Lisa Ko - The Leavers

“That thing was busted,” Michael said. “It had those giant flowers in puke colors. Remember that time that kid beat me up and you went and beat him up?”

“And then your mom went and beat me up.”

Michael laughed. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

“I really loved that apartment.”

“You remember that kid Sopheap? I heard he’s in jail. And there was that time those guys got killed in the park—”

“I don’t remember that.”

Daniel ran names, tried to match them to faces, the kids of P.S. 33 with their giant backpacks. He tried to remember Sopheap, the park— which park? — and was alarmed at the inaccuracy of his memory, wondering what else had he forgotten, how much had he gotten wrong about his mother, Leon, even himself.

“Remember Tommie? Our neighbor? I used to think my mom ran away with him.”

“That guy?” Michael cracked up. “No way.”

“I heard he got married.”

“God. I haven’t thought about him in years.”

Timothy arrived, carrying with a white bakery box wrapped in red string. “You must be Deming,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you.” His English had Chinese-shaped tones, and his vowels were warm and curved.

Vivian had cooked a casserole of tofu and beef and mushrooms, greens with garlic, noodles, crispy pork, even a whole steamed fish. The smells were comforting, ones Daniel hadn’t experienced in years. Timothy handed him a plate. “You’re in school, Deming?” he asked in English.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be called Deming. “I’m a Communications major, at SUNY. I play music, too. Guitar. I go by Daniel now.”

“Daniel. So you like the arts and the humanities. Michael is more into the sciences.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a CPA. Accountant. That’s how Vivian and I met.” Timothy switched to Mandarin. “Vivian worked in the office across the hall.”

Vivian cut the greens. “I cleaned the office.” It sounded like a script she and Timothy had recited before. “Me and Michael lived with my friends in Queens. We had no money.”

“One day we met in the elevator at work,” Timothy said.

“That was a long time ago,” Vivian said. “Things are so much better now. Michael’s going to Columbia, and Deming is in college, too. Your mother would be proud.”

Daniel picked out fish bones, wanting to ask Vivian what she knew. His mother might have wanted him, after all. She couldn’t have known that Vivian would give him away. He took seconds, thirds, fourths, trying to ignore Vivian’s pleased expression as he loaded up his plate again, the credit she was surely taking for cooking so well, for feeding the starved orphan boy. He couldn’t get sucked into how good the food tasted, how familiar it felt to be here.

Timothy passed Daniel the plate of greens. “Deming, I mean, Daniel, you still speak Chinese?”

“Yes,” Daniel said in Mandarin. “I still speak Chinese.”

“You have an American accent. I have it, too.”

“Michael still speaks perfect Chinese,” Vivian said. “He can even write in Chinese.” She unveiled the contents of the bakery box, revealing a fluffy white sponge cake, a cloud of frosting studded with strawberry slices, and Daniel pretended he was watching a scene from television, narrated by the authoritative male voice of nature documentaries. The female animal cares for only its biological young. It rejects any nonbiological children as a threat to the family unit.

When they finished dessert, Michael collected silverware from the table. Vivian brought plates into the kitchen, and Daniel got up. “Sit, sit,” Timothy said, but Daniel grabbed the dishes and trailed Vivian. He was much taller than her and could see the white roots in her thinning hair, a baby bald spot on top of her skull.

He spoke fast, in English. Vivian’s English was much better than it had been ten years ago, but he still had the upper hand. “Why did you do it?”

She transferred food to plastic containers and pressed down on the lids, double-checking to make sure they were sealed. “Do what?”

He turned the faucet on and pumped soap onto a sponge. “You said you’d be back for me soon, but you signed a form that gave me away to strangers. Indefinitely.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Vivian opened the refrigerator, restacked the containers, and pulled out other leftovers to make room. She removed a carton of orange juice, squinted at the label.

“You made me think my mother abandoned me, that she didn’t want me.”

Vivian studied a gallon of milk. “You could’ve been deported.”

“How? I’m an American citizen.” He turned to check that Michael and Timothy were still at the table. “What do you know about my mother? Where is she?”

Vivian’s face was hidden by the refrigerator door. “I don’t know anything.”

He scrubbed the dishes, scraped hard, making his skin sting. “You actually went to court to get rid of me forever. You screwed up my whole life.”

“I didn’t screw up anything. You wouldn’t be in college, otherwise. You wouldn’t be living in Manhattan and playing on your guitar. If you stayed with your mother, you’d be poor. You’d be back in the village.”

“That’s where she is? Minjiang?”

Vivian’s words were quiet and tunneled. “I don’t know.”

It didn’t add up. There was no explanation for Mama’s absence, her never getting in touch. Daniel looked at Vivian, staring hard, daring her to face him.

“Is she dead?”

At last, she turned around. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because of Leon.”

HE WALKED TO THE subway after hugging Michael and shaking Timothy’s hand. “See you soon,” Michael said. “Don’t forget to let me know about your next concert.”

In Daniel’s pocket was an envelope that Vivian had given him as he was leaving. Less than half a block from the house, he ducked beneath a store awning and opened it. Inside was a hundred-dollar bill and a slip of a paper with a bunch of numbers that could pass for a long distance phone number in China. Leon, it said.

Daniel put the envelope in his pocket and laughed, a hot jelly laugh, until he was shaking. As if one hundred dollars was supposed to make it all better. He walked until the block of shuttered storefronts dead-ended and took a left, reaching the entrance of Sunset Park. The air was warm, the trees in bloom. He made his way up a hill, above the streets and storefronts, a family trundling along the path below, the father pushing a stroller with a silvery red balloon tied to the handle. Daniel saw the Manhattan skyline, recognized the sketched spire of the Empire State Building, the sparkle of bridges, and from this vantage point the city appeared vulnerable and twinkling, the last strands of sunshine swept across the arches as if lulling them to sleep, painting shadows against the tops of buildings. No matter how many times he saw the city’s outline he pitched inside. He had Leon’s number. His mother was alive. Leon knew where his mother was; they had been in touch. The prospect made him rubbery. Knees quivering, he folded in half and burped garlic and strawberry cake.

Then he was cold. When Vivian pressed the envelope into Daniel’s hands she had also said this: “I paid your mother’s debt. When Leon left there was still money owed. Who do you think paid? If I hadn’t paid, you’d be dead by now.”

Unable to decide whether to hate Vivian or be grateful to her, Daniel had only been able to take the envelope and say, “Thank you.”

He dug his heels into the dirt and walked downhill, down the park’s curved side, slow at first, getting faster, a grace note as his legs bounced upwards.