Finally Seen, page 4
“Look, I know it’s hard. But sending her bath bombs isn’t the answer,” she finally says. “If we send them to her, she’s going to want to know why we’re making them. Then I’ll have to explain. And that’ll worry her. I’d rather she just live the rest of her years peacefully in the Imagination Hotel.”
I hang back, quiet, as Mom turns to the shirts again.
Is that where Mom thinks I’ve been living for the last five years—some luxurious five-star Imagination Hotel? Because I have news for her. I have not been living in the Imagination Hotel. I have been living in the Reality Freezer.
* * *
Later, I’m sitting outside on the curb in front of Second Chance, hugging the plastic bag full of used clothes Mom bought me, while she checks the parking meter. I gaze up at the storefront sign.
SECOND CHANCE.
I used to think that my coming here was a second chance for me to get to know my family. But now I wonder… do they even want to know me? What I’ve been through, all the moments big and small that carried me through these last five years? Even if they didn’t frame it on the wall, just to know in their hearts—or do they just want to lounge around in some plushy Imagination Hotel?
I hug the plastic bag tighter. We didn’t end up buying the jean cutoffs, because they were fifteen dollars. Mom says that’s a lot for used clothes. She says everything’s gone up in price in America. Something called inflation.
At least I got a great pair of watermelon shorts. I wonder what Lao Lao would say about them. She loves watermelon. Shorts? Not so much.
“Good girls wear long pants,” she said. “Shorts attract too much attention.”
“From who?” I asked.
“Bees, mosquitoes, boys,” she tsk-tsked.
I turned bright red, even though I didn’t really know why.
“You’re growing up fast,” Lao Lao said. “Boys will come knocking soon. I’ll try my best to chase them off with my fly slapper. But it’ll be up to you to shoo them away.”
I told Lao Lao she didn’t need to worry about that. The boys in my class wanted nothing to do with me… except give me hand farts. (A hand fart is when you fart in your hand and make someone smell it, which was what they were constantly doing to me in class.)
“C’mere, I got something left over for you, Lina!” they’d taunt me.
“Who you calling ‘left over’? The only thing left over is your BO when you walk into a room!” I’d shout.
I’m not proud of the way I talked to the boys in my class, but it was the only thing I could do to survive.
I shudder at the memory.
“We still have twenty minutes left,” Mom says, coming over. “You want to walk around a little?”
I get up slowly.
Two American girls walk by us. I stare at their shiny blond hair, bouncing from side to side. One has on a pair of red heart-shaped glasses. The other has a pink purse the shape of a cupcake. They walk into an ice cream store.
Mom must have followed my gaze because she asks me, “You want to go in there?”
I nod eagerly.
“Maybe they have a kids’ cone or a free sample,” she says. She glances down at her purse hesitantly. “I guess we can take a look.”
As we step into Cindy’s Ice Cream, the sugary toasty smell of fresh waffle cones hits my nose. My knees go weak. I stare at the gigantic menu of flavors—there are enough to make my head spin around the globe twice.
“What should I get, Jessica? The Almond Caramel Swirl or the Brownies and Cream?” the cupcake purse girl asks her friend.
Heart-glasses girl shrugs.
The cupcake purse steps up to the counter. “Can I get two free samples?”
“Absolutely!” the staff member behind the counter says.
Mom pokes me with a smile. I watch in disbelief as the server hands the girl two free small sample cups of the ice cream to taste. You can get FREE ice cream in this country?!
I dash to the counter. “Can I free too?” I ask.
I hear a giggle behind me. I turn around to see heart-glasses girl laughing. Is she laughing at me? Did I say something wrong? Mom gives them some serious side-eye.
“What flavor?” the shop person asks me.
I glance at all the options and try my best to pronounce the flavor from the big board. I’m determined not to screw up like with the water in the airport. I’m going to get it right this time.
“Chocolate Sheet Cake,” I say, except I pronounce sheet, well, not “sheet.” The girls start laughing hysterically.
“We don’t have that one, unfortunately,” the shop person says. “Would you like to try something else?”
