Susie Yang - White ivy

All day long, Ivy’s mind had been a buzzard circling around something she couldn’t yet pin down. She thought of Roux, of the gun. She thought of Nan’s past, of Shen’s stoicism and ignorance, of Mimi the employee who was probably a better daughter than Ivy was to Nan and Shen, and of Austin’s fancy suit, and of family and money and past mistakes, and of Gideon, most of all, of Gideon.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” she interrupted Meifeng’s nostalgic monologue.

“Once,” said Meifeng, adjusting the blanket around her hips.

Ivy stilled. “You never told me that.”

“It was when your grandfather and I were just starting out on our farm. Your mother hadn’t been born, just Hong. A thief came into our house, probably looking for food or money. It was so dark I couldn’t even see where I was going. I heard him rustling in the kitchen. I could smell him, too. He was making this gurgling sound and when I screamed at him to leave, he came toward me. I stabbed him with our carving knife.”

“He died?”

“Your grandfather carted him in the wagon to the little hill by our house and we buried him.”

“Did anyone come looking for him?”

“He was a homeless man. No one knew he existed.”

Ivy’s sudden pulse of exhilaration frightened her, it made her speak with a severity she didn’t feel, to mask her agitation. “Didn’t you feel bad? You killed a person.”

Meifeng chuckled darkly. “In China, a single life can feel insignificant. I’ve seen hundreds of people die—kids, old people, women. They simply dropped over from hunger or disease. And then we’d walk past their bodies until someone thought to move them out of the way to keep them from being trampled. My sister died while shitting on the toilet. My best friend died when a vegetable seller blunted her on the head for short-changing her a yuan. Lives are like rivers. Eventually they go where they must, not where we want them to go.” She groaned suddenly. “My leg is hurting now. Let’s sleep.”

20

NAN DROPPED IVY OFF AT the train station the next morning. They didn’t speak at all on the drive over, but as Ivy got out of the car, Nan asked suddenly if Ivy could speak to Gideon’s mother about Austin. “Tell her he’s just been very sick with the flu… can you see if she can ask her relative to give him another chance at the company?” Under a dark, overcast sky, Ivy thought that Nan looked more than ever like Meifeng. Yet whereas she had always seen toughness in her grandmother’s face and weakness in her mother’s, she now realized it was the opposite. Meifeng was weak. She had always been driven by fear. Nan was strong and hard. She had been driven by greed.

“Austin’s depressed,” said Ivy.

“What?”

“Depression. It’s a disease. He doesn’t need another job or school or one of your schedules. He needs to see a psychiatrist. Stop pretending he’s anemic or weak or whatever else you and Baba tell yourselves.”

A myriad of expressions flickered over Nan’s face before settling on stoic cynicism, the preferred armor of millions of Chinese immigrants.

“What does he have to be depressed about? We’re all depressed. I’m depressed.”

“No you’re not.”

Nan licked her lips. “What have we done wrong? We always tried our best.”

“Sometimes you can’t help it.” And because the rims of Nan’s eyes were turning pink, Ivy said, “It’s not your fault.” A faint screeching in the distance announced the arrival of the train. “I have to go.” She walked up the platform and slid into the first available seat. From the window, she saw Nan’s silver van, as shiny as the day she’d bought it, sitting in the parking lot until the train pulled away and Ivy could only see her own wan reflection in the windowpane.

They stalled for an hour in Connecticut, rain slamming sideways onto the windows, followed by the pattering thuds of hail. She put her book away and sent Roux a single text: My grandmother’s in the hospital—call me . She prayed the past week had softened his resolve—there were only four days left until his arbitrary deadline.

When she arrived home, it was already twilight. In the kitchen, Andrea was drinking tea with an effeminate young man. There was something familiar about the man, who could have been one of Gideon’s employees in his faded gray sweatshirt, tan corduroys, black-frame glasses sliding off a rather snub nose. He introduced himself as Norman.

“I saw you at the party,” he said.

“What party?”

“The one for Swingbox.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh. Uh. We’re a file hosting service—”

“At the Gonford, Ivy,” Andrea tittered. “Norman and I were together all night.”

“Right, yes,” said Ivy. “Your new friend.” The man in the yellow T-shirt who’d floated after Andrea all evening like a spindly balloon attached to her tailbone.

Norman finished his tea and went upstairs to use Andrea’s computer to take a video call—“just a short interview with TechCrunch,” he said self-consciously.

“We’re going to Machu Picchu next month,” Andrea whispered, squeezing Ivy’s forearm with both hands as if it were a massage ball. “You have to come shopping with me. I’m so happy you guys finally met… I think he’s going to propose on the trip! Oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that out loud— sshhhhhh .” Andrea made a low, frightened giggle. “… Sorry, I thought I heard him coming down. Can you believe how fast things have been happening? When he came up to me at the party, I thought, ‘He’s not my type at all,’ but then we kept talking—he’s so smart—and then I realized how much we had in common—”

“I’m going to make a sandwich,” said Ivy, standing up. “Want one?”

Andrea looked glum. “Shit, I’m going to regret this in a few hours when my face bloats up before rehearsal.” She shrugged. “Oh well, make me one, too.”

Ivy spread the marshmallow fluff and peanut butter onto four slices of white bread. It wasn’t the low-calorie kind Andrea bought, but she didn’t tell her.

Ivy turned around to hand Andrea her sandwich. There were two Andreas.

“Yooo-hoo? Ivy?”

Ivy blinked and the vision went away. “I think I’m coming down with something. I’m going to stay in bed this week. Can you make sure no one bothers me? I want to sleep it off.”

Andrea swore she’d keep a lookout, promising to bring takeout pho on her way back from work. In a moment of fondness, Ivy leaned over and brushed her fingers over Andrea’s cheek. “I’d marry you if I could,” she said.

Andrea laughed, then launched into another story about her and Norman’s last date at a rave club where they’d dropped acid together—drugs really lowered your guard—and Ivy was so right, you had to teach a man how to treat you…

It was exhausting to watch someone try so hard to get such ordinary things. Andrea wanted to be wanted, to be validated, for someone to say, I’ll take care of you. “I’ll be the one taking care of you,” said Andrea, and Ivy realized she had spoken out loud. Andrea licked the corners of her lips of marshmallow fluff and lowered her voice in what Ivy knew was sure to be some confession that Andrea thought of with utmost secrecy but was, in reality, utterly insignificant.

“You know, and I didn’t even know he was—you know, when I met him…”

“He was what?”

“The founder of Swingbox.”

Something clicked in Ivy’s mind. “Wait—the company that IPOed. The billionaire founder?”

“He hated that Times article,” Andrea said proudly, reaching for a spoon and eating the peanut butter straight out of the jar.