In my darkened bedroom, lit only by the glow of my laptop, I convinced myself this was the perfect time to take Henri to visit my extended family. After all, in a couple of months he’d start preschool and I’d find my way back to work in some capacity. The thirteen-hour flight would be challenging, of course, and I seriously considered asking Maria to come along. Only the thought of having to explain to my aunt and uncle that I couldn’t manage my son on my own swayed me otherwise.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I entered my credit card information and hit purchase. I can honestly say it didn’t cross my mind—that Guangzhou’s right over the border from Hong Kong. You need to remember, back then I only possessed the sketchiest outline of what it was Winnie actually did.
5
Determined not to let Oli talk me out of this trip, I waited twenty-four hours, until the cancellation window had closed, to text him the details.
It was almost midnight. Still, he called me at once.
What? How? You can’t take Henri.
The more frantic he grew, the cooler I remained. It’s all in the text.
Why didn’t you tell me?
I burrowed beneath the covers with the phone pressed to my ear. I just did.
Why now? All of a sudden? Let’s go in a few months, together. Let’s take a nice vacation.
At that, I had to stop myself from throwing my phone across the room. Come on, Oli, you never have time.
You can’t make such a long trip with Henri on your own.
I couldn’t resist. I said, I’ve had a lot of practice lately, managing on my own.
In the prolonged silence I sensed him beating back his frustration. Finally, he said, Why are you so mad at me all the time?
Already he was paying more attention to me than he had in weeks.
I said, It’s eleven days. You’ll barely notice we’re gone.
I heard his fist connect with a hard surface—the wall or table or nightstand—and I jumped. He wasn’t the type who lashed out.
Ava, I should have handled this apartment thing better. I’m sorry. Please don’t go.
Something in my chest thawed, but it was too late to change course. I said, It’s a week and a half. Why are you making this such a big deal?
In a strangled voice he said, I work all the time. I’m not down here hanging out and having fun.
Powerless against what I’d set in motion, I barreled ahead. Then you’ll get plenty done without us interrupting you.
He sharpened his tone. We both know you won’t even survive the flight out.
And, well, Oli was not wrong about that. At first Henri charmed the flight attendants, waving his fat little paws and beaming whenever they came down the aisle. I smacked my lips against his cheek to make him squeal, hoping against reason that we’d left behind the terrible twos and entered a new and glorious phase.
His good mood soured when I strapped him into his car seat for takeoff. He wept when the plane lifted into the sky and when I changed him and when I tried to feed him applesauce from the kids’ meal. (By then I’d given up on bison, and I’d suspended his low-glycemic diet for the duration of the trip.) He wept when I carried him up and down the aisle, up and down, up and down, because I didn’t know what else to do. At first, I locked eyes with every passenger to convey how deeply sorry I was, but after the fourth glower, I trained my gaze straight down at the dark carpeting, singing softly, futilely into Henri’s ear. Even the nicest of the flight attendants, who, for the first few hours, had smiled sympathetically and offered little sweets and toys, turned on us, snapping at me to stop blocking the bathroom door.
You mentioned your two girls, Detective. How old did you say they were? So you remember how it was when they were little. Oli says Henri has unusually sensitive ears—his eustachian tube and all that—which makes flying especially uncomfortable, poor thing. It’s supposed to be something he’ll outgrow.
All the way to Hong Kong Henri wailed in delirium, fighting off sleep. The instant we boarded a cab to my aunt’s, he dozed off. I took pains not to jostle the stroller as I wheeled him into the elevator, leaving our luggage in the lobby, relieved that at least my family wouldn’t be greeted by a bawling, inconsolable child.
I tucked Henri into bed while my uncle went down to retrieve our bags. Then I joined the grown-ups in the living room. The balcony looked out onto a forest of pale, tightly wedged apartment towers, bathed in late-afternoon sunlight. I snapped a picture and posted it online with the caption, Made it!, hoping to provoke Oli.
My aunt and uncle’s cozy flat was on the fifteenth floor of an old but well-maintained building in Happy Valley. My aunt had always loved to draw, and her oversized pastels of her daughters and granddaughters filled the walls. Aunt Lydia told me that my grandmother, whose assisted living facility was not far away, had been asking for me all week. Uncle Mark said that my cousins sent their love. (Kayla was a pastry chef at the Mandarin Oriental; Karina, an ophthalmologist who’d recently relocated to Singapore.) My aunt and uncle nodded approvingly when I mentioned Oli’s new position at Stanford, and I recalled that Karina’s orthodontist husband had left her for his assistant, which had precipitated her move abroad. I told them that Gabe and his wife were newly pregnant, and when my aunt smiled, a dimple pulsed in her right cheek, just like my mom.
All over Hong Kong I’d see people who looked like they could be my relatives—the same broad cheekbones, high foreheads, tanned skin. The first time I’d come here at age three, how stunned I’d been to see all the Chinese people milling about the airport. Everyone looks like us! I’d exclaimed to my mom and dad, who’d laughed loud enough to draw stares.
It was nearing dinnertime when whimpers rose from the guestroom. I hurried to Henri’s side, pulled up Thomas the Tank Engine on the iPad, and, once his eyes had glazed over, jumped in the shower. The next time I checked my phone, there was a long series of messages from Winnie:
Hey, I hate how things ended btw us. I’m sorry again for making you feel so uncomfortable.
Not making excuses. Just want to explain I’m under a lot of pressure trying to deal with this Guangzhou shipment and wasn’t thinking straight. I’m sorry I put that on you.
Anyway you’re in Hong Kong?! Visiting family? Have an amazing trip. Hope we can see each other when you return!!
It didn’t occur to me then, but now, looking back, I see that of course she was monitoring my social media posts even though she claimed not to have accounts of her own. I tossed my phone aside and rooted around in my suitcase for one of the new toys I’d stashed. Waving a miniature airplane at Henri, I slid the iPad into a drawer before carrying him outside. For the next few minutes, Aunt Lydia and Uncle Mark mussed his hair and stroked his cheeks and praised everything from his long eyelashes to his large-for-his-age feet, while I stood with my hands clenched, willing my son not to break down. Miracle of miracles, he demoed his airplane, flying it high above his head and zooming enthusiastically. I kissed his temple, proud.
We managed to reach my aunt’s chosen restaurant with minimal tears. There, we feasted on smoked duck and crispy salt-and-pepper shrimp, and I guzzled down strong jasmine tea to fend off drowsiness.
Once the complimentary bowls of mango pudding had been set on the table, I whipped out my credit card like a cowboy pulling a pistol and triumphantly thrust it at the waiter. My aunt and uncle protested wildly, causing Henri to holler with glee, but I held my ground.
Within minutes the waiter returned and stooped to mutter that my card had been declined. Again, my uncle reached for his wallet. I shoved my debit card at the waiter and blathered about how I’d forgotten to notify my bank about the trip.
Don’t be silly, Ava, my aunt said. Let us pay. You can sort things out with your bank later.
American kids are like this—so independent, said my uncle. Our kids never try to pay!
We’re so grateful to be staying with you, I said.
My aunt said, Nonsense, you’re family.
The waiter came back, his regretful hunch signaling that this card had also been declined.