“Yes. Something else.” I nod. That sounds like a great flavor.
Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “Lina, let’s go,” she says.
“No! I haven’t gotten the ice cream yet,” I protest in Chinese, wriggling my hand free. Can’t she see—I’m this close! If I leave now, all the snickers will be for nothing.
“Stop,” she says in English. It’s weird hearing her speak English. I fall quiet. Her eyes beg me, Let’s go. And I follow reluctantly, dodging the burning stares from the snickering girls, who watch me and my mom with glee. All this without even a taste of Something Else.
Once outside, Mom speed-walks away from the shop, holding my hand tight. “I didn’t like the way those girls were acting,” she says, reverting back to Chinese.
“I didn’t either. But I really wanted that ice cream!” I follow her, craning my neck to look back at the store.
She stops when we’re finally a good distance away and looks into my eyes. “Sometimes you have to do the hard thing and remove yourself from a bad situation. Even if it means parting with what you want most. Do you understand that?”
There’s an urgency in her eyes that shines bright. And I realize, maybe it’s not about the ice cream.
“You’re the daughter of first-generation immigrants. Do you know what that means?” Mom asks.
I shake my head.
“It means your blood is made of iron will and determination. Your backbone is built from the sacrifices and impossible decisions of all those who walked before you. You have a duty to them to protect your heart. Never let yourself be treated that way, over ice cream. It isn’t worth it. You understand?”
With moist eyes, I finally nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“C’mon now,” she says, taking my hand. “Let’s go home.”
I swing my plastic bag as I follow Mom. Even though I did not get to taste Something Else today, my belly is filled with a flavor even more satisfying—the hope that maybe my coming here really does mean something to Mama.
Chapter 12
Dad calls Mom on her phone as we’re driving home. He tells her to pick Millie up from Pete’s.
“I thought you were at the Chinese grocery store,” Mom says.
“There was a plumbing emergency,” Dad says with a sigh. “Just come.”
Fifteen minutes later, we arrive. Pete’s house is an impressive white farmhouse, sitting in front of a gigantic spread of land. Mom says it’s a little over two acres. Tall eucalyptus trees and rose gardens line his lush front lawn.
Mom gets out of the car and heads up the stone steps to the big house.
“Be real polite to Pete,” she says. “He’s… a character.”
Mom knocks on his door. A tall white man in dirty overalls, with a walking cane, answers. “Took you long enough!” he hollers at her. “This isn’t day care!”
Mom’s face flushes. I see my sister Millie inside the kitchen. She runs over. “Mama!” she calls out, hugging Mom.
“I’m sorry. I got here soon as I can,” Mom says to Pete in English. “What happened?”
“Wwoofers messed up the plumbing again, that’s what happened,” he says, shaking his head. He lets us into the house and walks toward the back porch. He stomps down the stairs. I look out the double glass doors at the gorgeous expanse of green.
Pete’s organic farm is massive. There are plants and vegetables as far as the eye can see. To the side of the plants, there’s a tiny home on wheels. It looks like a trailer, the kind I’ve only ever seen in American movies. I spot Dad kneeling on the ground next to it, trying to turn off a pipe.
“Dad!” I cry.
I follow Pete out the back, running down the stairs toward Dad. Millie beats me to him. Dad temporarily stops his pipe fixing to give her a high five, snap, fist bump, elbow tap, and finally a hug.
I stare at the two of them doing their thing.
Whoa.
How long did it take them to come up with that? I bake in the heat, counting five gestures, when all this time in Beijing I couldn’t even get one. I try to hide my embarrassed face. I wish I had a large sun hat like the lady’s Pete’s arguing with.
“How many times I gotta tell you? You gotta go easy on the toilet paper!” Pete says.
“We didn’t do anything to it!” the woman says. “It just stopped working.”
“It’s that daughter of yours. Carla must have tried to flush a crayon, or some nonsense,” Pete huffs.
“Hey!” a girl exclaims, walking out of the tiny home.
