“I can’t believe you did this to me.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. And this is what you do—”
“I didn’t know what to do,” I said.
“So you helped him lie to me?” she said. “Don’t say anything. Just go.” She stood and turned her back to me. “I can’t do this. I want you to leave.”
“I wasn’t helping him lie,” I said. “I was trying to protect you—”
“Protect me?” she cried. “I don’t need you to protect me, Jane. I need you to tell me the truth.” She shook her head. “What’s wrong with you?”
I didn’t have an answer to that.
Fiona sighed. “Just go, okay? I can’t deal with this. Not right now.” Her voice was in shreds, caught in her throat. “Thank you for your help,” she added. I wasn’t sure if she meant for my being here with the movers today, or if she threw it out as a jab.
She walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. I stared at the doorknob for a minute, my heart pounding in my chest.
On one of the shelves, in front of the row of books, stood a framed photo of Fi as a kid with her mom. I remembered that girl: fresh-off-the-boat bowl cut, glasses that magnified her eyes. When she showed up in Miss King’s class, she was still Ona. Only her mom called her that now. I remembered liking her right away. She was good at drawing Snoopy and Mickey Mouse, and she always traded her cheese crackers for my fruit leather. Because she was new, I taught her things: how to play hopscotch, where the extra jump ropes were stored, how many pellets to feed the class guinea pig, Annabel Lee. I translated for her sometimes, but by the next year—third grade—she didn’t need my help anymore. Maybe that was the last time she really needed me, way back when.
The blue typewriter was still on the coffee table. I wrapped it back up in the towel and took it with me when I left.
* * *
? ? ?
I steered down Sunset from Fiona’s new place, which turned into Cesar Chavez on the edge of Chinatown. The streets were jammed with cars funneling toward Dodger Stadium, blue-and-white flags waving from their windows. The late-afternoon sun tunneled through the layer of smog that seemed to steep everything, all of us, in an amber-pink haze. The typewriter rested in my passenger seat. I thought of Sonny, the mover. How he said he wasn’t supposed to set foot near Chinatown. I didn’t grow up here, but it felt like home to me now, after these last four years. Mah had helped me find the apartment, vouched for my ability to take over as manager when the previous owner sold the building and the new landlord needed someone on site who spoke English and Mandarin.
Maybe I shouldn’t have told Fiona that I knew about Aaron. Why didn’t I say anything when he’d first confessed it to me? Did I really believe I was protecting her? Or was it something else? I gripped the steering wheel. My chest felt tight.
I thought of my father. How I’d spilled to Mah about his affair with Lee, his old college buddy, all those years ago. Baba had trusted me with his secret, and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. My telling led to everything else—our family breaking up. Baba never came back from that, no chance of recovery. All because of me. My big mouth. Ten years ago, he died. If only I hadn’t told—
I turned left on Hill Street. Almost home. My nose burned. A knot formed in my throat. No tears came, though I’d been waiting for them, for years now.
Maybe he’d still be alive, if I hadn’t told. Maybe we would’ve had a chance to reconcile. Things could’ve been different. If only I’d kept quiet.
* * *
? ? ?
The last good memory I have of Ed, when I dropped him off at LAX for his flight to Chicago last Thanksgiving: we’d stood by my car and hugged on the curb. I told him to have a safe flight, one of those things you say at the airport that doesn’t mean anything.
“I can’t wait to tell my popo all about you,” he’d said. “She’s going to be so happy I’m dating a nice Taiwanese girl.”
A nice Taiwanese girl. He’d meant it as a joke, I guess.
I pulled into the driveway and idled there for a minute. I put a hand over the typewriter keys. Then I put the car in reverse, and I traced the same route I’d just traveled, back to my best friend. I practiced what I wanted to say. I’m sorry. I was wrong. We’ll get through this. Talk to me. Tell me. I’m listening. Forgive me. I didn’t know. I love you. Don’t give up on us. I can’t lose you. I love you. I love you.