Read Online Crossing by Andrew Xia Fukuda - Free Book Online Page A

“Well? Are you about ready to go now?” he asked, softly.
    We made our way through Chinatown slowly, meandering along the emptying streets. At a traffic light, my father put his arm around my shoulder, gentle yet firm. It was full of warmth. The light turned green; we began to walk.
    “I went to the park,” I said, my voice soft with guilt.
    My father nodded.
    “Just wanted to stretch my legs a bit.”
    My father looked at me, not with unkindness. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We did well today. Lots of customers. We can buy some fruit for Mom tonight.”
    We stopped in front of a fruit store. With nimble fingers, my father picked up oranges in turn, lightly squeezing each one before dropping them into a red plastic bag. Under the harsh store light, the wrinkles etched into my father’s face seemed to deepen. There were untold stories of sorrow buried deep in them.
    My father smiled to himself. “Your mother will like these oranges. We can surprise her when we get home,” he said as he handed over the bills. There were light flecks of red paint on his fingers.
    The stores were shutting down now, metal doors grating nosily downwards over entrances. Lights were switched off, and tired voices spoke with minimal words.
    My father peeled an orange as we walked. “Here,” he said, handing a piece to me.
    It was bittersweet.
     
     
    We took the Metro North home, a quiet journey back. I slept for most of it. Walking home from the train station, my father died. He was killed. A pickup truck, driven much too fast, careened around the corner and skidded. There was a sudden, vicious intrusion of noise and hulking metal. The skidding vehicle missed me by no more than two feet—can you feel the whip-breeze of a skidding car from more than two feet away?—but hit my father dead on. I heard—but did not see—a sickening, splatty thud, like a bottle of ketchup dropped and shattered.
    The pickup truck sat at the edge of the road as if stunned; then it took off quietly down the road and disappeared around the corner.
    I could not find my father. He had been knocked clear over some bushes and fifteen yards into the dark woods. How was I supposed to know? How was I to know a person could be propelled that far away? I looked into the woods, fearful. Nothing moved in the darkness; nothing made a sound.
    I ran home, dizzy with nauseous waves of self-denial. I was full of fear and confusion, each feeding into the other. As the undeniable, awful truth seeped in, tears spilled out like acid out of a dropper. I ran up the driveway, my heart dislodging from my ribcage.
    A late dinner was being cooked; I could hear the sizzle of meat frying on the stove.
    “You’re finally back!” my mother said from within the kitchen. The screen door slammed shut behind me. “I cooked your favorites tonight,” she said in a breezy voice.

NOVEMBER 3, EVENING
     
    I was breathless when I reached home, my legs past gone. Every few steps I’d glance back, convinced I’d see the red-jacketed man still chasing me down. I walked up the driveway, my clothes still caked with snow and dirt. A light was on in the kitchen. I was freezing and weary. I was going to crash soon.
    My mother was sitting at the kitchen counter, a cup of tea in hand. She stood up as I entered and peered intently at me. “What happened, Xing? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She used the Chinese word gui for ghost—a female apparition with long black hair covering her face who, having died due to misfortune, returns for revenge.
    Yes , I wanted to say, and the gui is standing right in front of me . I took off my backpack and put it down at my feet. “You’re home early tonight.”
    “Is everything OK?” she asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “You don’t look all right.” She glanced at my clothes.
    “Did you fall down?”
    “It’s nothing.”
    “What happened?”
    “Just, you know.”
    She placed her hands on her hips. “Tell me what happened.”
    “Nothing.”
    She bit