“Thanks. There’s just a couple of boxes and some paintings.”
I made a deal with my landlady to sell her my TV, couch, and bed. “Very convenient for new renters,” she tells me. The rest of the furniture came with the apartment.
The framed paintings lean against the living-room wall. After a year of doing this art gig, I don’t have that many pieces, just five, but I like them. Contemporary calligraphy, a take on a landscape, a satirical map-of-the-world print, a dreamlike image of a Red Guard on a swing, feet aimed at the clouds.
“What’s this?” my mom asks. She’s looking through the paintings, flipping them forward one by one.
I glance over. It’s Lao Zhang’s portrait of me, where I’m holding a scared cat and a snarling three-legged dog hugs my leg, against a backdrop of sand dunes and an exploding helicopter, and I look way stronger and smarter than I really am.
It’s a cool painting, the one I care about the most, but I never hung it up. Who hangs up a picture of herself? That’s just weird.
“Something a friend did,” I say.
My train to Guilin leaves around 3:45 p.m. from the Beijing West Railway Station. I was going to take a cab-the subway still doesn’t connect up with the Beijing West Railway Station; it’s supposed to happen later this year-but Andy offers to drive.
We’re standing in my now-vacated apartment, the leftover furniture making it look like some kind of hotel suite where no one ever actually lived.
I start to turn him down, and then I take in my mom, who’s hugging Mimi and telling her what a good dog she is.
“Hey, Mimi,” I call out. She perks up and scampers over to me. Stands on her hind legs and rests her front paws on my hips. I bend over and ruffle the scruff around her neck. She loves that.
I can’t take Mimi with me. I really want to. A part of me feels like I need some living thing around me, who cares about me, and since I just can’t deal with an actual person right now, a dog would be perfect.
But it’s not fair to her. She’d have to ride on the baggage car of the train. I don’t know if I could bring her to most hotels or hostels. And I don’t have a clue where I’m going, after Yangshuo.
More to the point, I don’t know if I’m capable of taking care of anything. I’m sure not good at taking care of myself.
“Thanks, Andy,” I say. “I’d really appreciate that.”
We get to the train station really early, because the traffic didn’t suck as much as I thought it would.
“I can park car, we can wait inside with you,” Andy says.
“That’s okay. Besides, Mimi wouldn’t like it.” Mimi and I sit in the backseat of Andy’s newish Hyundai. Her head rests on my lap. She knows something’s up, and she already doesn’t like it.
“I don’t like it either, girl,” I murmur, staring into her gold-toffee eyes.
I think, Why am I doing this again? I can pretend it’s just a vacation, but I know that’s not what this really is. Why am I running away?
Because that’s what I do.
Andy’s gotten us through the tangle of cars and taxis over to the curb in front of the station plaza, up against a white traffic barrier, car horns going off in the haze of exhaust. Not a place where we can stop for long. Which is fine with me. I’m not good with long good-byes.
I get out. Lean in to give Mimi a hug and a scratch around the scruff of her neck. “You’re a good dog,” I say. “Be good for Mom and Andy, okay?”
I close the car door carefully. She puts her paws on the doorframe and sticks her nose through the cracked-open window.
Andy’s gotten my bags out of the trunk. He lifts the pack so I can put my arms through the straps. Places the duffel bag on my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say. “And… thanks. For taking care of my mom.”
Andy frowns a little, as if he’s mulling that over. “I like your mom very much. But I think she takes care of me.”
He reaches out and pats my hand. “You can come back soon.”
“Sure,” I say.
Two guys have trotted over. “Miss! Miss! Carry your bags?”
I shake my head. “I’d better get going,” I tell Andy. “See you soon. And keep me posted on the restaurant.”
I turn to go, and there’s my mom. “Oh, hon,” she says, wrapping her arms around me, awkwardly, because of the luggage. I pat her on the back. I want to give in, to let go, to just be a kid and have my mom take care of me, like when I’d have nightmares and she’d come into my bedroom and sing me a song, read me a story.
But I can’t. I don’t know how. The shit in my head won’t dissolve the way those nightmares did once the light came on.
“You’re going to be fine,” she murmurs, like she was reading my mind. “It’s all going to be fine.”
“Do not tell me God has a plan,” I snap.
She lets go of me. Puts her hands on my shoulders, gives them a gentle squeeze, and smiles. “I won’t.”
The Beijing West Railway Station isn’t one of my favorite places. A friend of mine once described it as “a Stalinist wet dream topped by a Chinese party hat,” this massive upside-down horseshoe flanked by wings with a pagoda on top that feels like an evil Transformer crouching on the landscape, ready to start stomping its way through Beijing.
The inside’s not much better. Three pairs of escalators cordoned off by Plexiglas and giant chrome tubes, like some kind of factory conveyor belts leading us all to be processed. I ride up one to the second floor, where the departure halls are, staring up at the giant information screen, video ads playing in the central slab between the slowly scrolling arrivals and departures. I’m surrounded by bright lights, lit-up plastic signs, neon. I wander down the hall, thinking maybe I should buy some snacks for the trip. Maybe I should sit down and have a beer. I’ve got plenty of time. It’s only two thirty.
Finally I spot my gate, about two-thirds of the way down the hall. I glance inside. The waiting area is packed, as usual, the rows of plastic chairs occupied, people squatting or sitting on their luggage in the aisles.
Maybe I’ll store my bags in one of the lockers. I’ve got a soft sleeper; it’s not like I’m going to have to fight my way onto the train for a hard seat.
“Yili.”
I turn, and there’s Lao Zhang, wearing a white T-shirt and cargo shorts, like he always does when the weather’s even a little warm.
I don’t know what I’m feeling. It’s like everything empties out of me.
“You’re okay?” I finally ask.
He nods. “You have time for coffee?”
We end up at a McDonald’s, sitting at a bright orange plastic table covered with a thin slime of grease and the smell of stale french fries.
“How did you find me?”
“Your friend Harrison tells me you go to Guilin today. He didn’t think you take the early train, and this is the other fast one. If not, the other two are later. So I just could wait.”
It’s a nice gesture, but I feel like I’m missing part of the story.
“When did you get out?” I ask.
“A few days ago.” He sips his coffee and makes a face. Lao Zhang always did like good coffee, which this isn’t.
I’m starting to feel something now. It might be anger. “Why didn’t you call me?”
He shakes his head. He won’t look at me. He takes another sip of coffee.
“I didn’t feel good,” he says.
I study him. If anything, he’s thinner than he was at Tiananmen. The flesh around his eyes looks bruised with fatigue.
We got him out, but who knows what happened to him while he was inside?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you…?”
I don’t even know what to ask.
“Hai keyi. I’m okay.” He fiddles with packet of sugar. Taps some into his coffee. “You just feel very small, when they take you.”
I shake my head. I don’t get it. “You knew what would happen if you came back,” I say. “Why? Why did you do it?”