The East Red Reservoir

2014

It was a wash. Shi-An let out a scoff. They went bankrupt last year, he said from beside her. Thousands of jobs evaporated overnight.

As their train chugged past the river, Liu was reminded of the frothing Coke from her college student union soda machine. She would down liter after liter during her all-nighters. The black river water called to mind images of dying whales, burning plains, smoke spewed out into the atmosphere—an upsetting PBS docu-series of which she wanted no part.

My friend used to work in these mines, Shi-An continued. He’s at KFC now, last I heard.

To Liu, Shi-An was not unattractive, though his nearsightedness necessitated glasses so thick that he looked odd; there was no kind way to put it.

How much longer? Xinye asked.

The gentle shudder of their carriage over each dent in the tracks had welded her eyes shut; Liu watched as the older woman studied the green lamp shades which dotted the compartment walls, painting the whole cabin a soft olive hue.

What a disgusting smell, Xinye muttered, her nose wrinkling.

Run off from the plant, offered Shi-An.

They were slated to arrive at Hailun Central Station just before eight—plenty of time to have dinner before retiring for the night. Liu angsted over not yet having booked their accommodation. Just last week, she had accepted an invitation over instant message relayed by a distant relative. The occasion was a funeral in her homeland, a place she had not visited since her own grandfather’s death three years ago.

Initially, she suspected the message to be one of those scams, but the name of the deceased she recognized, one she hadn’t thought of in years—an old friend of her father’s who would visit when she was young. Mao Ning-An, or as she had called him, Uncle Mao. A debt long past due. She purchased her ticket that evening and drove to the airport the following morning. For the past month, she’d been homebound after driving her car into a streetlamp. She blamed the lithium she’d been prescribed, and though unscathed, afterwards she found she was unable to step out of her apartment without experiencing the overwhelming sensation of falling.

You’re grieving, her therapist, Mrs. Kegan, as she liked to be called, had claimed over the suffocating smoke of the incense she insisted on lighting. For her grandparents, her father, her lost childhood.

Oh, but I had a great childhood, Liu prickled. She was lucky. Her father had hung himself, and her mother had abandoned her shortly after, but she had scarcely known them. Why mourn strangers? Afterwards, while with her grandparents, the world had taken on a certain clarity: peace born from necessity.

Wake me when we’re there. Xinye closed her eyes again, fanning herself gently with a magazine. She bemoaned the summer heat: it made her itch.

I don’t want to scratch my back like those baboons at the city zoo, she had said.

Mao Ning-An, her husband, had keeled over last Thursday from a heart attack. Xinye told Liu that he had been on his lunch break; thankfully, the equipment in his hands had been off. Their carpentry shop had hired over a dozen new contractors within the past year, all from rural parts, so many were there that Xinye struggled to keep track of their names.

She had handwritten invitations to each of her guests: family, friends, neighbors, employees, and finally Liu, whose name and address she was surprised to find on the page Ning-An had left in their safety deposit box. The girl who arrived Tuesday evening, soaked from the rain, in no way resembled the small, doll-like pet strapped into the backseat of Dezeng’s car when he had first come to visit her husband all those years ago. According to Xinye, Shi-An had been only six then.

Do you remember me? He had asked Liu.

No, I didn’t think we had ever met.

I think I saw you, through my window, when your father visited.

Xinye explained that the two men had been sent down together as boys during the Cultural Revolution.

You scared me when you arrived, she’d told Liu. Your hair, and your arms, green highlights and dark tattoos. But you are very well behaved, she admitted. Liu had towed to the wake boxes of packaged fruits, pastries, cakes, flowers dyed unnaturally blue, and bundles of fake paper money. Xinye had been overly distraught, she would be the first to admit, and so it was her son who had taken the American girl out for dinner after the guests had all left.

Over cold noodles, Mao Shi-An explained his father’s request to be scattered at the East Red Reservoir in the countryside up north. Shi-An had already bought himself a train ticket; his mother needed to man the storefront.

Liu had picked at her bowl, unable to stomach anything after the long flight. The attendant repeatedly offered her stale biscoff cookies, which made her sick, but she was too anxious to refuse, the crumpled plastic wrappers piling up in her seatback pocket.

What if I came with? Liu had proposed.

Xinye, upon getting wind of their plan, promptly called the trainline to purchase her seat.

I cannot let you two young folk journey unaccompanied into the countryside. You’re both unmarried. It’s improper.

Her son bloomed red, and Liu laughed politely, unsure if her grasp of Mandarin had deteriorated so significantly. Xinye had phoned her husband’s favorite employee and told him he was in charge for the week.

