The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [5]
I have to talk to you about something.
She is sitting in a desk at the far end of the room, reading her chemistry textbook, drinking from a can of soymilk with a straw. When the straw gurgles she bangs the can down, and we sit silently, the sound reverberating in the hallway.
I give you another journal soon. Two more days.
Not about that.
She doesn’t move: fixed, alert, waiting. I walk down the aisle toward her and sit down two desks away. Her eyes follow me, growing rounder; her cheeks puff out, as if she’s holding her breath.
Alice, I say, can you tell me about your mother?
Her hands drop onto the desk, and the can clatters to the floor, white drops spinning in the air.
Mother? Who tell you I have mother?
It’s all right—
I reach over to touch one hand and she snatches it back.
Who tell you?
It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be angry.
You big mistake, she says, wild-eyed, taking long swallows of air and spitting them out. Why you have to come here and mess everything?
I don’t understand, I say. Alice, what did I do?
I trust you, she says, and pushes the heel of one palm against her cheek. I write and you read. I trust you.
What did you expect, I ask, my jaw trembling. Did you think I would never know?
Believe me. She looks at me pleadingly. Believe me.
Two days later she leaves her notebook on my desk, with a note stuck to the top. You keep.
1 February
Now I am finished
It is out there I hear it
I call out to her after class, and she hesitates in the doorway for a moment before turning, pushing her back against the wall.
Tell me what it was like, I say. Was it a voice? Did you hear someone speaking?
Of course no voice. Not so close to me. It was a feeling.
How did it feel?
She reaches up and slides the headband over her eyes.
It is all finish, she says. You not worry about me anymore.
Too late, I say. I stand up from my chair and take a tentative step toward her, weak-kneed, as if it were a staircase in the dark. You chose me, I say. Remember?
Go back to America. Then you forget all about this crazy girl.
This is my life too. Did you forget about that?
She raises her head and listens, and I know what she hears: a stranger’s voice, as surely as if someone else had entered the room. She nods. Who do you see, I wonder, what will he do next? I reach out blindly, and my hand misses the door; on the second try I close it.
I choose this, I say. I’m waiting. Tell me.
Her body sinks into a crouch; she hugs her knees and tilts her head back.
Warm. It was warm. It was—it was a body.
But not close to you?
Not close. Only little feeling, then no more.
Did it know you were there?
No.
How can you be sure?
When I look up to repeat the question, shiny tracks of tears have run out from under the blindfold.
I am sorry, she says. She reaches into her backpack and splits open a packet of tissues without looking down, her fingers nimble, almost autonomous. You are my good friend, she says, and takes off the blindfold, turning her face to the side and dabbing her eyes. Thank you for help me.
It isn’t over, I say. How can it be over?
Like you say. Sometimes experiment fails.
No, I say, too loudly, startling us both. It isn’t that easy. You have to prove it to me.
Prove it you?
Show me how it works. I take a deep breath. I believe you. Will you catch me?
Her eyes widen, and she does not look away; the world swims around her irises. Tonight, she says, and writes something on a slip of paper, not looking down. I see you then.
In a week it will be the New Year: all along the streets the shop fronts are hung with firecrackers, red-and-gold character scrolls, pictures of grinning cats and the twin cherubs of good luck. Mothers lead little boys dressed in red silk pajamas, girls with New Year’s pigtails. The old woman sitting next to me on the bus is busily