1…Oceans Apart
My eyes wrench open at a loud sound and cannot place what they're seeing. There is a grey cloth pouch in front of me, with papers sticking out of it. A magazine. I am lying down, my jacket and hands curled up as a kind of pillow under my head. I jerk up to a sitting position.
A plane.
Grandfather!
The armrest between my ex-neighbor shunu's seat and mine is up. I don't even remember moving it, or stretching across both seats. How long have I been asleep?
Did the captain make an announcement? Is that the sound I heard? Are we getting ready to land? Oh, please, yes!
I quickly wrench up the window shade to see a burgeoning dawn—the barest hint of light shining over the Pacific. But nothing else.
Nothing but ocean.
I stay staring out at it anyway, my eyes drinking in the vast expanse, because it helps dissipate the lingering claustrophobia from the dream I don't remember. All I have left of it are vague visions of monkeys.
I start rocking back and forth again. I certainly wouldn't want to be sitting next to me in this cramped coach row on this long flight from Shanghai. It was my absolute inability to sit still that caused all my prior seat neighbors to demand to be moved to another row on the flights I've been on so far. All three of them were Chinese matrons and each stomped off to complain, loudly—one even before the plane took off—after first sending a series of slurs and barbed looks of scathing disapproval my way.
If I had any possible hope of being comforted, strangely, a Chinese Tiger Mother death-ray stare might've done it. I've gotten more than my fair share of those scorching looks from my favorite Chinese professor-slash-unofficial program advisor at Stanford when I didn't get my pronunciation or kanji right and I'd come to find these looks as an expression of a kind of love, albeit of the tough variety.
Mostly, though, I get those stares when I, as Professor Zhang-Lei calls it, "creatively translate."
"Ellawyn Ellis! You must stop making the words and meanings kinder and gentler than they are! Than they should be!" she has admonished me numerous times. "You must translate exactly!"
I didn't really know I was doing that—making meanings nicer—and would shrug at her, earning another stern look. I've come to understand that she is not at all fond of American shrugs as she would mutter disgustedly, "Qingshaonian!"
Loosely translated—okay, maybe she was right—that means teenager, although, ridiculous juvenile adolescent could also work. I'm not really sure she even likes me, but she's an amazing teacher and I'm happy to have her. What each row mate said to me would certainly earn me Tiger Mother disapproval if I said it in front of Professor Zhang-Lei; white devil, American banshee, but the only one I was really bothered by was the last one, even though it was hardly the worst.
Ai xiao de houzi. Little monkey.
Throughout my almost twenty years on this planet, most of it spent in one far-flung foreign land or another, I've had more fun than I care to admit listening to people talking about me in their own language, thinking I don't understand: no one ever believes an American speaks anything other than English. I would then say something in their tongue to let them know that I knew what they'd said. I'd like to think that I did this to shift and elevate American stereotypes, but in reality, it's a smart-aleck part of me that enjoys their shock. I have shared many laughing moments playing this snarky game with my beloved grandfather, Henry, a master wiseass and translator who knows something like nineteen languages.
I contemplated doing just that with each of my Chinese shunu mei hao de (nice ladies—perhaps a creative translation?) but they would surely want me to know what they said. Besides, I feel guilty enough for being so irritating and anyway there is no real joy to be had in these endless hours since I got the call from my best friend, Emory, that my grandfather has had a stroke. Short of seeing him.
Alive.
I leave the window shade up and hazard a glance at the sleeping older man—whom I've tentatively identified as Mediterranean—in the aisle seat. Somehow he had slept through all the earlier drama but is awake now and looking at me, alarmed…Oh no, not him, too! I don't think I can take another harsh neighbor.
His eyes are kind, though, concerned even. I find that this is worse than all the other Chinese invective hurled at me earlier, and I turn away, back to the window. I stop rocking and start jiggling my leg instead.
"Nightmare?" he asks, gently.
I shrug, keeping my gaze out the window and get a brief flash of a twisting jungle road from my dream before shaking it off. It occurs to me that quite possibly the sound that woke me, was me, crying out in my sleep.
And another realization: he didn't say this in English, but in Arabic, a language I know a bit of from our time spent in North Africa when I was a kid, but mostly from Grandfather's patient ministrations. He makes me practice with him, although I've never taken a course in it.
What the man actually said was, "Jatum?"
