Zhu 30

Tricks of Light

By Yoko Zhu

I bought a plane ticket somewhere beautiful, and I came back from Spain with chlamydia. I called John, and he was quiet for a little while. He drove to my apartment and I let him in. The elevator was broken, so we climbed four flights of stairs, and in the end, we were so breathless that the heaviness of everything else subsided. Only for a little bit. Then we caught our breaths and recalled our champagne problems. John wouldn’t bring up the cheating. He began cradling my head, running his fingers through my thick hair. I missed you, he murmured. I recoiled, and he didn’t come closer.

We made dinner. Spaghetti with meatballs. We sat on the floor, and we talked about Barcelona. “I didn’t go to the beach like I wanted to.”

“Well, why?”

“It rained,” I said. “I saw the Gothic Quarter, and it was filled with tourists.”

“What else did you do?” he said.

“I saw the Sagrada Família. It was under construction, but you could still go inside. The arches looked like bone. It felt like I was inside a rodent’s skull.”

John pushed the pasta around his plate. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

“I didn’t want to,” I said.

“I figured,” he said. I thought of Barcelona, with its sprawling streets, flamboyant buildings, Sangrias with fruit slices, the men I couldn’t quite remember, blurred like an ink-leaked polaroid. I shifted in my seat, uneasy that I’d returned to my life, still a sinkhole. John filled our empty water glasses with wine. I took mine without thanking him. We were quiet for a long time.

In dreams, I was someone else. I was prettier, I was white, I ate escargot, and I dreamt so much I forgot there was nothing wrong with me—but this wasn’t quite honest.

I was confronted by people that were no longer in my life. In these dreams, they regenerated like salamanders slaughtered in half, growing limbs from severed parts. There was Leala. We were in our old apartment. We were at our favorite Indian spot. We were at her family’s for Thanksgiving, and she was carving the turkey. She leaned in to tell me a secret, only to say we were no longer friends. Then, our big fights. I released a box of Madagascar cockroaches in her car, and I wasn’t the least bit sorry.

And then I was stumbling to the bathroom, and a man was blocking me in the hallway. He was grinning, coming closer to me. Go, I said—at first a command, then a plea.

My mom was still here, talking to me in Chinese. She wanted to know how my brother was, and I, truthfully, didn’t know. John was in the other room, but she was only speaking to me: he carries rocks to feed birds. She never met him, but she was certain of him. What about Leala? I said. She raised her eyebrow, and we started laughing about the cockroaches. She was driving to work, I said in between fits of laughter, very aware I could’ve killed the girl.

I woke to an empty bed. John was in the kitchen making breakfast. In the bathroom, I ran my tongue across my teeth, wincing. I gargled mouthwash until the man from my dream became less and less real. I swallowed the antibiotics I got from the pharmacist in Spain. I inhaled a breath, forced myself to hold it for a few seconds, then exhaled. There was a moment of calm. I sank my teeth into it, and I wanted more. This was when I was most urgent and selfish.

“Are you in there?” John opened the door without knocking. “Good morning, Vivian. Come eat.”

The bacon was crispy and borderline burnt. My eggs were scrambled with not enough garlic salt and too much pepper. I added a new souvenir magnet to my fridge, then observed everything in my apartment was the way I’d left it. Tomorrow or the day after, I would go back to garnishing cocktails with salt rims and lime until my wrists ached. Everything after that, I didn’t know.

I could pick up the flute again. I pursed my lips, with my tongue folded slightly, and blew air. What a silly idea.

We went to our old spot: the reservoir where we met. The water, coruscant in the early afternoon, rippled behind swimming ducks. We sat on our favorite park bench, dedicated to a dog named Plato. In the early days, we talked about adopting a beagle and calling it Plato the II.

John was tearing a leaf into small pieces, calculating risks. I waited for the conversation to unfurl but it never did. John lit a cigarette and offered me one. “I don’t smoke anymore,” I said.

“Since when?”

“I haven’t smoked in two years.”

“You drink. A lot,” he said, more of a jab than a bad joke.

I ignored his remark and changed the subject. “Did you know we see orange at sunset because the red-orange wavelengths are shorter?”

“An optical illusion of sorts?”

“Sort of. It’s called Rayleigh scattering,” I said. “I read a magazine article about color blindness on the plane a week ago, and I don’t remember much about it, except there was this cartographer who creates digital maps in crazy neon colors.”

A girl ran by, and I watched John brazenly stare at her bouncing chest before she disappeared out of view. He turned back to me as if it had never happened. “That’s stupid. If you’re biologically disadvantaged in a skillset, you shouldn’t base your career on it. You don’t see short men in basketball. We don’t need maps in chartreuse.”

“His maps help those who are also colorblind,” I said matter-of-factly.

“That’s fine, but my point still stands.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said bluntly. “It’s illogical and ignorant.”

In the reservoir, a duck dove headfirst. I imagined how the water must’ve felt against its tawny feathers, the plummet like silk ribbons. They could fly South for the winter and submerge their bodies in rivers—all this freedom, wasted on waterfowl.

John cleared his throat, “I saw Leala the other day at the deli. We talked for a little bit. She’s going to grad school.”

“Cool.”

“Have you spoken to her since your fight?”

“Why on Earth would I?” I asked, enunciating each word.

“Because you were best friends for six years,” John said.

