maripaz: Rong Si’s dad’s happy bubble bursts, and he does all the right things. Or does he?
Part 2: Rong Cheng is too nice
I can still remember that day clearly. I was stressed from juggling my extracurriculars, academics and running around town trying to be a campus couple. I had just pulled an all-nighter and was in the middle of a much needed nap when the buzzer rang.
It was a beautiful day, bright skies, bright green trees and just a hint of summer in the air. I opened the door and saw Feifei in a thundercloud. Her eyes were dead and locked onto some space just below my face as her mouth moved.
“Let’s break up.”
Of course, the words cut me awake and I could only stare at her. I already knew the relationship was on rocky ground and was already starting to wonder if maybe I was causing her more pain than good. So I said “OK” and slowly shut the door.
Later she told me that she had wanted me to protest and fight for her, and looking back, I can see how my response could have been devastating. At the time, I thought I was doing her a favor by letting her go easily, but it became just another example of how we simply didn’t understand each other.
The beginning of college played out exactly as I had envisioned it. I attended my classes, participated in school activities and made frequent trips across the city to be with Feifei.
I could tell she had established herself quickly on campus in much the same way as she had in high school. She soon fell into an art crowd, and she did all the stereotypical things one expects from falling into an art crowd.
She would go on long trips with them and recount to me all their wild adventures. At first, they seemed to bring her happiness and joy, but sometimes, her eyes would shine a little too bright. The pitch of her voice rang a little too high and her tempo jarringly fast. I thought that maybe it was just the passion and unbridled energy of the truly artistic and that I couldn’t understand it as a staid non-creative.
Sometimes she would come back from her trips and encounters in a funk. She would stare at the wall or drape herself on the couch, unable to move. If she wasn’t staring dead ahead, she was crying silently or raucously, hot tears mingling with her snot. I chalked it up to just hormones, and maybe lack of sleep.
Through it all, she still tried to be fairly nice and considerate to me. Then one night, I was studying next to her as she drew. We were sitting in the art studio, me with my books and her at her canvas when she suddenly started stabbing the canvas with the brush.
Her face was frozen and her eyes were blank as she continued to slash mechanically at the canvas. I ran over to her and grabbed her wrists.
“What are you doing?” I said.
Her eyes, which had been dead just moments ago, were now full of fire. “Fuck off,” she said, and shook her head.
I stared at her.
She rolled her eyes at me and then seemed to send me a challenge. “What?” she said.
I let go of her wrists and put my hands on her shoulders. “Look, you must be stressed out. We can go out for a walk, clear our heads. Or I can grab something for you to eat. Want some frog legs? If I rush, I can probably make it to the vendor before he closes for the day.”
She let out a frustrated groan. “Ughh! Stop!! You can’t just solve everything! Life isn’t that easy! I’m tired of you thinking you can just swoop in here and have all the solutions.”
What was she talking about?
She looked at me as if she were trapped and said, “No! You can’t just solve everything. It’s not like when you have writer’s block, and you just drink tea or listen to music and get right back to your writing. I don’t even know why I’m doing this anymore. I hate being around you because you make me feel like shit.”
What is she talking about?
“I know I’m being ridiculous and you’re thinking right now that this isn’t your fault, but that just makes me feel like even more shit. I’m tired of living up to your standards and being judged for my lifestyle.”
I didn’t judge her lifestyle.
“I know you’re not judging my lifestyle and you’re the best; you support everything I do, but I feel it. Fuck.” Her eyes formed that little crease in the forehead that marred her beautiful features. “Oh my god, forget it,” she said, as she placed her fingers on her temples. “I can’t do this anymore.”
She looked up at me, defeated. “I don’t… it’s not your fault. I don’t know why I’m like this. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
She looked at once strong and broken, and as always, I went to her and placed my arms around her. I didn’t say anything but just held her as she let it all out.
Different variations of this scene would play out in the months preceding our break-up, and so it was that when she finally asked for one, I accepted it and did not cling on as I wanted.
I poured myself into my studies and kept busy with extra-curriculars. I heard the occasional rumors of her “turning wild” in my absence, saw the pitying glances and carefully put my mask back on.
When she finally showed up at my doorsteps again, all she had to do was look up at me, say “Rong Cheng”, and I swallowed her in my arms and vowed never to let go.
I knew she had turned uncharacteristically meek and that a part of her seemed snuffed out or missing, but she didn’t have the extreme highs and lows anymore. The relationship was pleasant, if not exactly exciting, and when college ended, we got married as a matter of course.
