Crossing (19 page)

I
t is night when they leave China. Xing and his family stand on a rocky beach, waiting. The air is hot and drenched with humidity. A low rumble of thunder sounds from afar even though the dusk sky is clear. They watch as the horizon turns pink with the setting sun, then orange, then purple. Finally, from behind an outlying island comes the ship within which they will spend the next few weeks crossing the seas.

When it becomes clear that the ship isn’t going to send out a raft to fetch them, they wade into the water. It is delightfully cool, refreshing against Xing’s sweaty skin. His parents abandon on the beach suitcases they spent weeks carefully packing. There are paint-brushes and paintings, his father’s most treasured possessions, his very identity, left behind. His father puts Xing on his back. “Hang on, don’t let go,” his father says.

It is a delicious ride at first, his father’s sinewy body propelling them both forward, his mother swimming next to them with one arm raised above the water, holding a bag. But the water turns turbulent, choppy; water splashes into Xing’s eyes, its saltiness stinging. And his father weakens; he moves with less propulsion now, his face sometimes sinking underwater for a few frightening seconds. His mother discards the bag she is holding, letting it sink into the murky depths as she struggles to swim. Her hair is plastered on her face like wet seaweed.

His father sputters words for Xing to shout at the ship. “Don’t leave, we’re almost there! We’ll give you more money! We’re almost there!” And dutifully, Xing shouts these words at the top of his lungs until his voice grows hoarse. When he can no longer shout, when he feels his father’s strength fading, he bends down low to his father’s ear and whispers. He whispers all those words his father has told him over the years, promises and dreams about America spoken over dumplings, in the fishing raft, on the bicycle, words of hope and success and money and a magical, amazing life.

“We are going to America, Ah-Ba. We are almost there. Just a few more strokes. We can do it. We are almost in America, Ah-Ba.”

When they reach the ship, a rope ladder is thrown down. His parents cling to it, relieved but momentarily too exhausted to climb. But Xing grabs one rung after another and hoists himself up onto the deck where he lies sprawled, his body dripping with water. He can feel the ship under him revving its engine for the long crossing ahead. Xing opens his eyes and looks up at the shining stars.

THE END

H
alf-Chinese and half-Japanese, Andrew Xia Fukuda was born in New York and raised in Hong Kong. After returning to America, he earned his bachelor’s degree in history from Cornell University. Later, he went on to work in Manhattan’s Chinatown with immigrant youth, whose struggles for acceptance in predominantly white America inspired him to write
Crossing
, his first novel. In 2009,
Crossing
was a semifinalist in Amazon’s Breakthrough Novel Contest. Today he lives on Long Island with his wife and their two sons.