He was already getting his bicycle from the bike rack but I called, “Jason.”
“I have to go.”
“You forgot our special good-bye.”
He paused, then ran back to me. “I’m too old for this.”
“Come on.” I put down my helmet and gloves and slipped Matt’s necklace into my jacket pocket.
Then we both switched into English and chanted together, “I love you, give me a whack.” We gave each other a high five. “Have a great day, and I’ll be back.”
He gave me a big hug and kissed me on the cheek. As he rode away down the street, he waved to me and called, “See you later, alligator.”
In our spacious living room, Ma was wiping off her piano. The dust motes hung in the sunlit air. In her mid-fifties now, she was still beautiful. I paused in the entryway to watch her.
Without glancing at me, Ma said, “The animal doctor called again. He must worry about the cat. Although the cat doesn’t seem to be sick.” Now she looked up and raised her eyebrows, challenging me to give her more information. Andy, the gray tiger cat in question, was sitting in one of the Palladian windows behind Ma, licking his white paws.
I chose not to respond to this. I’d been surprised when Tim, our vet, slipped in an invitation to an art opening with his last bill. We’d gone out a few times since then, and I liked him because he was gentle and patient. I’d stopped telling Ma about any of the men I dated because she always wanted me to marry them. “I’m feeling a bit tired. I want to lie down.”
Ma knew something had happened. She crossed over to me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I managed to smile.
I went upstairs and shut myself in my bedroom. I closed the shutters to darken the room, then slipped the CD from Bellini’s Norma, which I’d seen at the Met with Ma, into the stereo. I lay on the bed with Matt’s necklace in my hand and let it all wash over me.
Ma and Annette had both come with me for the abortion, both sat outside in the waiting room as I was being prepped. Before they could do anything, the doctors needed to confirm the length of the pregnancy by means of an ultrasound. A mere technicality, I’d thought. The technician smeared a viscous gel across my stomach. I had goose bumps on my skin. I felt I would die from the cold. She kept my hospital gown open so she could use the ultrasound wand to locate the fetus.
I expected a clump of cells attached to the uterine wall. I kept my mind carefully blank but without warning, an image of the fetus sprang onto the screen and I gasped. I shifted so abruptly that I dislodged her wand. The technician gave me an irritated look, which I registered in the back of my mind, but I ignored her injunction to stay still. I was riveted by the monitor.
He was doing gymnastics. A small tadpole-like figure, he pushed himself against the thick uterine walls and toppled over, swayed from side to side, swam in that enormous space with complete joy. He was defiant and playful, I imagined he was laughing. In that moment, I started to love him, Matt’s child. And mine forever.
If his father had been another man, I think I may still have gone through with it. But he was Matt’s. As soon as I saw him, I had no choice, even though our journey afterward was not easy. If it hadn’t been for my talent for school, we would all have gone under.
When I didn’t go through with the abortion, I did wonder if my relationship with Matt could possibly recover. I’d even gone to look for him, and seen him with Vivian again. How that had hurt. I didn’t know he’d already figured out what I’d done, what I’d intended to do. I could have broken them up again, I knew that. But the pain had given me more time to think, and I realized the baby didn’t actually change anything: much as it wounded me to admit it, I had to face the fact that in the end, I would have made Matt unhappy.
Ma and I brought Jason up carefully, the two women who were his only parents. He loved me so much. I was away for much of the time he was growing up. From when he was just a little boy, he noticed the rare occasions I bought something new for myself. “Pretty Mommy,” he would say. Before his round childish eyes, I truly felt beautiful. How he cried every time I had to leave, even though Ma, his grandmother, was always there for him. I would come home deep in the night to find him clutching his grandmother in his sleep, in a chair before the front door, where he’d waited for me to come home until they both fell asleep again.
The first apartment he lived in was that one in Queens, a paradise compared to the old one in Brooklyn, which he never saw. I remember Ma would run her hands over the surfaces of the furniture, the walls, the kitchen appliances in a sort of dazed surprise. I too was amazed that the walls and floor were clean and intact, that when we were all in the living room together there were still other rooms in the apartment, empty of people and insects.
I deferred Yale for a year to have him. Those were the hardest times, when Ma and I worked on sacks of jewelry at home to keep the pregnancy hidden. With both of us working as hard as we could, we could barely make the rent and bills. Then soon after Jason was born, I took double shifts sorting mail at night at the post office so I could be with him as much as possible when he was awake. At the beginning of the following school year, we all moved together to New Haven, to a little apartment close to the university. Once I was under Yale’s protection, things got a bit easier.
