Would you fake-date a popstar to get into Harvard? Sara Wang travels from New York City to Shanghai before her senior year to take a class in Eastern Medicine. Her parents think she's there to buff up her college application, but she's actually ther...
If I knew I was meeting my oldest friend today, I wouldn't have come dressed like this. I'm not exactly the picture of sophisticated style like Lana Ting. I'm wearing a denim jacket with its arms tied around my waist. Under that, I have on clashing dark blue denim jeans. My Express T-shirt has a hole under the armpit. I dressed this way that morning because the hospital provided scrubs for me to change into during the day.
"Look who I brought home!" Lana exclaims with cartoonish glee. "You guys were best friends long before I moved here. Aren't you two glad to see each other?"
When I see Zhang's face, all I can think is, "wow." It's really him. Even though he looks nothing like the photo my mother sent me, I remember what it felt like to be around him. His hair was clipped short now, and his features were stronger, stouter than I remembered. Looking at him, I recalled his smile even though he's staring blankly at me now.
In my memories, he would remain frozen with that smile on his face like the one sported in the pictures my mom showed me. In my mind, I always saw him standing among the field of red flowers that we used to play in.
"Come in," Zhang orders, and I smell spices coming from his kitchen. Did he cook for us? Are we intruding on his dinner? Either way, I do the worst possible thing and start to cough from the smoke.
"She's not used to the smell of the hot peppers," Lana says, laughing at me. "What's the matter? Do you need to step outside?"
Lana and Wei spit a couple of quick Chinese phrases back and forth. I think I catch her telling him to put a lid on the cooking.
Lana sits me down at his dining room table inside the dim living room. Wei brings me a glass of water in a Keroppi glass. I pretend to hold it in my hands, but I don't drink from it. My mother gave me strict instructions to only drink out of water bottles while I'm here.
I don't want to be difficult. Yet, here I am, being weird.
Suddenly everything feels wrong. The dim kitchen light, the red and white picnic pattern on the plastic wrap covering the dining room table, to the chipped paint on his windowsill and the laundry hanging out to dry on his balcony — everything was wrong. This isn't how I remembered any of this.
To make things worse, Zhang Wei starts to rapid-fire questions in Mandarin to me. What's your Chinese name? Where are you staying? Have you seen all the sights? What do you think of the Huxinting Tea House in Yuyuan?
I can barely process what he's asking me.
"I told you, her name is Sara," Lana finishes for me as I stare back blankly.
"I mean her real name," Zhang retorts, throwing up his hands. "You said she grew up here in Shanghai. How is it possible that she can't speak Chinese?"
"She's been in America since she was six," Lana tells him. "Will you stop making her uncomfortable?"
I want to explain that, like many Asian-Americans, I grew up listening to my parents talk to me in Chinese, but I would reply in English. I never actually spoke Chinese, even though I understand it when it is spoken to me. I'm trying to figure out how to explain this to them, but the conversation has already moved past that. Now the two of them are dissecting why I can't speak Chinese like I'm not even in the room.
I don't know why I feel so utterly heartbroken by this interaction. Now, sitting here with the two of them, I feel like I'm still six years old, but the two of them had grown up without me. I can't find the words to tell them how much I always wanted to come back here.
Yet, now that I am here, I feel like more of a foreigner here than I ever felt back in New York.
"Do you want to go?" Lana finally asks me after she and Zhang Wei finishes bantering back and forth about whether I would appreciate being taken to a traditional tea shop or if they should let me stick to Starbucks.
I nod in defeat. As Lana leads me out of the apartment, I turn and look at Zhang Wei's back as he heads back to the kitchen to finish cooking.
"Goodbye, Yang, I mean Zhang," I finally get out in Chinese. Standing there, I feel a strange and sad sense of finality. Yes, this is what I had longed to do for all those years — to say goodbye to him and my life here in Shanghai. There, I wrote the final chapter to our relationship together, and I can finally close the book on the life I left behind.
He waves at me without turning.
"Come back for dinner sometime," he tells me. "Maybe when you finally think of something to say."
Nah, I think to myself as I close the door behind me. I think I've said everything that I've meant to say to you.
Lana takes me to her apartment to wait for my ride back home to Nanjing Lu. Since my uncle is away from Shanghai for business, I'm lucky that his company black car is available to pick me up. I didn't want to go home by myself at this time of the night, especially since I'm prone to get lost transferring subway lines that I've never been on before.
Walking into the Ting's apartment is much more familiar to me. Too familiar. As I step inside, I see my father's old postcards still framed and hanging in the corridor by the living room. There, I saw the yellowing pictures of the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, and lastly, the bridge in Central Park.
I remember these pictures. My mother once told me my father was in a faraway place called America teaching school. One day, we'll go there, and I'll meet him. He's waiting to meet me.
Now, I'm back here, and I see in these pictures the wishes of a young girl who had no idea what awaited her in that land long ago and far away. I didn't recall much from my time here in this apartment, but I recall showing Yang-yang these pictures. I don't have a father like you do because he's far away. But one day I'll go there and meet him. One day, I'll tell you all about it.
My cellphone vibrates. It's the driver. He's here. I wave and Lana and tell her we'll have wontons together again before I go back to New York. As I walk down the stairs, I stop at Yang-yang's floor and pause.
At least now I know the answer to that question I've asked ever since leaving Shanghai — will I ever see you again? I'm not surprised he didn't remember me. After all, the most important day of my life was merely another day to him. Over the years, I've always wondered about the pieces of myself I left here in this country. Now, I know that he never wondered what happened to me. Why would he?
The day I left for America wasn't anything worth remembering. To him, it was only another day here on Huaihai Lu.
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