I would kill for a beer, Shi-An wailed. Their compartment was warm, the AC either broken or nonexistent.

What do you drink? Liu asked.

Domestic. It’s cheaper, but I love American. My favorite is Pabst Blue Ribbon. He mimed opening a can and throwing back. You’re a swimmer, right?

Liu shrank. I used to be.

I remember watching you on TV, so fast!

Thank you. She tried to follow-up. Distracted, she pointed out the window. Above the rice paddies, the sun appeared as a red orb sagging into the muddy horizon.

Do you ever think of being alone? She asked. Her fingers drummed against the glass. Xinye, by now, was fast asleep.

All the time, Shi-An smiled.

But I live at home, so Dad—Mom is always there.

Do you want to move out?

When I get a job.

Liu pressed her lips into a thin line. She had already asked too much.

I got laid off last year. It’s not embarrassing, I promise. The edges of his mouth contorted upwards.

What about you, do you have roommates? No? A boyfriend?

Liu smiled. Not for me. Her fingers wrapped tight around each other.

We’re getting too old now. Shi-an’s eyebrows arched. Too old to be single.

We’ll survive, she insisted.

They were silent, observing as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon.

You haven’t seen my father in years, right? Shi-An asked. Liu nodded.

So, why come all this way?

He kept his eyes fixed intently on her face. She never met Shi-An properly when they were kids, but she had asked to, repeatedly. Ning-An had told Liu about him, a boy who dreamed of becoming a construction worker. She had found it endlessly amusing, the idea of a little Ning-An building houses from toy wooden bricks.

I needed a vacation, she said. Her hand angled toward her right thigh, which she gingerly massaged. Liu thought better of telling him that she had not been to work for weeks. Or about the ignored emails from her boss. Or the collection of bills that had accumulated at her doorstep. She shuttered the window shade with a snap, the turn of her head decisive.

1976

That April, the sky opened and wouldn’t shut. As Hailun flooded, I thought of my father and a song he learned from my grandpa, who had been forced to move North when the Yangtze overflowed. The melody was slow, winding, and in a dialect I was unaccustomed to, but I remember the chorus:

The river takes all and leaves nothing behind

Nothing, nothing, nothing but the wreckage of the departed

I liked Mary immensely, though I pitied her. She was the first person who spoke to me since leaving Beijing; she boarded from Grand Station with a single bag and knocked loudly on our compartment door as if she were our guest. At home, she left behind three younger sisters with her wheelchair bound father. Though prone to bouts of tears, she reminded me of my favorite aunt thanks to her thin face and acerbic humor. With Mary came Lenin, or rather, that is the ridiculous title he gave himself, for only Mary knew his actual name. They had been sent down from Harbin, which they said was a relief, for the city could best be described as odoriferous, and had become only more odiferous with time. In fact, according to the pair, recently it seemed like the odor was the only remarkable thing about Harbin.

I had begun reading to distract myself while cooped up at home. School had been cancelled. I wasn’t allowed to go outside. My parents had stopped speaking, and I wasn’t sure if I was meant to do anything about it. Things were bad at the University. Many of their colleagues had been beaten, pulled out into the streets naked and bleeding, before being strung up on poles. Ma had purchased sniffing bottles from a bearded gentleman she had insisted was an old family friend, some offshoot of traditional healer. The bottles put her to sleep for hours each day. At night, she walked around the house barefoot, gazing mutely at the newly emptied walls in a stupor.

Of course, we were among the fortunate. One of my friends’ parents had simply vanished overnight. When he too disappeared, a week later, I’d assumed he’d gone south to stay with family. Their apartment sat empty, downstairs across the hall from ours, their pantry still full. I remember the scent of decomposing pork and eggs that had wafted through the foyer.

When the officers finally knocked on our door, I was prepared. I had known that if it weren’t my parents, it would soon be me. My father wept as I prepared my bag, my assigned officer waiting at our door. Ma was nowhere to be found.

The train stopped four times as we traveled north. I dozed off as hundreds of boys and girls boarded, my commanding officer keeping a watchful eye on his flock. When the time came, and we were led off the train, I followed Mary and Lenin. We were brought to a large grain storage facility where we received our assignment: the rice harvest. Two other boys were assigned to our field. The first, Peniel, caught a cold after staying out in the rain, his condition worsening precipitously until he was taken away within the week. The second, a tall boy named Ning-An, had come from the outskirts of Harbin. He spoke with a twang that I teased him endlessly for, though he took this in stride. We would meet for long walks after sunset, as Mary and Lenin were often tired. I found myself enjoying my respite from the city. Amazingly, I was the only member of our party whom the mosquitoes shunned. I hypothesized that it was because I was from Beijing, but Ning-An asserted that, in reality, I was too stuck up for the mosquitoes, and they could taste the bourgeois in my blood. He is a bit of a prick, but I like him very much.

