12
The next day, I go to Mr. Chen’s apartment while my mom works. He makes me take my shoes off and leave them by the doorway on a small shelf. I walk into his place barefoot, the tile floor cool under my feet. Mr. Chen wears what he calls houseshoes, fabric slippers that he pulls on over tall white socks.
Old man footwear.
He catches me eyeing his place curiously, my head whipping around as I take it in. “You can go explore,” he says with a soft chuckle.
With that, I’m off, roaming through the apartment. It’s strange to be back here, to walk through a place I know so well. Everything is the same but different. Heavy antique wooden furniture with rich upholstery has been placed carefully in each room. On what becomes my favorite chair, there’s an embroidered scene of an old-fashioned Chinese warrior in plated armor. He battles a fire-breathing serpent with a spike-tipped pole.
A stand-up piano sits in one corner of the living room. Its warm mahogany wood gleams from careful polishing. The hinged cover of the piano is pushed back, revealing ebony and ivory keys. I run my hand over them lightly, eliciting a tinkling sound that goes from high notes to low.
Shelly’s old bedroom is now an office. Bookcases line three of the four walls. They hold thick hardback and paperback books. Some are in Chinese, the symbols trailing down the spines. The only place I’ve seen this many books before is a library. I run my hands over each one as I walk along, my fingers going bump-bump-bump.
One row has English titles, and I pull a book out at random. I’m startled to see a man staring back. It’s a gruesome picture. Half of the man’s body has been peeled away in layers to reveal the bones, blood vessels, and muscles beneath. Atlas of Human Anatomy by Frank H. Netter, M.D., reads the title and author in bold letters.
The book should disgust me, but it doesn’t. I take it to a wooden rocking chair, where I sit and rock slowly, flipping through the pages. Intricate colored drawings of dissected eyes and cut-open hearts capture my imagination. It’s crazy how much stuff is crammed into the human body. According to this, each part has its own vital function. I spend so long looking at the book that Mr. Chen comes to check on me. If what I’m reading surprises him, he doesn’t show it.
I tilt the cover up for him to see. “What’s this? Why do you have it?”
“I was a doctor back in my home country, in Taiwan,” he explains.
“I thought you were from China. Is Taiwan in China?” I’m not good at geography, besides having to memorize all 50 states and their capitols last year in school.
Mr. Chen shakes his head. “No. Taiwan is its own country. It’s an island, close to the mainland of China.”
“Oh, sorry.” I had just assumed he was from China. I remind myself not to make those kinds of assumptions in the future.
“It’s okay. Most Americans don’t know the difference.” He sounds resigned to this fact, rather than angry.
“You were a doctor there?” I’m curious to learn more about my new caretaker. Pushing off with my feet, I continue rocking. It soothes me.
“Yes, a cardiologist.” Seeing my look of confusion, Mr. Chen adds, “A heart doctor.”
Why is he living in a dump like this?I wonder. Doctors usually make a good living. There are lots of fancy suburbs in Vegas. Why not live in one of those?
“Which hospital did you work at?” I ask, remembering my mother’s lessons in manners.
“At the University Hospital downtown. I was a janitor, though, not a doctor.” He winces as he lowers his body into an office chair at his desk.
“Huh? Why would you be a janitor?” My rocking stills as I attempt to figure out this mystery.
“I went to medical school and did my training in Taiwan. My medical license doesn’t work in America. None of my degrees apply here, so I took a job where I was most comfortable. At the hospital, a janitor job was all they could give me.” He tells me this in a matter-of-fact way. Like it’s no big deal that years of hard work got thrown out the window because he crossed an ocean.
I’m furious on his behalf. “What!? Why would they do that to you? Couldn’t you do something? Take a test to prove that you’re a real doctor?”
“No.” His smile is gentle. “It doesn’t work that way. I would have to start my medical training all over again. I was too old by then.”
When he sees that I’m still upset, he adds, “It’s okay, Tiffany. Back home, I had a good career, working for many years. I like to think that I helped people, hopefully saved some lives. I’m grateful for it, but time moves on and things change. You can either change with them or resist and get stuck. I chose to let it all go. To become someone different. Not someone better or worse. Just different, and that’s okay.”
“Why did you move here, then?” Why would you leave all that money and prestige is what I want to ask, but my mom says it’s rude to talk about money. She taught me to ignore different levels of social class because all people and jobs are equally worthy.
That isn’t true, though. I’ve heard Brandi and her friends talking about the men who come to their club and what jobs they hold. Brandi and her cronies scoffed at some careers, but I heard the reverence in their voices when they talked about others. “Doctor, lawyer, judge, executive,” they whispered, and I saw the cartoon dollar signs pop up in their eyes.
“I moved for my daughter. I hoped she would have a better life here. She was in high school when we came over. I wanted her to go to an American college, then graduate school. Maybe she could become a doctor like me, if she wanted that.” Mr. Chen’s expression changes, a subtle shadow in his eyes.
I’ve never seen anyone visit Mr. Chen. His daughter must live far away. “Where does your daughter go to school now?”
Mr. Chen pauses, and I feel an ominous shift in the air. This isn’t new to me, the expectation of disaster. I always have a faint sense that something bad is coming. Now, that feeling is so strong that I know before he even says it.
“She died. Hit by a drunk driver during her second year in college. She got into a great school, UC Berkeley.” Mr. Chen’s proud of his daughter, even in death.
My imagination takes hold. I picture Mr. Chen’s daughter standing beside him, with beautiful midnight hair and soulful eyes. The image is so sad that I begin to cry. With joint-popping effort, Mr. Chen pries himself out of the chair, comes over, and puts an awkward arm around my shoulder.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t feel bad.” He pats my shoulder gently until my tears dissolve into occasional hiccups.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m okay.”
“Good. Maybe when your mother comes to pick you up tonight, we can skip the part about how I made you cry. Now help me back to the chair. I think my legs are about to collapse.” Mr. Chen grimaces.
After jumping up to help him, I flip through the anatomy book on the desk.
“Will you teach me?” I ask, looking up from a diagram of the brain.
“Teach you what, dear?”
I like that, being called dear. It makes me feel safe and cherished. Special.
Pointing at the anatomy book, I say, “Some of the stuff in this book. Some doctor stuff. The piano too?” I hope Mr. Chen won’t think I’m being silly or asking for too much.
“Yes, dear. I can teach you.”