I turn to him, meeting his eyes, again the kindness unsettles me and I switch to rocking back and forth in my seat, seared by his concern.
"Anti booheyer, tufula?" He's asking if I'm alright.
I still my rocking to concentrate. I don't even know why I'm choosing to answer him, maybe it's because of the mercy in his eyes or that he asked in one of Grandfather's favorite languages. Or just that he's not screaming at me.
"Jidee." I reply, slowly searching for the Arabic words. "Mooreed. Moose ta sha fa."
Grandfather. Sick. Hospital.
This man smiles first in something akin to delight—possibly at my Arabic?—then nods sympathetically.
I point to myself, saying one last phrase in his language.
"Anaa khaa ifa."
Scared.
His benevolent smile in reply might be my undoing. I feel a caustic burning in my throat. Scared doesn't really describe how I'm feeling, but I cannot think of the Arabic words for terrified right now. Or guilt-ridden. Or, He's the only family I have left and my absolute favorite person in the world and I cannot bear to lose anyone else I love.
I quickly turn back to the window to look out at the ocean. I've held it together this long, barely, and don't want to lose it now. I still have many miles to go.
"Allah yoofithook," he says quietly, reverently—May God be with you—but I don't turn around to him. I can't. Instead, I start rocking in my seat again, the increased movement helping to ease the flames in my throat.
I distract myself by wondering what he was doing in China; where he visited, who he visited. Does he have family there? Or maybe he lives there. Was it vacation? Business?
When Emory called yesterday morning to tell me about my grandfather's stroke, I was in the city of Wuhan in central China, staying with a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Song, who own two small factories—small by Chinese standards, at least.
Prior to that, I had been trekking in China for barely two weeks, leaving directly after finishing the winter quarter at school—only my third quarter of official Chinese studies. After a short foray to the desert northwest of the capital, I made my way down from Beijing with a stop to see the Mengshan Buddha statue, through Zengzhou, and Xinyang, sometimes meeting up with other Chinese language students from various universities along the way who were scheduled to be in the same Chinese class with me at Peking University starting at the end of July. We would set up to meet via email.
I was to stay with this family until my immersion class started, teaching English to them, their son, their workers at the factory, and also the children of some of the workers. I was something like the eighth American student to do this and absolutely loved this family and this job. I'd found that the factory and its conditions were not at all what I'd expected. The employees were genuinely cared for by The Songs—there were no twenty-hour workdays and it was clean and safe and seemed to be a healthy environment. I don't yet know if this is an anomaly and I just lucked out in going to work for this particular factory and this particular family, or if this is more the norm than what we read about in America.
Professor Zhang-Lei had set up this job for me as well as gave me a sort of informal early acceptance to the summer program after acing a special placement test she had me take to prove I was ready.
I find that I can learn a language so much quicker—almost immediately—if I immerse myself in it by being in its origin country. I spent a long quarter in Japan a year or so ago, accelerating those language skills and I've come a long way in the Mandarin language in my few weeks of being in China; I'm sure I've learned more by teaching English in Wuhan than I've taught. By the end of the summer, I should be able to jump ahead in my studies, maybe bypassing some of the Chinese courses toward my dual Asian languages degree. That is, if I pass muster with Professor Zhang-Lei, which I've come to know is never a given.
I feel guilty for all the work Professor Zhang-Lei put into getting me accepted, guilty to be leaving the Songs so soon after arriving and after bonding so well with their son.
After Em's call, I got on the phone immediately in an absolute panic to book a flight, while simultaneously looking for flights on the internet on my laptop. There were so many choices to make in how to get to New York, but I settled on the one that left Wuhan the soonest even though it meant plane changes in Shanghai and then San Francisco. I just knew I'd go crazy if I didn't start moving as soon as possible.
After I booked it all, I threw everything in my bag, said a hurried goodbye to my Chinese hosts who arranged for a car to the airport. I was out of their house within thirty minutes.
I regret heartily that I did not get to say goodbye to the Song's twelve-year-old son, an amazing kid that I nicknamed Dragon because he was born in the auspicious Chinese Year of the Dragon—the most powerful Chinese astrological sign—a fact that his parents were very proud of. That, and also with this nickname, his full name became Dragon Song, which, come on…that's just too lovely to pass up. At least that's what it would be if you said it in the Western way; in China, you generally don't use someone's given name, only their last name.
