Grandma’s newly hired caretaker, Ah Ling, leaned across the restaurant table in Xi’an. A tall forty-ish woman with short hair, she pointed to an online picture of palm trees and ocean. “It’s beautiful there. Don’t you think Grandma deserves a nice break?”
“Hmm,” Mom grunted. “Mother, do you want to go to Hainan?”
Grandma gazed out the window and laughed as if she just remembered a joke.
Sensing our silence, Ah Ling rose from her seat and trotted away. She returned with bowls of rice and handed us each one. With a ladle, she scooped some chicken onto Grandma’s plate. “Eat more.”
Aunt leaned forward and asked Ah Ling, “Do you need some rest from caring for Grandma?”
“Oh, no, no. I just thought I should bring her on a trip.”
Half-eaten braised pork and crispy chicken slowly became lukewarm in their bowls. The turntable stopped rotating, and it seemed with it Earth had stopped spinning too. Grandma, once a semi-famous Chinese opera singer who appeared on Chinese TV variety shows, had been a houseplant for the entire dinner. Beside her, Ah Ling’s movements became akin to how a video game character might sway back and forth during a pause screen. Although the restaurant bustled, our table stilled, the passage of time tangible.
Grandma lived a life completely independent from mine in California, so there was no reason for me to worry. Still, I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Was Ah Ling taking advantage of her? I knew that feeling. The school dance. My classmates’ sneers. Chuckling all around. For Grandma, the consequences of neglect or trickery could be much more grave. She had a set of pills Ah Ling needed to remind her to take. Sometimes, in a fit of confused anger, Grandma slapped people around her. I tried to imagine Ah Ling helping Grandma put on clothes, walking her down the stairs, cooking her food, being slapped. Maybe she wanted to leave Grandma in a hotel room to parasail, snorkel, and dance with locals.
But maybe going to Hainan would allow Grandma to draw a line through the circular flow she had floated along for years. The stream of time must have felt different to her at eighty-three. Every day, the hands of the clock returned to where they were a day ago. Every year, the sun and the earth aligned at the same spot. Perhaps it was truly Grandma’s desire to go on vacation, or was Ah Ling gently steering Grandma in that direction?
***
“Did the call go through?” Mom asked. Grandma’s face popped up on the phone screen.
Mom tilted the camera towards me, and I waved hello. Grandma had Mom’s prominent cheekbones and satiated eyes. The yellow kitchen light shone behind her, as if she were the sun.
“Remember what to say?” my mother asked me.
Proud of my twelve-year-old memorization skills, I began my blessings.
“Happy new year! Congratulations and stay prosperous!” I said in Chinese. “Wishing you good health!” On the floor, I bowed down for Grandma.
She smiled and let out a hearty laugh. “Ohhh, your Chinese is getting so good!” She clapped. Behind her, plastered to the wall, was a large photo of her in opera regalia, face decorated with colorful paints. The focus was her headpiece, embroidered with shimmering jewels and beads.
I didn’t really know what I had done or what it meant, but I wanted her approval.
She began to hum a tune that Mom often sang in the kitchen. She sang nasally. She was quiet, but every note pierced, and I could immediately tell what song it was—the Huanghe Daechang, about the defense of the Yellow River, the second longest river in China. Chinese resilience in the face of oppression.
What I knew was that in her prime, Grandma wouldn’t need my assurance to prosper. She had created her own prosperity through her voice, a life of parties, gifts, and operatic tours. I was proud to be sharing her family heritage. I bragged to my classmates, music friends, and teachers. “Look!” I held up my phone, displaying articles about her beauty and her uniquely gripping voice.
***
Back at Grandma’s apartment, the caretaker stepped out. “I’m going to pick up some cough medicine.”
In a hushed tone, Mom asked Aunt Liu Xin, “What has Ah Ling been up to?”
“She spends a lot of money on groceries and keeps saying how Grandma really wants to go to Hainan. I think it’s odd.”