2014

The forecast was clear, so the trio decided to venture into the forest. Shi-An first led them into the fields where his father had been put to work, then down the path laid out in Ning-an’s journal. While they spoke to the farmers, they were lapped by a gaggle of college-aged kids who seemed befuddled by their own map. The trail had become a hiking hotspot, though the route stopped at the base of the foothills, a river piercing the highlands, carving out a path that Shi-An claimed would bring them up to the reservoir.

As the sky grew dark, Xinye asked to turn back, the clouds blocking the summer warmth.

It’s going to rain. We shouldn’t be here.

They were halfway to the river by then. Shi-An joked that his mother was too old to make the journey with them. Her pleas went ignored, and they hiked until sunset, when they finally reached the river. After a pot of instant noodles, which only seemed to amplify their hunger, they set up camp for the night. Shi-An extinguished his light. See, no rain, he muttered. Liu closed her eyes. After the trio had overtaken them, the college kids trailed close behind. Now their voices echoed down the stream, the clamor of a party.

After much tossing and turning, Liu asked if she could tell a story. Neither mother nor son objected, and so she began.

When I was a child, my father told me a story about a lake from his dreams. Round, blue…

She paused, trying to recount Dezeng’s words.

Round, blue, clear. When he dove to the bottom, he found a large painted turtle who could speak our language. The turtle wove a tale of a beautiful woman on the other side of the shore. She was from a poor family, and as the youngest daughter, the water was always cold when it was her turn to bathe. Instead, she came to the lake each morning to clean herself.

Over time, the water turned her hair a brilliant silver. Every morning, a young man from the village down the hill came up to fish on the shore. He tried, in vain, to walk around the lake. For weeks now, he had been trying to speak to this beautiful girl, but each time, he found himself back where he started. The woman was unreachable. When he shouted across the water at her, she told him that he needed to swim across the lake to demonstrate his devotion. Only then could he see her up close. The fisherman dove into the water and swam blindly across until he reached the opposite shore. When he pulled himself out, he saw that the woman had transformed into a silver-winged egret. Before she flew away, they shared a parting glance.

For many years after the man returned to the lake, but never again did he see the woman. His parents brought him a girl from his town, and they wed and had many children. He grew old and grey, and eventually his memory of her faded into the recesses of his mind. Each summer, however, he returned to the lake to fish.

After many decades, when his children were grown, he was on the lake when he glanced up from his reel and saw an egret flying overhead, its silver wings glinting in the moonlight. The egret landed on the other shore, and the fisherman understood then what he needed to do. He cast aside his fishing rod and leaped headfirst into the water. When he splashed out on the other side, he saw that his arms had become light, feathered wings, his feet strong, sharp talons, his neck stretching long and thin until it was that of a bird. And the two egrets flew away from the lake, never to return.

When Liu finished, Xinye and Shi-An were silent. She raised herself from her sleeping bag and slowly pulled open the tent zipper, careful to make as little noise as possible. Outside, she shimmied out of her pants and from her jacket pocket, produced a bandage roll. Her tailbone sank into the damp earth as she sat and stripped her leg of the dirty gauze, tracing with her middle finger the scars which ran across her upper thigh before rewrapping them with fresh tape. She watched the river, half asleep.

Soon, her exhaustion sublimated into restlessness. She walked, following the river until she came upon a circle of tents, the murmur of the water rushing by masking her footsteps as she approached. A flap lay open, the tent faintly lit from within. She could hear the faint sound of snoring. In front, she saw a set of footprints which led to the waterfront and, not thinking, she followed. By the shore, a boy and girl lay with each other, their clothes beside them. Panicked, Liu fell into a crouch, not wanting to be spotted. The sounds of their voices bled into each other, variations of pleasure and pain. As Liu watched the boy heave and ho atop the girl, his face sweaty, his expression knit in such intense concentration, Liu wondered if he was ill.

Once, when she was fourteen, the summer had been unusually rainy. She had been sitting by the pool, waiting for her grandparents to pick her up. A girl emerged from the locker room, Daiyu. She was from the year above, her hair still wet, her bag in her hands.

What are you doing? Daiyu asked. Liu had just transferred to the training center, a government-run gym built to churn out world champions.

I’m waiting for my grandpa.