I caught the nicknaming bug from Grandfather Henry. It is a great sign of respect and affection from him to give someone a nickname. And actually, now that I think about it further, it's also a sign of great annoyance—he's given nicknames to people he wasn't fond of at all, but those were of the not-so-nice variety.
There is a man I've never met who worked in the State Department with Granddad for years whom he has only referred to as Snotty Pinchface. His wife is Snooty Pinchface. It always used to make my late Grandmother laugh and say scandalized, "Henry! That is not kind. What kind of example are we giving to our granddaughter?" I remember she whispered to me one time that Mr. and Mrs. Pinchface were the perfect names for this co-worker of Henry's and his wife and that she was always afraid she was going to say it out loud to them when they were forced to spend time together. I've never even heard their real names.
It was with the deepest affection that I gave smart, funny, energetic, impatient, inquisitive and sometimes pain-in-the-arse, Dragon his nickname, though. Henry would love him if they ever were to meet. Dragon was gone to a friend's house an hour away and there was no way I could wait for him to get back home before heading to the Wuhan airport. Another wave of guilt washes over me in not saying goodbye to him before I left, especially because right now I don't know if I'll ever be back. I know he'll be hurt, or is already, but I have to put that aside for now. I'll email him later.
But the worst guilt that is eating me alive is that I didn't go see Henry in New York first, but flew directly to China to begin my spring and summer there. I've not seen Henry since he came to visit me in Palo Alto in February. He stayed with Emory and me in the townhouse for a week, attending a series of special events that are a great part of being at Stanford.
Three of those events were lectures put on by the African Studies department. He knew all of the speakers for those lectures including a daughter of a late Nobel Peace prize winner from Kenya. Henry and I joined this lecturer and some professors for a four-hour dinner after the lecture at the home of one of the department chairs who sponsored this lecture series. I watched with warmth and pride as Henry reminisced with the visiting Africans about old times, State Department policy, new visions of a changing continent, and friends they had in common.
That was Henry in his element, at his finest. He's been a guest lecturer at Stanford, too, including a whole summer series when I first started there.
Just like every other time he's visited me at school, we were invited to breakfasts, lunches, dinners and drinks the whole time Henry was in Palo Alto. I've been at Stanford for four years and without doubt he knows more people there than I do. But then again, I'm pretty sure he could be in the deepest reaches of the Amazon and find someone he knew, or someone to connect with at least.
I was not scheduled to see him again until the beginning of September, after the Chinese language summer program was over and before the fall quarter was to begin. It does nothing to alleviate the guilt that he urged me to go, almost insisted on it.
He paid for the flight to Beijing saying, "There's no point coming to New York first. You're already almost halfway to China if you fly from there. I'll see you in a few short months and I'll have a surprise waiting for you."
We argued about it just long enough for me to capitulate when he brought up that it would waste money. He knows where to push my buttons. I felt guilty enough already that he was paying for the part of school that wasn't covered by my scholarships—like expensive plane flights—as I just kept banking my paychecks from the various jobs I've always had while at Stanford. Several of which have been teaching foreign languages to internet zillionaire's kids. I've amassed a sizable savings account for a college student and, rather than proud, right now I just feel guilty about it.
Henry's only condition for China was that I got a new international smartphone that he could track from his computer and that we keep to our regular emails and scheduled Sunday catch-up phone calls. We just adjusted the time on Sunday to make up for the 13-hour time difference. We do it now for him on Saturday night when he gets home from whatever party, dinner, or speaking engagement he is out at that night. For me, it is late Sunday morning in Wuhan.
I'd only had to cancel one when I was traveling and staying in a yurt with three other students in what could barely be called a village at the edge of the Gobi desert. I knew before going there that I wouldn't have a cell signal and had emailed him in advance to cancel.
He'd only had to cancel one, too, and that was our one scheduled for last Sunday. He'd texted me to say he was super busy and could we reschedule for next week. I was waiting for his call this Sunday morning—yesterday—when Emory called instead to say that he'd had a stroke. Then, terror had set in.
It is only now I realize that I didn't get any details from Em, other than he was recovering—I don't even know what hospital he's in or when, precisely, he had the stroke. I was too much in shock. I don't think about it further, because the captain is announcing we're getting close to San Francisco and it's now time to stow your things and put your seat backs up, blah, blah, blah.
Yes! Finally! Only one more flight to go!