When I broached the topic, she had let out a little laugh and a “I should be lucky to get married to someone like you, right?” That line should have seemed prescient to me, but I was just happy to have her back and potentially with me for the rest of our lives.
And when Rong Si was born, I did have her back, or at least, shared with our son. Our married life started out as pleasantly, and perhaps vacantly, as our relationship after the break-up, but with the pregnancy, her old vim returned.
She descended on Rong Si’s nursery like her life depended on it and talked animatedly about the different design ideas she had swimming around in her head. She took up crocheting and spent hours knitting, taking out and re-doing countless hats, capes and booties. Parenting and baby books were devoured, and she even attended healthy cooking classes. I had never eaten so well.
When Rong Si arrived, her energy was diverted into caring for this little being, and I would come home every day to a truly happy tableau. Nursery songs came out cheerily from her lips, she would engage in spontaneous games with Rong Si that reminded me of the random activities we used to do back in high school, and sometimes, when I brought up some “stuffy old rule” that I had grown up with, she would wink conspiratorially at Rong Si and whisk him away to the safety of fun. Rong Si had inherited his mother’s smile, and when I saw that smile light up his innocent little face, I loved him almost as much as I loved his mother.
But then he went to kindergarten. And maybe, as the light in her life left, the darkness returned. There were many days when I would come home from work to see her sitting in the semi-dark, the curtains only partly open and shining a ghastly light on her frozen face. I knew I should have been wondering where Rong Si was and how he was doing, but I confess, I only thought of her and how to get her back again.
In desperation, I mentioned art classes. I didn’t know if that would bring back painful memories, but she surprisingly agreed and I looked up some art classes nearby that she could attend. Rong Si’s room was converted to a makeshift studio and slowly, her depression seemed to lift a bit.
I would catch a smile on her face, an ease and a lightness. After some time though, I noticed that the happiness was often followed by a look of guilt and consternation. That line on her forehead came back, and I longed to ask but didn’t want to break our uneasy peace.
When I finally did ask, casually, about her class, she looked startled and then relieved. She told me about the instructor and how freeing his class and instruction were. It was the first genuine smile she shared with me in what felt like years.
I was no fool and well aware that a male instructor and my beautiful wife might have spelled trouble, but I truly wanted her to be happy. I encouraged discussion about her art class and did not shy away from referencing her instructor as simply a friend.
This illusion of peace continued until, once again, she devolved into an agitated state. I could no longer deny the prolonged crying spells she would go through in the privacy of her studio. I didn’t know what to do. She was unwell, then better with the art classes. Then unwell, but she signed up for more art classes. And now she was clearly spiraling.
It was almost with relief when she finally confessed to me that she was in love with her instructor.
“I’m sorry,” she had said. “I know I’m terrible. I’m really grateful for you; I love Rong Si, and I swear, I didn’t do anything with the teacher. We don’t even talk about anything intimate or private. He knows I’m married and that I’m not going to leave. I thought I could just bring the happiness I feel with him to my life and not get more involved or fall too deeply. I know you’re stressed with work.” (How did she know?) “I know you’re taking care of Rong Si too.” (I am also his parent, after all.) “I want to be happy here. I’m always going to you for help. What do you want me to do? I don’t know what to do.”
My beautiful wife was in pain. We limped along like this until one day, I saw her struggle out of a reverie and push an exhausting look of concern on her face as she asked about my day. For the first time in my life, I felt a big void outside my heart. I finally knew what it meant when people wrote about the world dropping beneath their feet and their voices sounding disembodied and strange. Mine felt the same as my body continued to float in the void and my mouth formed the words: “We don’t need to continue like this. Would you like a divorce? I support you finding happiness with Cheng Yitu.”
She looked panic-stricken and then lost, and her eyes shined up at me, pleading. “I don’t deserve you.”
I made myself laugh. “I guess not.” I put a smile on myself, for her sake. “You don’t have to find happiness with him. You don’t have to do anything. But you also don’t have to live in misery because you feel obligated to be with me. I know you did your best. I can move out or I can stay here with Rong Si if you want to be with him. You know I would support you financially, but I know that you’d feel guilty if I did that so I’ll say that I won’t.” At that, she smiled. “Let me know what you decide. I’ll try to be accommodating but not too accommodating.”
I turned to leave, but she got up and reached out. “Rong Cheng. You’re right. Thank you. I’m going to go to him now and see what he thinks.” This time her eyes shined up at me with genuine peace and hope.
She left that night, and while I lay in bed with slow tears trickling down, I wished her the best with all my heart.
Only, that Cheng Yitu. Why did he have to go and die?
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