Oh. She moved towards Liu, who sat straighter. Daiyu had thin lips and short hair she wore in two small buns. Everyone on the team called her Ne-Zha as a joke, a title she accepted reluctantly. Liu always felt bad.

Where’s your mother? She asked.

She’s waiting outside, probably smoking or something. She doesn’t notice when I’m missing.

Liu nodded, unsure of what to say. There had been a momentary lull in the deluge, but now the clouds above looked ready to burst.

You were fast today, Liu said.

Daiyu laughed. You’re two lanes ahead of me, and you’re not even in high school. Coach says you have actual talent. That you have an actual chance.

Do you think it’ll rain? Liu asked, trying to change the subject.

No. Daiyu’s face straightened. But we’re already wet, does it matter?

She took a seat next to Liu on the bench.

I’m sorry if this is bad to ask, but is it true that you’re an orphan? Liu winced.

Not exactly. My dad is dead, and my mom left me, so I live with my grandparents.

Daiyu appeared genuinely sorry then, and Liu tried her best to reassure the girl.

It’s not awful, my grandparents are good to me. They let me stay out at night and go to parties.

Do you party?

Liu smiled. No, I don’t.

Daiyu studied her, and with a clap of thunder, the sky broke, water pouring down through the open roof.

Still, Daiyu inched closer. What about a boyfriend? She asked. Liu shook her head.

Is it lonely without your parents? Liu rose, and feeling bold, took Daiyu’s hand, pulling her up.

When I’m alone, I go for a swim. Late at night, you can crawl over the fence at the pool near my grandparents’ apartment and sneak in. No one’s watching. I do that when I feel alone. They crossed the pool deck, observing the rain strike the water.

There was a game my dad and I used to play, Liu volunteered. She pulled off her jacket and stripped down to her underwear.

We would dive in to see who could make the biggest splash.

When Daiyu laughed, Liu felt hot; if she could, she would make Daiyu laugh again and again.

I never won, but he did his best to make me believe I could.

They both leapt into the pool, their clothing a big heap on the deck. As Liu sank, she wished that she could live there, sleeping on the steps of the pool, going to school during the day. Each droplet became a circle above, drawn and redrawn, expanding in perpetuity. When they surfaced, Daiyu pulled her in.

You’re very quiet.

Liu nodded.

She grasped onto Liu, holding her face for a kiss.

On the rivershore, the girl appeared to be undergoing some sort of transcendent upheaval, so immense was her ecstasy, so loud were her cries. Liu groped about in the darkness, fondling her breasts, which had firmed in the nightly chill. As she sensed the wet between her legs, she shuddered before pulling herself up into a crawl. She ran the rest of the way back to their tent and promptly closed the zippered flap behind her before lying down and shutting her eyes for good, as if doing so would erase what had transpired.

1976

After four months, I received a letter from my mother. Ba was in the hospital; his nose had been fractured during a struggle session. I wanted to return, but sneaking onto the train without papers was suicide. I couldn’t retrieve my ID from the army barracks; it would be easier to break into East Berlin. Besides, I had no money. Running away seemed pointless; I knew I could not conquer the wilderness. I was still a city boy.

I took to calling Ning-An Isaiah, and he called me Hezekiah. Though poorly read, he took to the stories I fed him. I enjoyed having a student because he surprised me. When we discussed Kant, he asked what duty was without emotion? Only now do I realize that I had fallen in love with my own reflection. In my luggage, I smuggled a copy of the Bible. We took turns reading to each other by moonlight. Isaiah kept a meticulous journal, which I liked to read when he wasn’t looking. In it, he picked out names for our friends, the livestock, even the farmers. He named Meng Meng Mary because of her motherly demeanor. The boar became Deborah for the smug look of judgment on her face. The farmers mostly kept to themselves. Ning-An questioned where their solidarity was for the working class, and I laughed before remembering that my parents were employed by China’s oldest University. Education was a form of wealth in and of itself, and I realized then how very impoverished Ning-An had been.

We had the week off to mourn the passing of the Chairman, so Ning-An persuaded me to go with him into the forest, up the foothills. There was a lake that he had heard mention of by the village kids one night—a reservoir built by the Kuomintang before the war.

I can’t swim, I told him.

I’ll teach you, he pressed. Isaiah wanted to explore, and I needed to accompany him because, as he said, I was his Hezekiah. The journey took us a day and a half, and we followed the river until it was dark, when we slept laid out on the rocks, the September heat frying us up like crispy ground pork. When we finally arrived, pushing up from the hilltop past the trees, we found a pearl of water, vast as the eye could see, perfectly round. Ning-An came up to the lake, and when I neared the shore, he promptly pushed me in before leaping in after me.

