Homeseeking

by Karissa Chen

Despite their varying levels of English (George, who had been educated at a British school in Hong Kong, spoke nearly perfect—if slightly accented—English, while no one was sure how much Michael actually understood), over the years, it had become the language they predominantly slipped into when they got together, peppered with phrases in various Sinitic languages. Although they all understood some Mandarin, Tina and George were most comfortable with Cantonese, Mary and Michael preferred Taiwanese, and Jianfeng’s Beijing accent was so thick, Ted complained it was like listening to someone with marbles in their cheeks. So they defaulted to the language of their adopted country, as difficult and slippery as it sometimes proved to be.

Suji didn’t immediately recognize the song he was playing; she was too wrapped up in the delicacy of the notes. But after a few seconds, she realized it was the popular folk song “Jasmine,” a song she’d learned before she had memories.

Apa stared hard at the girls. “I’m glad you are interested in outside things and ideas. It will help you to be strong.

“We must always be brave and meet what scares us head-on, even if it is hard. But still, you must not forget who you are. You must always remain proud.”

Apa wanted her to care, and it wasn’t that she didn’t. But how could she care about the war apart from what was happening in front of her? And how could she live if she only focused on the death and fear and hunger? It was exhausting to constantly remember she and her family could die in any number of terrible ways at any given moment. When once Suchi told Apa she was sick of hearing about politics, his voice had grown low with disappointment. “I’ve shielded you from too much,” he said. “You haven’t known real suffering. Most people don’t have the luxury of turning their face from this.”

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He wanted to hold on to this moment, or maybe what he wanted was to go back to an old moment, a moment before all the things they didn’t talk about existed. Change something, somehow.

Suchi climbed out of bed and retrieved Haiwen’s violin from the bureau, opening the case. The strings appeared nearly translucent in the moonlight. She held the instrument in her lap as if it were a homing beacon that would lead him back to her. She wished her body would let her forget. She wished, like Mrs. Chan, she knew how to move forward.

Suchi saw, suddenly, what it must have cost her all these years to act the big sister, to be the rock for Suchi. If something were to happen to her, Sulan would be all alone.

Suchi hid Siau Zi’s letter inside a small tear in the lining of Haiwen’s violin case. She promised herself she would tell her sister about it eventually, once they were in a better place.

My point is, you were terrible at expressing your emotions directly, except when you played the violin. It’s how you made sense of the world.” “Maybe that’s why I can’t hear it,” he said. “The world stopped making sense when I left Shanghai.” “Or maybe things stopped making sense when you stopped playing,” she said.

“But aren’t you afraid of forgetting?” “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m afraid of a lifetime of remembering the things I want to forget.”

He wondered what her life had been these last two decades, if she had counted more joy than sorrow. If she would consider this one more sorrow on top of whatever she had already endured.

It was his present he couldn’t bear to think about, the choice before him that could result in two equally unbearable, unfathomable futures.

If he took his brother’s place. If he died. If he didn’t take his brother’s place. If his brother died instead. If that happened, mightn’t all the scenes from the future he dreamed of disappear? Could he be happy if his brother was gone? Could he live with himself?

he understood his mother’s greatest strength was also her greatest weakness. He understood she loved him and his siblings in a way no one in this world would ever love them again—selflessly, unrelentingly, unrequitedly—and it would hurt her in the end, had probably already hurt her many times over, was hurting her at that very moment.

“You’re his oldest friend, I’m sure right now he could use a friend who knows him—” “I don’t know him at all,” she responded in Mandarin. “We’re no longer who we were when we were kids.” When Samson spoke again, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “I think it must be lonely, to be the only one who knows the truth of your world. To have no one to share it with.” He paused. “Maybe Uncle Howard is lonely.”

“You know, Sulan used to tell me stories about what a fierce little girl you were.” “It’s easy to be brave when you are young and don’t know better,” Suchi said. “I think it’s harder to be brave when you’re young and have little control over anything,” Momo said.

Suchi knew now that home wasn’t a place. It wasn’t moments that could be pinned down. It was people, people who shared the same ghosts as you, of folks long gone, places long disappeared. People who knew you, saw you, loved you. When those people were far-flung, your home was too. And when those people were gone, home lived on inside you.