I quickly buckle up and sit still facing front. Well, for about five seconds I sit still before I notice my leg jiggling again. I stop it only to start rocking back and forth, this time with a new whispered mantra, "Come on, come on, come on, come on, comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon!" I keep this up until I feel the plane touch down and we taxi all the way to the gate.
If any of my shunu ladies were still sitting next to me, I'm sure they would've scratched my eyes out by now, but I can't stop. We're almost there!
When I hear that bell sound that means it's okay to stand up, I shoot out of my seat in a millisecond, even though I can't really stand up all the way, being under the bulkhead. Thank heavens this row is only two back from the exit door. I lean down to grab the messenger bag with my computer and basics in it from under the seat in front of me as my nice Mediterranean neighbor stands up quickly and moves just behind our row in the aisle, leaving room for me to scoot in front of him.
"Shukran jazilan," I mutter in thanks.
"Allah yoofithook," he says again, May God be with you, before adding something I can't translate. "Hoowa mocktoob."
I repeat it in my mind, trying to commit it to memory as I race down the gangplank. Hoowa mocktoob. I can ask Grandfather what it means, providing… Ugh! I can't even think about that.
After customs and immigration, rechecking my bag and getting to the gate for the last leg of my journey, I have nearly two hours to wait. I just missed being able to get on an earlier flight. I know it's time to turn on my phone—the first time since I left Wuhan—but I'm so frightened of what messages might await.
What if?...What if?...What if?
These what ifs can slay a person.
Please let him be okay! Please!
I decide to find the restroom first. When I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I see a total wreck of a human—a scared, exhausted one. I splash my face with water and grab a paper towel to dry it. My hazel/blue-green eyes are cloudy and bloodshot with dark circles underneath. My long light brown/dark blonde hair—Emory calls both my hair and eyes "mutable" because they change color either with the seasons or my environment—is pulled back in a ponytail, but it's a tangled mess, with wavy wisps falling out everywhere. I grab a hairbrush from my messenger bag and take a moment to brush out the worst of the snarls and redo the ponytail.
I am procrastinating because really, I could not possibly care any less what my hair looks like. A quick brush of my teeth with my travel tooth brush and I have nothing else to do in here.
I head over to an empty airline gate next to the one for my flight to New York—I want to stay close by.
What if? What if? What if?
My hands are shaking as I push the button to turn on my phone. I pace around my gate, holding it away from my body as if I can keep away any bad news that might await me. I feel the dreaded ping of messages waiting.
Steeling myself, I take a deep breath and decide to just send Em a text first. I'd emailed her my flight info when I got to the Wuhan airport, knowing she'll coordinate getting me to the hospital when I arrive. I was too scared to turn on my phone during the short Shanghai layover. What if? What if? What if?
I type, SFO.
An immediate ping from my phone tells me she's replied. Don't worry. Aunt Bea and I are with Henry right now before I go to work. He's awake and doing fine. See you at LaGuardia soon. Breathe!
I hold the threatening tears at bay by the skin of my teeth, exhaling loudly. I think I've been holding my breath since turning on my phone. I sink into a seat at the nearly empty gate, but the release does not last long, as a new worry arises. Aunt Bea is practically a shut-in in her apartment. If she's there at the hospital, it must be really bad. But Granddad's alive. He's alive! I grasp tightly to that thought with all my might, the very worst of my fears allayed for the moment.
Before I can reply to Em or look at all the other messages, a new text pings in my inbox. It's from Professor Gardner, my now-ex Japanese mentor. She's known Henry since before I was born.
It reads, Where are you? Get the hell out here!
Huh?
I type back to her, ?
There is an immediate reply. Didn't you get my voicemail? We're waiting for you in the terminal just outside your New York gate.
Gah!
I look at the screen that lists the voicemails, then hit the button to go directly to the first one from Professor Gardner. It was left yesterday…"Elle, I'm sorry to hear that Henry is ill and I know you're flying in from China to be with him. I got your flight schedule and will meet you at the San Francisco airport at the exit closest to your gate to New York when you land. Come out to meet us as we can't come in to you because of security, obviously. We have some stuff to give you. See you tomorrow morning!"
What!? She's here? At the airport? And with whom? Must be her husband, also a professor, but in African Studies.