That night, we read the story of John:

Do not love the world or the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him.

He scoffed. How could you not love the things in the world?

Because God is greater than all the world combined.

How many things have we yet to do? Places to see? People to meet? He stared up at the cloudless sky. I watched his brow furrow.

I would like to live in the United States.

What?

I can’t stay here.

What the hell does that mean?

A more reasonable answer: the communist party does not love god.

He laughed. You and god. You talk about him like he’s your woman.

Do you have a girlfriend? I asked.

Yes.

You never mention her.

Her name is Xinye. Our parents are childhood friends.

Is that it?

He shrugged. We sat, watching the reservoir.

You’re going to school, aren’t you? He began, pushing aside the worn bible.

What do you mean?

When they restart the Gaokao, you’ll be the first one to take it, I can tell. They’ll send you off to Tsinghua, and you’ll be some kind of famous scientist or writer.

It’s not that simple. Professors are being hanged every day.

Good riddance. I was never one for school. He tossed a pebble into the water and observed the ripples spreading across the surface.

I don’t think that’s true, I mumbled.

Do you think we’ll ever leave? He asked.

Hailun?

He nodded.

Of course.

How can you be so certain?

Because god would not let us stay here forever.

This could be hell?

I don’t think so.

I tapped his taut shoulder; he was leaning over on the floor of our tent, so close that I could almost taste the tobacco on his breath. I had badgered him to stop. He argued that it was one of the few things that made life worth living. Resentment boiled in me for the way he carried himself, as if nothing could ever hurt him. And when he focused on me, I saw myself reflected in his eyes. I can recall, distinctly, the slant of lantern light across his face, his nose, his lips, his eyes. When he moved forward, there was nothing I could do but savor the taste of nicotine on his tongue, for it became mine, on the beach of the reservoir, where he made me believe, for just a few moments, that my life was not a total loss.

2014

When Shi-an exited the tent, he found Liu and his mother boiling eggs and rice porridge. He flipped through Ning-An’s journal, pulling with his teeth on a bag of pickled mustard greens until Xinye plucked the pack from him and tore it open with her hands. Liu nodded along as Shi-An announced their course for the day, and after packing, they set out. She read aloud from the guide she had purchased at the train station, Xinye listening quietly, glancing occasionally at her son, who had taken to lagging behind. He shouted directions every few minutes, working through the journal still, looking at just the last second to avoid tripping over a log or running into a branch.

They summited just as the crickets began to sing. Xinye heaved a sigh of relief, and Shi-An continued to the shore, dropping his bag and slipping off his shoes to wade into the water. Liu pulled her bag from her back and rubbed her hands across her temples, scanning the horizon.

What now? She asked.

Do we want to do this here, Ma? Shi-An shouted from the water.

Xinye stood motionless, gazing out at the reservoir.

Ma? He trudged out of the shallows and approached, moving to take her hand in his.

She raised her right arm, stopping him.

Shi-An tried again, but she repeated the motion. Liu watched Shi-An, his eyes wide like a child’s, this giant little boy. He stood beside his mother, awkwardly, unsure of what to do. When he tried again, Xinye did not move, crumpling as he took her in his arms to hold her as she cried. Liu looked away.

They decided to hold off on scattering Ning-An’s ashes until the following morning. Liu sat outside their tent, contemplating the rise and fall of the waves. Shi-An lay inside, sipping from a silver flask he had produced from his backpack, still reading. Xinye soon joined Liu.

How are you feeling, Auntie? Liu asked, taking Xinye’s left hand.

Xinye laughed. Better. My son is trying his best, so I have to try my best for him.

She motioned for Liu to move closer.

You know, I also grew up without a mother. She died when I was still a baby. Tuberculosis.

Liu studied the moon, which had swelled in the heat, threatening to envelop the sky.

I’m sorry, she said, turning towards Xinye.

Nothing to be sorry about, dear.

A lone turtle popped its head out of the water, ripples radiating from where it emerged.

If I can ask, how did your father die?

He hung himself.

I never knew.

Your husband never talked about him?

He was light on the details. She glanced away, seeming uneasy with the subject. Liu wondered if she had ever really known Dezeng, her father. He was really quite inconsiderate. He’d been arrested in California before she or her mother could ever visit. Corporate espionage, they had claimed. Liu thought even an idiot would have known it was a fabrication. But it had been an impossible fight. She suspected the shame had worked its way down his brain, through his spinal column, into his soul. His roommate discovered him, a week after he’d been dismissed, hanging by his tie from the ceiling fan. Liu had visited the now outdated apartment complex once, her first semester of college, years later. She had driven up along I-280 from her University and stood outside the structure, examining its limestone and brick exterior. Her father had lived on the second floor, her grandmother had said. The windows were covered with neat blue curtains, a small brown stuffed bear peeking out from the windowsill.