We got by on scholarships and loans. I worked four jobs at a time while I was a student, but I still graduated with honors and then moved on to Harvard Medical School. In those debt-ridden years before I finished medical school, I called upon any and every talent I had to become the best surgeon I could.
I gave Matt this: his life with Vivian and his family, his simple happiness. At the same time, I took away his life with us. I owed Jason a great debt, one I could never repay. I kept him from his father all these years. When I gave Matt up, I forced Jason to do the same. For my attempt at nobility, our son paid the price. He was still young enough not to ask me too much about the topic I didn’t want to talk about: his father. I knew there would be a time when he would want to know the whole truth. What would I tell him? How could I know what the truth was, so long ago, when I knew so little myself?
I sat up as the lyrics of “Sola, furtiva, al tempio” filled the room:I break the sacred bonds.
May you live happy, forever,
Close to the one you love.
Then I took a deep breath, got off the bed and opened the door.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank first my mother, Shuet King Kwok, who taught me the meaning of kindness and courage, and my late father, Shun Kwok, who always led the way for my family.
With the publication of this debut novel, I’ve stepped into unfamiliar territory. Fortunately, my agent, Suzanne Gluck of William Morris Endeavor Entertainment, knows every pathway of all the worlds I need to navigate. I have complete admiration for my entire team there, especially my international agents, Tracy Fisher and Raffaella De Angelis, and Suzanne Gluck’s assistants: Elizabeth Tingue, Caroline Donofrio and, most especially, Sarah Ceglarski.
Every single person at Riverhead has been phenomenal. With her unfailing intelligence and sensitivity, my editor, Sarah McGrath, has the ability to step inside the text. She’s the ideal reader and editor I’ve always imagined. Special thanks to Marilyn Ducksworth, Stephanie Sorensen, and Sarah McGrath’s assistant, the insightful Sarah Stein. My foreign publishers have also been wonderful, especially Juliet Annan and Maaike le Noble.
Lois Rosenthal, editor in chief of the now defunct Story magazine, was the first to pluck me out of the slush pile and teach me what fierce editing was all about. The Columbia MFA program showed me how to become a professional: in particular, Helen Schulman and Rebecca Goldstein made all the difference to me. I’m also grateful to the people who included me in the Holt textbook Elements of Literature: Third Course: Karen Peterfreund, Mary Monaco and Ann Farrar.
These are the professionals who assured me the road ahead was safe: author Pete Jordan and especially author Patricia Woo
d, who has been so generous in sharing her knowledge and experience with a person who e-mailed her out of the blue (me). Most of all, I’m grateful to Lisa Friedman of the Amsterdam Writing Workshops for her tremendous kindness and wisdom.
Special thanks to readers and friends Hans and Henriet Omloo, and the great Dutch poets and writers Leo and Tineke Vroman. Thanks also to other talented writers, readers and friends: Erica Bilder and Jill Whittaker (both of whom gave me helpful feedback at a critical moment), Shelley Anderson, Kerrie Finch, Kate Simms, Sinead Hewson, Pubudu Sachithanandan, Ingrid Froelich, Chauna Craig and Sari Wilson. Katrina Middelburg-Creswell not only helped me find the title but also showed me the right way to end the book.
My friends are an inspiration: actress/dancer Julie Voshell, artist/ puppeteer Alex Kahn and brilliant/indefinable Lisa Donner. Eric Linus Kaplan first pointed me in the right direction, and Shauna Angel Blue took the earliest professional photo of me. The many students I had at Leiden University and the Delft University of Technology kept me enthusiastic through the years. I’m also indebted to my friends with impeccable taste: Sally O’Keeffe, Shih Hui Liong and Astrid Stikkelorum (thanks for lending me your clothes).
I’m proud of my six older sisters and brothers, who have all come so far: Lai Fong, Kam, Choi, Chow ( Joe), York and most especially my genius brother Kwan, who got me my first set of contact lenses and helped me in every possible way. And my nieces and nephews keep me up-to-date on everything cool: Diana, Elaine, Justine, Amanda, Wendy, Ping, David, Eton, Elton, Alex and Jonathan.
My life in Holland would be much less fun without my in-laws, the fabulous rockin’-and-rollin’ Kluwer family: Gerard, Betty, Michael and Sander. Special thanks to Betty and Gerard, who have done so much for me and my book.
And finally, I am so grateful to my three guys, Erwin, Stefan and Milan, without whom I would truly be lost.
Jean Kwok, Girl in Translation
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