I listen to her next message, probably left while I was in the restroom procrastinating. "We know your flight got in more than 30 minutes ago and we are waiting very impatiently," she emphasizes those words, "at the exit nearest your New York gate. And by the way, we checked and the line to go back through security is really short, so don't worry about that. Where are you?!"
I wonder if the line is still short since she called. I check my watch. I have just over an hour and forty-five minutes, but I'm still scared I'll miss my flight.
But, then again, I'd feel awful if I didn't go meet her, especially if she came all this way. I can't not go out there. I find the exit nearest my gate and feel more than a little trepidation when I pass the sign reminding me I am leaving the secured area and will have to go back through security to reenter. I glance around and spot them standing by a row of chairs on the opposite wall, my mouth dropping open in shock. It's Professor Gardner … with Professor Zhang-Lei.
What the…
What are they doing here? And together? I guess they would know each other as they're both in the East Asian Languages Department, but I didn't know they were friends. I've just never thought about it before. They're near the same age, I think…maybe Professor Zhang-Lei is older. I'm just flummoxed. I can't get my mind around them being here.
Being here…for me.
I've stayed friendly with Professor Gardner since finishing my Japanese studies, going to her house for dinner occasionally, babysitting her kids when they go out of town, but I've not had any semblance of a relationship with Professor Zhang-Lei, outside of the academic one.
This whole moment has taken on a dream-like quality as I slowly make my way over to the smiling Professor Gardner and the frowning Professor Zhang-Lei. I stop in front of them as Professor Gardner says kindly, "Hello, Ellawyn."
I start to bow to Professor Gardner out of habit, saying, "Gardner-son," but before I can bend more than a few inches, she catches me in a motherly hug and says, "Oh, stop that! I am Kagami today!"
The only thing that keeps me from completely dissolving into a heap on the floor is that I can see Professor Zhang-Lei's face over Gardner-son's shoulder. She's clutching her purse and scowling at me under the huge white visor she's wearing on her head. I've never been so glad to see that look.
She mutters in Mandarin, "You look awful!"
I almost giggle.
Professor Gardner—there is no way I can call her by her first name, Kagami, not even in my mind—pulls away to sit down on the chair behind her, hauling a black embroidered cloth bag from one of the chairs onto her lap. "Listen, I know you don't have very long and Jun-yi needs to get to a lecture on farming in ancient China, but we brought you some things. Have a seat."
Jun-yi?
I sit down next to her as Professor Zhang-Lei sits on the other side of her.
Professor Gardner rifles around in the bag, first lifting out a book and a few packages of Japanese candy, showing them to me. "Gift for Henry when he feels better. He always loved this musk melon candy." The book is of bawdy Japanese haiku, right up Henry's alley. The subtitle actually reads, "Bawdy Japanese Haiku."
She taps two envelopes wedged in the book, sticking out of the top, "That's a get well card from Allen and me. And a note for Emory, from Jerry," she smirks. "God knows, it's probably a letter professing his undying love. That kid!" She puts it all back in the bag, shaking her head. "He also sends his regards to Henry, of course."
Jerry is the Gardner's sixteen-year-old son who met Emory the few times I've brought her over to the Gardner's house with me. He follows her around like a puppy, enthralled with her Southern charms and beauty. Emory just takes it in stride as she's used to men of all ages—and heaven knows, women, too—having massive crushes on her, admiring her, wanting to be like her or with her. Or sometimes both at once. It is truly a wonder to behold. Even the Gardner's teenage daughter pesters her with questions about her hair, her nails, her clothes, her shoes. In Em's world, this is the natural order of things. I have to admit that even I'm in awe of her femininity, specifically, and her effect on people in general.
I realize I only know vaguely that Professor Gardner and my grandfather met in D.C.
I look at her quizzically. "Gardner-son, how did you first meet Henry?"
She stops rifling through the bag and looks up at me with an almost wondrous expression on her face. "It was at American University and he was doing a guest lecture there. Afterwards I somehow found the courage to talk to him. I'd only just come from college in Okinawa and it was my first year in the U.S. and my English wasn't very good." She only has a bit of an accent now. "Plus, I was so shy." Her? Shy? I can't even picture it.
"He said he hadn't been to Okinawa yet and asked me about my life there like it was the most fascinating thing on the planet."
"Yeah, that sounds exactly like him, he loves people's stories," I say as pain lances through me, reminding me of the time. I check my watch—still an hour and forty minutes until my flight.