My father spoke of Ning-An a lot. She said quietly.

You weren’t too young?

Liu shook her head. I remember bits and pieces. Ba called Ning-An the hardest-working man he ever knew. Like an ox. When they were in the field together, he did the work of three men.

Xinye’s mouth strained to smile.

I know the story you told me. Ning-An told me the same one of the silver-haired woman, only I was the egret on the other side of the lake, and we’d fly away together, he and I, at the end.

It must be old, maybe Manchu.

Of course. I’d never heard of it before him.

The tent flap opened, and Shi-An stepped out onto the sand.

Come, join us, Liu called out.

Ignoring them, he walked down the beach past them wearing nothing but his underwear. His feet touched the water, trudging forward until his legs were fully submerged.

What are you doing? It’s late for a swim.

His head sank beneath the surface. The two women sat frozen. Then Liu snapped into motion, dashing forward, not caring to strip. The cold washed over her, her arms pumping furiously. Beneath the water, she reached out, grabbing Shi-An by the armpits, dragging him up with great pulls until they fell onto the shore.

Are you crazy? Xinye was beside them. Liu pressed her ear against his chest, locking her hands together to pump over his breastbone. Every few moments, she stopped to open his mouth and blow.

Oh my god, oh my god, Xinye repeated, pacing.

When her son sputtered, his eyes fluttering, Xinye let out a cry, grasping onto his torso and embracing him.

Finally, I got the American girl to kiss me. All I had to do was drown.

Xinye tried to slap him. He only coughed up more water.

What is wrong with you?

He started to laugh, his voice bouncing across the water as if the whole lake too was in on the joke.

1995

When I went to see Ning-An for the first time nearly two decades later, I brought with me Liu. Her mother was busy at church; I had stopped going all together, though Liu often accompanied Fulin on Sundays. She had been spending time away from home, usually visiting her parents uptown. We no longer slept in the same bed.

Ning-An had sent me a letter, postmarked from Harbin, and I had driven the four hours from Changchun. I saw his wife through their apartment window. She was short, but had a stern look about her. High cheekbones and a strong brow. We had the same taste in women.

Brother, Ning-An cried as he stepped out of the doorway where he had been waiting. I embraced him, and he laughed, grabbing me by the back of my head.

Hezekiah, it's been an eternity.

We drove to the nearby strip mall where Liu ordered from a noodle stall. I told him about university, my work, about Fulin, not mentioning how she had stormed off last week to stay with her parents. He told me of his wife, his son who was only a few years older than Liu. His sister in law had been injured at the factory, and her husband was jobless, a drunkard, so Ning-An had begun supporting their family with his earnings. The carpentry shop was still small; they had opened it with a loan from Xinye’s father. When he spoke of her, I saw in his eyes an affection I had forgotten could exist. Liu drew his attention. I always wanted a daughter, he repeated, ruffling her hair as she chewed. She didn’t like it when people touched her hair, but the food was enough to distract her, and I said nothing. Afterwards, I drove him home. He promised to call.

It was a few months before we spoke again, this time over the phone. I was drunk; I had just been offered a job at Bayer in Berkeley. Eventually, I could apply to bring my family. Ning-An congratulated me, genuinely happy, his warmth suffocating.

Come visit me, he insisted. We can go up to Hailun to visit the reservoir one last time before you leave.

I drove out the next weekend. Liu stayed with Fulin's parents. When I told my wife about the job, she gifted me one of her rare smiles and said this would be a fresh start for our family. When I arrived at Hailun, I realized that Ning-An hadn’t brought fishing poles. We hiked up the foothills, across the forest, until we came to our childhood hangout. The lake was just as I remembered: the water clear and still as a dream.

It may rain, he remarked, glancing up at the sky. I replied Does it matter?

We slept in the same tent that night, side by side. He asked if this was what I really wanted, and I said yes.

There’s a miracle here, Dezeng, he tried to explain. China is growing more and more developed every day. I sought to reason that it wasn’t that simple. That I had tried, and failed, to be happy too many nights; that I had fallen into the arms of other men time and time again, only to crawl from their beds in the morning with such shame that I felt as though there was no return. There is no future for us here, no future for my daughter, no future for me. But my words caught in my throat.