“If there’s a real issue, then we’ll have to replace her,” Mom said.
“She’s been eating my wallet for years now! We’re not engineers like you in the U.S.!
But there’s no one else. I’ve tried to find someone.”
We stayed at Grandma’s apartment that night. While organizing a closet, Ah Ling dug up a discolored, old robe. A cloud of dust shrouded layers of red and gold silk, meticulous embroidery, lined with an array of faux jewels. Most of them had lost their shine, but they still faintly glowed. Ah Ling shook the Xifu up and down, and called Grandma over.
“What is this?” Ah Ling asked. I didn’t know if Grandma chose not to speak, or if she really didn’t know. There was a highly probable chance of both. In China’s Cultural Revolution, Grandma had been trained to hide keepsakes. The robe was central to Chinese opera, a dying art that had no place in Mao’s ideal society. Still, I hoped that she remembered something. I often listened to old DVD’s of her singing. Her dramatic melodies would sweep me from my disappointing life, from my room to the open Chinese countryside where I was strong and beautiful, too.
I envisioned what she must have felt donning the Xifu on stage. Her voice wasn’t silky, but rather gravelly and rich. As she sang her flying melodies, she must have flown with conviction and strength even more than brilliance. A stark contrast to her passive demeanor nowadays. Where did the opera singer go, when she tossed the costume into her closet for the last time? Did this identity stay stowed away, gathering dust over the years? Or did it follow her, yearning to surface again?
The next morning, Grandma told us in her own words, “I want to go on a vacation. I want to take the plane to Hainan.”
“Are you sure?” Mom asked. “Why do you want to go?”
Grandma didn’t explain why. Maybe she just wanted to fly again, one way or another.
While Mom and Aunt went back to work, Ah Ling took Grandma on vacation.
***
A week later, a video call came in from a Hainan hospital. “How did that happen?” Mom demanded.
“We were walking up a set of stairs, and she fell backwards.” “Weren’t you supporting her?”
“I—”
“Grandma,” Mother said, “Do you feel alright?” “You have to come get me,” Grandma muttered.
“But Grandma, she has work to—” Ah Ling reached for the phone. But Grandma slapped her.
“All of you are useless!”
Grandma stared indignantly into the camera, right at Mom. She appeared confused, like a child lost in her emotions, with only her fist to convey them.
“That’s it. I have to get her,” Mom said, stuffing a week’s worth of clothes into her suitcase. Dad and I drove her to the airport.
“I’ll be back soon, once Grandma is well enough to get on a plane,” she told me. Waving goodbye at the terminal, she left, and I didn’t see her until six months later. She was wearing the same clothes she had on when she left, but Grandma was beside her, shakily grasping her left hand.
***
In California, I sat on our backyard patio next to Grandma. Above our heads, a hummingbird fluttered from left to right, and the leaves of our oak tree rustled gently.
“Do you hear it?” Grandma asked. “Hear what?”
“The song.” Her wheelchair was parked between a lawn chair and potted tomato plants. I realized that I had never thought about the squirrels, finches, and trees in my backyard that way. Unlike Grandma, I hadn’t grown up around urban sounds of car horns and shouting. I never had to forget the sound of my own singing.
“Get me some water,” Grandma said, sending me inside. Through a gap in the kitchen window, I heard a distant but characteristic voice singing.
Instead of layered red regalia, she wore a simple flowery shirt that conformed to her slightly hunched back. She sang for herself in a shallow tone, but with the same confidence she had in front of an audience of thousands. Instead of the dazzling textures of traditional Chinese percussion, she was accompanied by a choir of birds and bees. Though it was softer and less nasally, Grandma’s voice still soared. Here was a version of Grandma nobody ever saw on national television. I hummed along with her, following her lead as we flew among the birds.
Garrett Cai is a rising senior at Homestead High School and has been writing short stories since his freshman year. In his spare time, he likes to play the piano or meet up with friends for some tennis. Because he’s always on one keyboard or another he learned to type really fast.