"Believe me when I say that there was absolutely nothing fascinating about the fishing village I grew up in," she chuckles. "But he said he wanted to hear more and invited me to go with some professors and other students to dinner afterwards. When we got to the restaurant, Henry asked me to sit on one side of him, and asked this cute grad student just transferred from Duke to sit on the other side of him."
I gape as I make the connection, exclaiming, "He introduced you to Dr. Gardner?" I guess I knew that vaguely, too.
"Yes. He introduced me to my husband. And we went on to get our doctorates together and we kept in touch with Henry." She smiles sweetly. "So when he called years later to talk about your early acceptance to Stanford, Allen and I were thrilled to help."
She hands the bag over to Professor Zhang-Lei, who is still scowling quietly next to her. "Now Jun-yi has some other things to give you."
Professor Zhang-Lei pulls out an envelope and hands it over to me, an inscrutable expression on her face. "This is your official acceptance to the summer Chinese program."
Oh. My face falls. I take a deep breath. I don't take the envelope.
"Thank you Professor Zhang-Lei," I say carefully. "I know you went to a lot of trouble to get me accepted so early in my Chinese studies." I hesitate, thinking of the extra assignments and reading she suggested and I'm sure she ran interference with the summer program chair who wouldn't normally accept such a new Chinese language student. I let my breath out slowly. "But everything has changed. I know I won't be able to do it now." I know this definitively only right now. I hadn't allowed myself to think about it on the plane, but I add, "I cannot leave my grandfather."
I watch her face with apprehension, hoping she won't be too upset with me. She put a lot of work into getting me accepted. I brace myself for her reply, expecting a Mandarin diatribe, but she only pulls out another envelope and hands it to me, nodding. "I thought you might say that, so I took the liberty of drafting a letter in your name officially declining your place in the summer program. If this is acceptable to you, please sign it and I'll see it gets to the summer program chair."
I pull out the letter and unfold it; it is short and to the point, naming only a vague family emergency as the reason and expressing my apologies. I look up to see her holding out a pen towards me and I take it and sign the letter, folding it back into the envelope.
As I hand the letter and pen back to her, I know I should say something, but I'm so struck by the thoughtfulness of this, I cannot find any words, in any language. Instead, I gaze at her inscrutable face, trying to figure her out. I can't—I got nothing—and instead look down at the floor. Professor Gardner breaks this moment by pulling the bag back into her lap.
"So…this last thing…" she trails off, pulling what looks like a scroll tied with a ribbon out of the bag. "I tell you what, let's walk you to security first so you can get back to your gate. I'll give it to you there, okay?" She stands up as does Professor Zhang-Lei. I look at my watch—plenty of time still— take another deep breath and follow them down the wide airport terminal.
"You can keep this bag, too, it is a gift." Professor Gardner is holding it up and looking back at me, waiting for me to catch up.
I actually really look at it for the first time, black cloth with intricate embroidery and beading. I see the embroidery depicts all the animals of the Sheng Xiao—Chinese zodiac. The largest is a monkey in the center; the other eleven animals are all in a circle around it. I was born in the Year of the Monkey. It is beautiful and I say so.
"We didn't know if you'd have enough room in your own bag to carry these things, so…" She pauses, looking over at Professor Zhang-Lei. "But if you want to get on your flight, you might not want to tell security that someone gave it to you to carry on the plane. Especially since it's from a pair of foreigners!" She says in a mock scandalized voice.
For some reason, this reminds me of the question that's been rattling in the back of my rattled mind since I first listened to her voicemail. We stop a few yards away from the security line. It's not long at all.
"How did you know my flight info? What possessed you to drive all the way up here? You had to have gotten up at the crack of dawn to get here in time."
The unspoken question is why. Why come all the way to the airport? For me?
"Actually, it was Jun-yi's idea."
Huh?
My head whips around toward Professor Zhang-Lei, who just stares back at me impassively. I am incredulous; I wasn't even sure she liked me.
"When she got your email about having to leave your job in China, she looked up my school contact information and called, asking if I knew more." I had emailed her from Wuhan since she was the one who set up the job with the Songs. "I hadn't heard about Henry yet," she says with only the slightest hint of admonishment.
I choose to ignore that last bit, but the guilt washes over me anyway. "You two didn't know each other?"