The following morning, we woke to the rain. We stayed put in the tent, eating cold fish from the can. Soon, Ning-An grew restless and moody, so I attempted to entertain him. I recounted a story he had told me when we were still young. There was a woman, silver-haired, who lived by a lake, I began. When I finished, he pulled out a bottle of rice wine from his sack. We must celebrate, he proclaimed. I seemed to have cheered him up some, though I assumed he was just happy that I had correctly remembered his story. We passed the bottle back and forth until it was empty, and the thunder outside had subsided to a distant whimper. I unzipped our tent and stepped out onto the mud to take stock. The shoreline had advanced to only a few meters from our tent, the ground now slick and goopy.

We should move, I remarked, only to be tackled from behind. Tumbling across the shore, Ning-An and I grappled until it was clear that I would lose.

No fair! I exclaimed.

Life’s not fair! He cried gleefully.

I wriggled, but he refused to let me go.

Stop it! I yelped, laughing when he began to tickle. I understood my age then, for when we had wrestled as kids, I had at least had a fighting chance. By now, gone was any litheness of my youth, and his size, having remained, proved insurmountable,

When his lips found mine, I conceded. The mud caked our pants, arms, and torsos, the earth hardening. I didn’t mind, for at least I’d have something to keep me from leaving. We lay there in the muck, sinking into the music of the cicadas surrounding us, waiting for a miracle.

2014

Shi-An had left camp, taking with him his sleeping bag. The clouds above looked pissed.

We should follow him, Xinye argued, but Liu maintained that they were better off staying put so he could come back. He had not left Ning-An’s journal, and neither knew the way back to Hailun.

Liu watched Xinye change into her swimsuit, her skin leathery. She could see where the white had begun to sprout from the crown of Xinye’s head. She waded into the water, where she lay on the surface of the lake, gazing up at the sky.

Join me! Xinye shouted, but Liu shook her head.

I thought you were a famous swimmer?

Liu sat on the shore of the reservoir and waved at Xinye.

I’m injured. She shouted back.

Suit yourself.

Afterwards, they walked along the shore, calling out Shi-An’s name. Soon, the clouds overhead and overwhelmed, erupted. They made a dash for the forest, where, from under the canopy, they watched the lake dance in its exchange with the heavens.

He can’t have gotten that far, Liu said to Xinye.

He can’t swim, Xinye murmured, and it dawned on Liu that there was the very real chance that the lake would soon engulf the trees. As they hid in the tent, waiting for the downpour to stop, Xinye told Liu stories from Shi-An’s childhood.

He was a loud child, chubby. Always wanted ice cream. He wouldn’t stop crying.

Aren’t all children like that?

No, some children. But not all. You are well-behaved.

Maybe I was a loud baby.

Did your parents not tell you?

They didn’t talk much.

She picked at the ground with a stick, the sand peeking through the tarp they had pinned halfheartedly into the ground.

Liu volunteered a memory to pass the time. After her father’s funeral, Ning-An accompanied her and her grandparents home. They were busy managing guests, and it was implied she would miss swim practice. She trained at the neighborhood club, which at the time was well known thanks to its coach, a former national champion.

Seated in their living room on their hand-me-down sofa, Ning-An had insisted she needed to go about things, not as if nothing had happened, but as if things would continue to happen after. He drove her to the pool, and watched from the benches with the other parents for the one and a half hour session. When they all left to shower, Ning-An pulled the coach aside.

Liu understood that her membership would soon be unaffordable—her father had left behind nothing but the bill for his funeral, his body flown across the Pacific at an extravagant cost. But at the time, money was the paper she traded for milk popsicles from Old Lady Gao. The lessons would continue even after she moved to the national pool, all the way until she was recruited. Her grandparents had never mentioned the arrangement to her. Ning-An had spoken to them, she knew, separately at night when she was supposed to be in bed. The sum must have lain in the ballpark of hundreds of thousands of yuan.

My husband paid for your swim lessons? Xinye asked.

Did you not know?

No, I don’t know where he could have gotten the money.

They were silent when Shi-An opened the tent zipper.

Where on earth have you been? Xinye stood, nearly hitting her head against the slanted ceiling.

I needed to walk.

Walk where!? We were worried about you!

He dropped his things onto the ground, the clank of the empty flask ringing against the ground.

Are you drunk? Xinye asked. He passed her the journal.

Have you read this? He asked.

She opened it, her eyes glazing over.

No…I found it in the safe. You took it.

So you never knew, then? About Dad and Dezeng?

Her father? She gestured.