“She can go fuck herself,” I said, louder than I intended. His expression was bemused, as he enjoyed my obvious irritation. I smoothed my frayed edges and discarded the crucial information that Leala needed a sandwich. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

“I want to know if you always cut people out of your life like this,” he said.

“Like what?”

“So ruthlessly.”

“Do you interrogate your wife like this?” I snapped.

John forced a tidy smile. “Isabelle isn’t so callous, so I don’t feel the need to.” I met his eyes. They were cherry oak, blazing with an intensity. Months ago, I would’ve kissed him, and I would’ve explained my string of gravestones: it’s not all my fault. I’m not evil, but sometimes I do evil things. I would’ve told him how Leala called me a spider. We’d been on good terms then, but she’d still noticed something off about me. You’re charismatic, Vivian. But. But what? I’d pressed. But, she continued then stopped, actually never mind, I forgot.

“What did you tell Isabelle last night?” I asked.

“I told her that I was visiting a friend, and if traffic was bad, I would arrive home the next day. The usual,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Do you think Isabelle and I could be friends?”

We rarely spoke about his wife, often skirting around her existence. This time, John answered. “I don’t think so. Izzy’s too sensitive for you. Once, I told her I needed a new coat and Izzy bought me five, because she didn’t know which one I’d like. I…”

“Yes?”

“...Took her out to dinner.” John finished. Suddenly, he seemed embarrassed that he’d conceded this part of himself to me. That fucking W.A.S.P., I thought to myself. And yet her husband is here, embarrassing her to no end.

From my fire escape, airplanes winked back and forward behind clouds like knitting needles through yarn. The rooftop across from me was clustered with pigeons, pecking at invisible breadcrumbs. The streets were busy with quick New York feet. My window was open, propped with a soda can.

Asleep in my bed was a man I’d met tonight. He was cute and unremarkable. We’d eaten dinner at a Greek restaurant, and he’d edged his way into spending the night. I’d counted nearly two thousand sheep before concluding that I couldn’t fall asleep. I had tiptoed around his sleeping body and snuck out.

In my hand was a letter from John. It arrived yesterday. The envelope felt like goosebumps under my fingertips, the paper stiff, overtly formal. In his neat handwriting was my full name and address. I was unable to shake the abnormality of this. John never wrote me.

I delicately peeled the tape from the flap, pulling out a small white notecard. Inside was a single sentence. Isabelle and I are having a baby.

Oh, I thought. Then, I tore the paper to shreds and blew it from my balcony. I knew I could’ve called him, and John would’ve picked up when he was alone. John would’ve explained it extensively to me if I’d asked. That he was going to be a father. He needed to be a good man—once in his life. I would’ve gotten a heartfelt and sincere apology, yet I never wanted anything less.

That night, I had no dreams. The night after, I was alone. I thought about calling someone, but I didn’t have anyone that I could dial sporadically. My room felt very small. I watched a comedy about a girl falling in love with an underwear model, only to discover she was actually in love with her childhood best friend. And by the time she realized this, he was already engaged to a beautiful woman who was nothing like her. And just as I predicted, the moment she confessed, he pulled in and kissed her. It was meant to be romantic.

For the rest of my night, I thought about the way I was. How I was hard in places where I should’ve been soft, and my care was either too little or too much. I thought of all my life events—my stifled childhood, my awkward wallflower phases, all the parties where’d I’d been charming, all the parties I’d embarrassed myself at, my brother’s hospital visits, my favorite jeans ripping, long shifts at the bar, being the butt of a racist joke, all the times my body didn’t feel like my own, the embarrassment of talking about why, having those weird dreams, fighting with old best friends, my worst mistakes, amounting to nothing, changing, not changing—and then I concluded, like I always did—I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I oscillated between caring too much and too little, and I was never right. I turned the television off.

Later that night, an old memory crossed my mind. I was eight years old, and my hair was in neat braids. My mother had taken us to a motel. Temporary, she said, stressing out the syllables. All our things were packed in suitcases. I was begging her for a dollar. The vending machine had chocolate bars, and I’d barely eaten anything that morning. She sighed. "Vivian, I have a headache."

“What does that have to do with anything?” I’d asked.

“It means I need you to behave.” She yawned, and I saw saliva strings in her open mouth. “I’m taking a nap, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”

When she was asleep, I thought about stealing a dollar from her wallet, but my mom was always complaining about money. We never had enough. Instead, I decided to take my little brother to the pool. Henry was in his floaties, the ones swirled with purple fishes. He was healthy then, with his arms puffed out, laughing as my fists pummeled the plastic. “I can’t feel anything,” he said.

We took the room key and closed the door quietly behind us. Henry and I were at the pool’s edge, and right before we were going to leap in, a man opened the gate. His face was blurry, lost in time. You kids shouldn’t be out here alone. You need to be accompanied by a parent. “Just ignore him,” I whispered to Henry. My little brother obeyed me, and I pushed him gently. He took a careful step before jumping in. I followed and the outline of the man receded. The gate creaked. I didn’t know if he was leaving or if someone else had entered, but I was lost in the blue. The water yielded to me without argument. I was wrapped in the shadows and reflections. The breadth of the unknown was above, where the adult voices were growing sterner. Soon I would have to rise for air, but here I remained still, mesmerized by the mirages refracting on the pool floor.

Yoko Zhu is a writer and journalist based in the Boston area.