The Wrong Way

The calendar was still blank.

I stood in the kitchen with my coffee and looked at it. I had not filled it. I had meant to. People forgot things when they were tired. I was tired. That was the whole of it.

I closed the window, made the bed, washed my face, looked at my phone. Nothing. I put it down.

I worked from home. Friday was mine. Chen Wei asked if I had bought new earbuds. Not yet, I said. I would. He asked how I was. Fine. He wrote, Monday, then. I wrote, Monday.

At noon I made some omurice, ate standing at the counter, the way I do when I am alone.

The smell arrived between one bite and the next.

Chalk dust. A corridor. A bathroom smell, provincial. Fear. It is not my fear.

The kitchen was the kitchen — nothing in it smelled like that. I stood very still and waited. The smell went, the fear with it. I told myself it was stress. People smelled things when they were tired. That was the explanation.

I went for a walk. The rain came and went, the air cold and clean. I took the long way — the bakery, the corner shop, the small park. No one sat on the wet benches. I walked the path to the end and back. I stood at the fence. A train went past.

I was shaking.

I put my hands in my pockets, walked until my legs were tired, then made my way home.

The afternoon passed. It rained twice. I sat at the desk, got little done. I made tea, drank half; the rest went cold. I checked the phone. Nothing. I put it down. The room went gray. I turned on the lamp.

I lay down for a while. Sleep did not come. I got up.

In the evening I made some rice, an egg, fried it. I ate at the table, which I do not do. I washed the bowl, dried it, put it away. I wiped the counter, hung the cloth over the tap.

The dark came early. I sat at the window. I picked up a book and set it down unread.

I wanted noise. I told myself I wanted noise. Chen Wei had said to get new earbuds. I had not. The old ones were in the drawer — the frayed pair, the left one going quiet for months. I took them out, put them in, opened the music, pressed play.

Static.

The music had been there a second before. Now only static, filling my ears, the room.

Then a boy said, Hao.

My name. The provincial way — the way my mother says it, the way nobody here says it. A boy’s voice. Young. Small. Close.

The static went on. I waited for the rest. There was no rest.

I took the earbuds out. The room was silent. I sat very still. I put the earbuds back in the drawer, rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand.

I told myself it was the stream — a bad file, a voice from a podcast bleeding through, someone’s name that sounded like mine. There were explanations.

The phone rang. It was my mother.

‘Did you eat?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘What did you eat?’

‘Rice.’

‘Good,’ she said. Her voice went soft. ‘I poured myself some tea before I called. It’s gone cold.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said.

‘Did you see the picture I sent? The leaves by the gate. They’re turning.’

‘They’re turning here too,’ I said. It was true.

‘They’re nearly all down now,’ she said. ‘Soon there will be none.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You remember the gate.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘It’s cold now. The radiator—’

‘It works.’

‘You did not call back,’ she said. ‘That’s all right. I know you’re busy.’

‘I was busy,’ I said.

‘Busy,’ she said. She let it go. That was her way.

‘Are you sleeping?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you hear from your cousin?’

‘He sent a message. He’s fine.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘He’s at university now. Your uncle’s boy. Can you believe it.’

I could believe it. I said I could. I smiled into the phone. She could not see it. I did it anyway.

‘How is work?’ she said.

‘Fine.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Your room is the same. I made the bed. Your things are where you left them.’

I did not answer. There was nothing to say to that.

‘The gate is still green,’ she said. ‘The one you used to swing on.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You were small then,’ she said. ‘You are not small now.’

‘That autumn, Hao,’ she said. ‘When you were small. Before you left. I was thinking—’

She stopped. She left the sentence half-finished. She gave me room. That was her way too. The line held.

I looked at the window.

‘Is it raining there?’ I said.

‘It is,’ she said. ‘It rains all day.’

‘It rains here too,’ I said.

She waited. I could hear her waiting. Then she said, ‘Take care of yourself, Hao.’

My name. The provincial way.

‘I will,’ I said.

‘Goodnight,’ she said.

‘Goodnight.’

I put the phone down. I was tired. People heard things when they were tired. That was the explanation.

I said my name the way he had said it, silently, the wrong way. It did not sound like my name. I said it again, under my breath. The same.

I brushed my teeth, turned out the light, closed my eyes.

But.

Hao.

My own name, the provincial way, in a boy’s voice. My mother said it like that, three hundred kilometres away. This voice was not hers. It was not mine either.