She’s a Latinx girl in a baseball hat and glasses, about my age. She looks up from the book she’s holding—The Science of Regenerative Farming—and assures Pete, “I would never put anything in the toilet that wasn’t completely compostable. There’s something wrong with the plumbing. Remember the time water started coming up from the sink—”
“You’re lucky you even have this tiny home. I could Airbnb this thing and make a fortune, and have you two sleeping in the garage.”
“Pretty sure that’s against Wwoof rules,” Carla informs him.
Pete swats the comment away. “ ’Stead of lecturing me about the rules, why don’t you earn your keep around here? I see a big patch of weeds over there with your name on it.”
Carla glances at her mom, who nods to her. She sighs, puts her book down, and starts walking to the fields.
I follow her.
When I finally catch up with Carla, by the beans section, I extend a hand.
“Hi! I’m Lina,” I tell her.
“She’s my sister!” Millie announces, trailing behind me.
“Carla Isabella Muñoz.” She shakes my hand. She plops down and starts yanking on the little stubborn weeds that dot the garden. Millie and I both sit down too, and help. Millie’s little fingers tug and pull expertly. Clearly she’s had more experience than me.
“What grade you?” I ask Carla.
Millie leans over and whispers, “It’s what grade are you.”
Carla shrugs like it’s no biggie. “Fifth,” she replies. “But I’m homeschooled.”
I put a dirt-soiled hand to my chest. “I fifth too,” I say. I ignore the grammar-anxious looks from my sister. I’m excited to make my first friend in America, and to be able to carry on a conversation with her. I point at the tiny home. “You live there long time?”
“Too long.” Carla explains, “My mom and I are volunteers with Wwoof.”
“Woof?” I ask, puzzled. Is that a secret wolf pack?
“It’s this volunteer organization for organic farmers. My mom and I, we’ve been Wwoofing since I was eight,” she says.
I am not sure what volunteer means. Millie explains in Chinese that it means they work for free. My eyebrows jump. Never in all my years of watching American movies have I ever seen anyone working for free. What do they do for clothes and other essentials?
Carla must have caught my confusion. “We’re supposed to volunteer just a few hours a day, in exchange for free room and board. That’s how it is usually.” She gives me a bright smile. “And it’s fun! I’ve milked goats, learned Italian. We’ve gotten to travel the world!”
Millie translates for me. When I hear that Carla’s been around the world, I ask Millie to ask her what’s her favorite place.
“Nazaré, Portugal! Thompson Falls, Montana! To tell you the truth, anywhere but here,” she says.
“Why?” I ask.
I follow her gaze to Pete, sitting on his deck, surveying his land, clutching his cane like a wooden scepter. “He may look like an organic farmer, but the pesticide he spews sometimes…”
I look at Carla funny.
“Millie! Lina! Come on, we gotta run!” Mom says in Chinese.
Pete scolds Mom. “Quit yakking in Chinese! Speak English.”
“See what I mean?” Carla asks.
I jump up and dust the dirt off my pants, my ears burning. I try to think of some nice parting words for Carla, but in the end can only manage, “Good talk. Bye!”
“See you around!” Carla calls back, not taking her eyes off the weeds.
Chapter 13
It’s not until that night, when Dad finally comes home, that I think of Carla’s statement again. Sweat stains hug the pit of Dad’s arms, like two giant atlases. I try not to look at them, or at his knees, caked in dirt. Did he spend all day kneeling on the ground, I wonder? I hope Pete at least paid him.
“Daddy!” Millie cries, looking up from making her TikTok with Mom’s phone. She runs over. This time, I look away as they do their complicated routine of high fives and fist bumps. I count the seconds until I can safely look up again.
“What took you so long? Did you fix the plumbing?” Mom asks.
“Oh, I fixed that hours ago,” he says. “But then I had to turn to the soybeans, and the mulch, the seeds that needed to be transferred into the ground, and the compost. You know Pete.”
“I know,” Mom says, shaking her head. She holds up boxes of bath bombs to show Dad. “Well, we finished filling all the orders.”
“That’s great!” he says.
“You like our logo? We made it together,” I tell him. “Me and Millie.”