Liu slipped past Dezeng, leaving the tent to stand on the lakeshore. The wind buffeted her in great gusts, the water rippling. She recalled asking her grandparents, after the funeral, if Ning-An would be her father now. They had chuckled, telling her that he had his own family: a wife and son back in Harbin. Liu had asked why they couldn’t join them.

When he had driven her home from practice, the look in his eyes was not of adoration but sorrow. As a child, Liu felt the need to reassure him—to tell him it would all be okay. He laughed, peering into the rearview mirror, trying on a smile. When he told Liu his folktale, she claimed she was the silver-haired woman in the story. A female egret. Her father used to call her an egress. He had been learning English before leaving and took liberties with his words, unaware that egress already had another meaning.

She endeavored to inherit this small thing from him. To make her own words, her own realities, her own rules. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could make herself a happier person, even grow wings and fly away.

Where would you want to go? Ning-An had asked, leaning across the steering wheel. They were stopped at a light. What about your grandparents, what about the Olympics? I watched you in that pool. The clock never lies.

On the beach, she took one step into the water. The surface was a flurry of pinpricks, droplets from the sky absorbed into one great mass. Can I join? She wonders aloud. Community seems alien to her. After her injury, she had been benched for a year. In lieu of parties, she took to walking down 280 at night, limping when the pain flared. If she grew bored, she would chew another edible. Her teammates had stopped making eye contact with her at the pool. There were few cars, and if it was late enough, she could walk for miles without encountering another soul. It was this way that Liu learned to separate her body from her mind, the voices in her head collapsing into a single distant drone.

Her doctor had laughed when she had asked if there was any chance of recovery. After graduating, she began to cut herself at night, selecting a spot on her leg that was easily concealable beneath the pantyhose she wore to the office. She incised small lines, later deep gashes that healed slowly, filling with yellow pus, which made her gag.

They had been standing on the pool deck at night when she told Daiyu about getting the call from Stanford.

Can we run away together? she had proposed.

Daiyu’s face was inscrutable. Don’t you want to go to school? To America? Her gaze fixed onto a building in the distance, the cross of a church faintly illuminated by streetlight. Don’t you understand what you have?

When Liu walked into her apartment afterwards, her grandparents had asked her what was wrong, coming to her side, taking her by the arms, guiding her to her chair. They were old by then, all skin and bones. When she looked at her Lao Ye, she saw a desiccated prune.

At the center of the table was a plate of wood ear mushrooms, and Liu’s Lao Lao insisted she eat, as if the food would force down her emotions. She choked on her second bite, refusing to cry as she struggled for air. Her grandfather struck her twice to free the lodged particle. The following week, she boarded her flight for visiting weekend.

By the time Dezeng and Xinye realized Liu was missing, they had both run dry of emotion, their throats hoarse, their cheeks wet.

Did you see where she went? Shi-An croaked at his mother. She shook her head, her eyes on the lake. Above, the sun cut through the clouds, each tuft a lampshade, the light falling onto the turbulent water, which had transformed from a motley grey into something clear and translucent.

They abandoned the tent, trudging up the shore towards the trees. The wind picked the structure apart like so many toothpicks, and Xinye tripped, nearly toppling over. If they were careful and didn’t slip on the rocks going down, they could rejoin the trail before nightfall.

If Liu thinks back, it was her father who taught her to swim, as Ning-An had taught him. The reservoir came into focus as she took it in as a whole for the first time. If only, she thought, she could pick it up and take it home. Would something so large and deep absorb her disappointments? Maybe underwater, she could find everything and everyone she had lost. She dove then, not caring to glance back, for she imagined that if she swam down far enough, she could surface and find, on the other shore, the woman she had been dreaming of.

We can’t leave her here! Xinye cried over a clap of thunder.

In her arms, she clutched her husband's ashes, boxed in their wooden case, caked with sand. The sky morphed, as if unsatisfied with their conclusion, growing darker by the second. The two were cast, momentarily, in shadow, a figure soaring across the water before alighting on the opposite shore.

In the past, Shi-An’s father would tell him of a shapeshifting egret, a story so saccharine that he had filed it away as an old wives’ tale. To him, nothing so beautiful could be granted so easily. Goodness in life was not received, but taken. The bird stepped gingerly across the beach, flailing, nearly colliding with the ground, so uncertain it appeared of its own two feet. The creature stood startlingly white against the muddy shoreline, strangely oblivious to the storm raging about it. If he squinted, Shi-An could just make out the silvery tips of its wings. He watched the water shimmer, as if possessed by a spirit, the sky bawling, the reservoir already full.