My brother felt the attacks would continue, so didn’t see a point in my going back. Like most of his stances, he wasn’t entirely wrong, and to his question of why go back, I sighed, I shrugged, as if I didn’t know. But I did know. I was going back because, for better or worse, this was the job.
Could a family’s migratory ways lead each member to find their own sense of belonging? Where did my brother belong if not within his wealth and aspirations to reach the land of giants? Where did I belong if not within the confines of a well-defined job? And where did my mother belong, with her own children or to that other life she and my father had created elsewhere after we’d grown? Home could be many things. It could be both a comfort and a pain. It could exile you for a little while but then demand that you return. I was going back not because I expected anyone to care about me or us, not necessarily to be seen as a good person, a kind person, but because the work needed to get done and I already knew I was a good doctor.
* * *
—
I’D ALWAYS HEARD THAT on the day my parents got on that plane for America to start anew, six-year-old Fang had cried, screamed, and had to be pulled away from the departure gate where he had wrapped his hands around the no-family-members-beyond-this-point metal bars. Finger by finger, my aunts had to pry him off the bars and carry him away.
That was also what I saw on deathbeds. Son or daughter. The type of child who, after the algorithm had failed and we had explained that it had failed, went on to shake the parent’s arm as if to wake them up. Hey, I’m right here, feel my arm on your arm, my hand on your face; feel my total and complete despair, so come back to me and please don’t just leave me behind.
I was already forgetting things about my father. I was forgetting how low his voice could be, how he would mumble and flatten his tones. In truth he could have meant another chuàng, besides the one about going off to sea. I should have asked him which he intended, but I never got around to that.
The other chuǎng is third tone, not fourth. For this chuǎng, we put a horse （马） inside a door （门）， such that the character itself, 闯， refers to breaking down barriers and charging through. I was reminded of the Trojan horse, the surprise gift horse outside, but also of horsepower, which now belonged to cars. A green Mustang might be irrefutable American muscle, but so was the driver inside. He was pure American muscle with a Chinese heart. Goodbye, doctor-daughter, goodbye, but also see you again.
* * *
—
ON THE FIRST DAY I returned to the city and my classic prewar apartment, I bought and installed a deadbolt. Mainly to prevent cross-contamination and unwanted visitors, and what a comforting series of sounds it was, from the locking of my doorknob to the swinging of deadbolt one then two, to the latching of my safety chain. But from inside, almost every night, I could still hear a knock and Mark’s voice, asking if everything with me was all right, given what he was seeing on the news. He couldn’t quite believe what was happening and didn’t know what to believe. Was all of it real? Or a hoax? Or the media? Things were changing so fast, from open to shut down. Broadway had closed—inconceivable—states of emergency declared, bans on other countries, a toilet paper and a hand sanitizer shortage, to mask or not to mask. So how was I doing in there all by my lonesome? And could I please let him know what I made of the craziness out there or at least tell him that I was okay?
I said everything in here, in my own apartment, was fine. I was alone but I felt safe. I had regained control of this, my domain.
By 6:00 a.m. each day, I left for work. On the walk there, I made eye contact with no one, looked ahead and blankly. I kept my jaw clenched and closed my ears to passing dialogue, any shouts directed at me of possible hate. Then once I was in the hospital, I could relax and greet people, because here too I felt safe.
The first time I saw Reese again, he was, as Madeline had warned, Zenned out, thus eerie to sit beside. He no longer made snide comments, jabs; no spontaneous airing of grievances, epiphanies, or throwing stress balls around people’s heads. Meditated for ten minutes in the afternoon. Spoke often about his girlfriend. Hey, Reese, I might’ve said, and he would reply if I knew that his girlfriend, who worked in fashion, was also severely allergic to shellfish. They had an incident two nights ago with some lobster-flavored risotto, and he almost, but didn’t, stabbed her with an EpiPen. She was recovered now. I said good to hear. Then he showed me the new picture of them on his desk, which matched the photo of them on his lock screen. A nice distraction, since ten minutes later I was back on my ICU floor and he on his. We led trainings for other doctors, to teach the cardiothoracic surgeons of difficult poetry, for example, how to operate vents during their redeployment. Overflow beds filled the atrium, and its café temporarily closed. The hospital intercom had been set to loop not just in our units but everywhere: Are you suffering from ARDS, sir, madam? Because if so, we can help.