"Nope! The East Asian languages department is huge, as you know; we knew who each other was, of course. But Jun-yi's coming over next week for one of Allen's Southern dinners." She hooks her arm through Professor Zhang-Lei's before continuing. "If she can handle ham hocks, collard greens and cornbread, we'll have her over again."
I don't say it, but I know too well there are a lot of worse things to eat in China. I look over at Professor Zhang-Lei again and am surprised to see what I think is a small smile on her face. Weird.
"See! Just like your grandfather, you're helping make connections!" Professor Gardner says brightly.
"Those connections are Henry's favorite thing," I say quietly, pain running through me anew. I glance at my watch. I've only been out here for only a handful of minutes. There's plenty of time, but I want to get back in.
"So this last thing…" Professor Gardner holds out the scroll tied with a red ribbon and I take it. "I pulled some strings to get this for you and there's still a request you have to file to make it…you know…official. The request you have to sign is in the bag, too.
She nods excitedly to indicate I should open it, so I untie the ribbon as she continues. "I would've had it framed, but, you know, the airplane and all. I figured this was easier." I unfurl the paper to see that it is a diploma from the School of Humanities and Sciences.
I have graduated.
I am speechless, I have no words but one, but I don't say it aloud. It reverberates around my head in a mental scream.
Noooooo!
Panic overtakes me and all of a sudden I feel so cold. The diploma curls back up, and practically jumps out of my hand, landing near Professor Zhang-Lei's feet. She stoops to pick it up, looking at me.
"You have more than enough credits to graduate in Japanese studies," Gardner-son chirps brightly, misreading my expression. "And really, a couple of possibilities of minors with only an additional credit or two, but I didn't worry about those for now in order to get this to you today."
I've held it together through multiple times zones and now, multiple days, but I can't any longer. I start to shake. I feel kicked out of the nest that is my school. Exposed. I do not want to be a graduate. I am not ready to leave. I know I could've graduated several quarters ago, but…but...
No!
"And if you want to participate in the ceremony in June, or whenever, you just have to turn this in and another one will be reprinted and handed out then. But at least you have it in case…in case you can't…in case you don't…" she falters now, seeing my expression.
In case you don't come back.
Those are the words I can't even imagine now; the words I've pushed to the side since I got that call.
"Hey! It's okay! You've earned this. I've rarely seen a harder worker and Jun-yi agrees," she says kindly, hugging me, then draping the black bag over my shoulder.
She doesn't understand. I'm not sure I do either.
"You should probably get back to your gate." She stands aside. "Give Henry our best!"
Professor Zhang-Lei is watching all this with an inscrutable expression; her visor almost forming a halo around her head. She steps forward, standing directly in front of me, in my space, blocking out all else. She reaches out, wrapping me in a bony and stiff hug of someone clearly not used to hugging.
Hugging is just not very Chinese.
"The diploma does not mean anything. Go take care of your grandfather and come back whenever you can," she whispers in my ear in Mandarin. "I've found a replacement for your job with the Songs already." I cannot imagine how she did that so quickly. "Just email them as soon as you can before their son drives all of us crazy asking about you. I also put a textbook in your bag on Chinese writing because your traditional writing stinks, although your simplified writing is only mildly awful. Study it. Practice. We can talk about online classes, too, so you don't fall behind. I know I will see you again."
I whisper back, "Xie, xie nin." Thank you. Hugging her tighter.
She pulls out of my hug and tucks the diploma back in my new bag. Then loudly, in heavily-accented English, "You are too skinny," she says, in a voice that makes me think of overwrought Chinese theater. "Like a little boy!"
That's it. I can't help it. A small giggle escapes out of my mouth, more like a snort, as my panic dissipates. Because I know that what she really said, creatively translated, means I understand.
I fix her with a pointed smile, continuing this theater by giving her my best, most annoyingly insouciant teenage shrug, but have only gratitude in my eyes, in my being. She gives me her patented stern Chinese look, but behind that I see a prim suppressed smile. In this moment, I love her so much.
"Get to your plane." She shoos me toward security. "Go! We've got places to be and can't stand around here all day."
I walk the last few feet to the line—somehow, there are only a few people ahead of me—looking back once. Professor Gardner has concern etched on her face while Professor Zhang-Lei is back to being inscrutable. Gardner-son again hooks one arm in Professor Zhang-Lei's as she waves with the other. I notice the red ribbon that had tied the diploma in its neat little roll has fallen to the floor next to where they're standing. I don't look back again.
