. I’ve been on the plane for just thirteen hours, and my parents have already emailed me three times. The one from my dad is a link to an article about love and money—he sends me random articles, never with any context, clarifying message, or (thankfully) expectation of a response. Another one is from my mother. She and my dad want to fly out and visit me next week. Panic fogs my vision, and cold moisture films my forehead.
The passenger in the window seat, a white American woman, edges away from me. I don’t bother pointing out that if I were going to be airsick, it would have been while we were in the air and not when we’ve finally landed. Come to think of it, I am feeling a little nauseous at the thought of my parents’ visiting. Maybe the woman’s right to worry about me puking on her pretty pastel blouse.
On the other side of me, the older Chinese man in the aisle seat smiles reassuringly. Most of the other passengers are American like me, but this man is Chinese and speaks only a smattering of English. My Chinese is better than his English, but I’m not what you would call fluent.
But despite the language barrier, we’ve still managed to have a conversation of sorts. Mostly, the man showed me about a hundred pictures of his granddaughter, and I exclaimed, “Zhen ke ai!” in my American accent. “So cute!” is pretty much all I said the whole flight, but he still complimented me on my Chinese, saying it was pretty good for an “ABC” (American Born Chinese).
Now he releases a rapid torrent of Chinese, which comes to me in just a few understandable words and phrases. Dao—arrived. Fei ji—plane. And Mei shi—don’t worry. Against all odds, tension uncurls from the tight muscles in my shoulders. It doesn’t even matter that this man with kind crinkles around his eyes has no idea what I’m really worried about. There’s just something soothing in hearing “mei shi”—the same thing my parents have murmured to me all my life, offering comfort for everything from a scraped knee to a fight with a friend.
“Xie xie. Wo mei shi.” I thank him and tell him I’m OK.
I click on the next email from Mom, and all the tension shoots back into my shoulders. She wants to know why I haven’t responded yet. She also sent a potential travel itinerary.
Now I’m hyperventilating, my breath coming in sharp, hard gasps. The nice man’s forehead furrows, and it’s a wonder he isn’t shoving an emergency airplane bag into my hands. The words on the top of the itinerary make me grip the phone in white-knuckled dread. “Budget Economy Ticket.” That means no refunds. Once my parents buy those tickets, it will take a small miracle to keep my parents from visiting, because there’s no way they’ll eat the price of two plane tickets. It’s not that they can’t afford the tickets—it’s that they’re too cheap.
This is bad. Very, very bad. My heart pounds jaggedly as I envision my mom saying to my dad, “Gemma didn’t write back! We should buy the tickets now! Find out what’s happening.” If my parents find out that I’ve broken my mom’s cardinal rule, they’ll never believe in my decisions again—or in me. I’ll have destroyed their trust for good. My chest tightens. I have to stop them from finding out I’m actually in Beijing. Gulping stale airplane air, I lose my head completely and tap frantically on my phone: Don’t come! I’m sick! Quarantined for months.
Uh. No. Sending that would guarantee my parents booking the next flight to LA . . . and calling every Chinese doctor acquaintance they know. Which is a surprisingly large number. Sticky sweat pools in my armpits at the thought of every Chinese doctor within a twenty-mile radius descending upon my LA apartment. I delete the email. Whew. One nightmare scenario averted. But I still don’t know how to dissuade my parents from coming to visit. The plane is pulling up to the gate at the Beijing airport, and it won’t be long before I lose this window to email my parents.
Quickly, I type something about getting a job and long shoots. Could they come in the winter instead? I’d love to see them! The smiley face emoji is too much, but I don’t have time to overthink it. People are moving down the aisle, and the Chinese man says goodbye to me. The woman by the window is sighing loudly and tapping one foot on the floor. Throat dry with nerves, I send the email and hope for the best.
I sling my messenger bag over my chest, grab my rolling suitcase from the overhead bin, and then join the flow of people disembarking the plane. Jet-lagged and shaking from the possible impending disaster of Mom finding out where I am, I go through customs in a daze, too bleary to attempt my elementary Chinese. Luckily, the customs officials understand and speak English just fine.
At last I get through customs and emerge onto an air-conditioned concourse with bright overhead lights in neat rows. It’s packed with people, but I catch a glimpse of my friendly seatmate. He’s crouching down on the polished pale gray floor, and his granddaughter is diving into his arms with a loud shriek of “Gong Gong!” Her mother watches with a fond smile.
Because the girl called him “Gong Gong,” I know that he’s her maternal grandfather. If she called him “Ye Ye,” he would be her paternal grandfather. The correct Chinese terms of address for relatives is super confusing. But all around, there are people who look like me, being greeted in a way that indicates their precise relationship to each other. Everyone is speaking the language I’ll always associate with family . . . no matter how poorly I speak it.
My eyes sting with tears. In all my anxiety about taking the role and figuring out a way to keep my parents from finding out, there was one very important thing I forgot. I am standing in my parents’ homeland, my mother’s birth city.
I forgot that I was coming home.
I hadn’t even known that I wanted to. Of all the reasons I thought I had for coming to China, none of them were this.
Blinking away the hot prickliness in my eyes, I scan the crowd for a driver holding a placard with my name on it. Because there are no grandparents or relatives coming to meet me. No one knows me here in my homeland. But as soon as I think this, heads start turning. Conversations trail off, and people’s eyes widen as they whisper to each other. They’re looking at me. I didn’t think my sudden wave of emotion was that obvious. Wiping a sleeve across my eyes, I glance down to make sure my shirt isn’t unbuttoned or something embarrassing like that, but everything looks fine.
A group of young girls giggles excitedly as they raise their phones to my face. Flashes go off, and more and more people are staring at me. People are pointing now, and the whispers are loud enough that I can make out words. Shi ta! It’s her! Then words I don’t understand. More flashes go off, the blinding brightness making me flinch, and people are coming closer, elbowing each other in their haste to reach me, their voices growing louder and more excited.
What’s going on?