Proudly, I show Dad our logo—JML. I took Millie’s crayon M and reshaped the J and the L, so now they look symmetrical on both sides.
“Looks amazing,” he says, closing his eyes and smelling the gloriously scented bath bombs. They turned out so beautiful, I wanted to eat them. But Mom said that would not be good. “When are you going to mail them?”
“Tomorrow, after I drop off the girls at school,” Mom says.
I bite my lip at the mention of school. Back in Beijing, each new semester brought on a whole new level of anxiety. There were the teasing from the boys and the rejection from the girls. The side-eyes from the teacher for having to print out every permission slip for Lao Lao, because she didn’t have email. Don’t even get me started on the avalanche of homework!
“Do I have to go so soon?” I ask.
“It’s going to be great!” Mom says while Dad goes to get cleaned up. She and Millie sit cross-legged on the floor, dividing Millie’s pencils and erasers into two sets—one for her and one for me. “You’ll see—American school is not like in China. It’s fun, right, Millie?”
I glance over at my sister hoarding all the nice coloring pencils for herself. Mom tries to take a few.
“She doesn’t need Crayola pencils,” Millie says. “She doesn’t even know what they are.”
“Yes I do!” I tell her. Truth be told, I do not, but still, I want them.
“There’s no need to fight,” Mom says. “We have plenty of pencils.”
Mom goes to the kitchen drawer and pulls out five more coloring pencils. Unlike the bright, colorful Crayola ones, these are unbranded and worn out.
“Look, these are perfectly fine. I used them when I was trying to babysit, after I lost my job,” she says. I stare at the pencils. They look like a giant baby chewed them.
Mom hands them to me sheepishly. I stuff them in my backpack and turn away from her, before she can see the hurt in my eyes. Why can’t she give Millie these? It’s bad enough I had to stay behind in China, now I have to take the crummier pencils, too?
Dad walks out in his pajamas and takes a seat on the side of the couch that doesn’t have springs poking through. I walk over and sit down next to him. Dad reaches up with his hand and strokes my hair. It feels nice.
“What’s pesticide?” I ask Dad.
“It’s bug spray. Full of chemicals. It’s terrible for humans,” he says, putting his tired feet up. “That’s why Pete never uses it. Once you spray it, it gets into the soil, into the rivers, the groundwater, into us.”
Mom disappears into the kitchen and returns with a mug of hot tea and a freshly steamed zhongzi she made from sticky rice.
“But it’s hard farming without pesticide,” Dad says as he eats. “Which is why Carla’s mom and I have to work so hard.”
“Does Pete really not pay Carla’s mom?” I ask.
Dad responds with a long sigh. “She’s a Wwoofer, so technically she’s volunteering in exchange for free room and board,” he says. “But if you ask me, she and her daughter ought to get paid. They’re up at the crack of dawn, working. Every day.”
“Doesn’t Carla have to go to school?” I ask.
“Carla’s homeschooled,” Dad says.
I turn to Mom, immediately thinking Can I be homeschooled? But Mom nixes this idea with a shake of her head.
“Uh-uh. I got way too much to do around here,” Mom says, pointing to the bath bombs. “We have six weeks to come up with the back rent money. Otherwise, we’re looking at pitching a tent in Pete’s field.”
I look worriedly at Dad, who adds, “She’s kidding.”
“Besides, you get to go to a great school in Winfield. That’s the one nice thing Pete’s done for you. Because his farm’s in Winfield and your dad works for him, Pete helped us apply for an interdistrict transfer permit so you girls can go to a good school in Winfield,” Mom says.
“That’s not the only nice thing,” Dad adds. He puts his zhongzi down for a second. “He’s helping us get a green card.”
“What’s a green card?” I ask.
“It’s a card that lets us stay.”
“Wait, we can’t stay?” I ask.
“Well, we can, but… it’s hard,” Mom replies, with a glance at Dad.
“Technically, when I first came over to this country, we were on a student visa,” Dad explains. “But there are lots of limitations. Pete’s gonna change all that. He’s already got his lawyers working on it.”
