Pamela Pan
This short story was first published in Voices of the Valley: Through the Window by CWC Tri-Valley, 2020
Spring of 1996 arrives. I’m not ready.
I leave the classroom at the University of the Pacific and enter the green lawn. The sun warms my face, the breeze ruffles my hair, but I feel no joy.
My future lies in limbo. Mom paid my tuition and living expenses with her life savings for my first year as an MBA student. For my second year, Dr. Green, my Management Information Systems (MIS) professor, hired me as a teaching assistant. The job pays tuition and a $900 monthly stipend—a life saver. I send $200 a month to Mom in China, guilty I have made her poor with my selfish desire to study in the U.S. Now Grandma needs cataract surgery. Mom cannot afford it, even though she takes in extra students to tutor on weekends, in addition to her teaching job. Mom overworks, and Grandma might go blind, all because of me.
I will graduate in a month and a half. My degree will be useless unless I can find a job that will sponsor me for a work visa so I can earn money. Imagine Grandma’s joy if I could say, “Hey, Granny, I’ll pay for your surgery.”
How many resumes have I sent out? Probably close to a hundred. I have received only one phone call.
“Let’s schedule an interview,” the woman said.
“Do you sponsor employees for work visas? I’ll need one,” I said.
Pause. “We don’t. We can’t afford the attorney fees. Let’s not interview then.”
That’s it. Zero interviews after months of searching through job ads, writing and rewriting resumes, and begging my friends to review my cover letters. I understand why employers wouldn’t want to hire a new graduate with no work experience and for whom English is a second language. And yet, the urgency of finding a job haunts me, day and night.
I leave the lush lawn and cross the street toward my apartment. The beauty of spring belongs to my American-born classmates, some of whom have congregated under a blooming peach tree, laughing and talking. They have a job, or have one waiting for them. I am the desolate one who will soon need to pack up everything and return home.
“Hua Fei, Hui Fei!” I heard the voice of my roommate Lan, a third-year doctoral student from Shanghai. We met during my first semester at UOP, hit it off right away, and have been roommates since.
Lan runs toward me, her face flushed. “Someone called ten minutes ago. He wants to interview you.”
My heart leaps. “Who? What company?”
“Here, I wrote it down. He says to be there next Monday at 11:00.”
I grab the paper, joy pulsing through my veins. “Really? Did he say where his company is located?”
“San Jose.”
My heart sinks. I have ridden in a car to San Jose before and remember that from Stockton, the drive took almost two hours. I had hoped it would be closer, like Sacramento, Pleasanton, or Stockton. “What should I do? I don’t even have a car.”
“Maybe you can borrow Lao Zhang’s car? You used it when you got your license. It’s old, but reliable.”
“But I’ve been on the freeway only twice,” I said, my voice cracking with anxiety, “when Lao Zhang taught me how to drive.”
“But you passed the driving test and got your license.”
“That’s because they don’t test freeway driving, or I would’ve failed. I can’t possibly drive to San Jose.”
Lan pats my arm. “No worries. We have four days before Monday. Let’s practice. I’ll be your coach.”
That afternoon, I maneuver the sixteen-year-old Toyota Corolla, its body covered with scratches and dents, onto I-5. My heart beats: ba boom, ba boom, ba boom. The passing cars and the gigantic trucks—there are so many of them—pump fear and adrenaline rush into my body.
“We are near Tracy,” Lan says after a while. “Let’s exit and turn back. Tomorrow, we’ll go to Pleasanton. The day after, a trial run to the company.”
The dreaded and eagerly awaited Monday arrives. Thanks to the practice runs with Lan, I reach the brick building in an office park in San Jose with little trouble, although my legs shake, my back aches, and my arms hurt. I push open the glass door with the words “Website Genie” stuck to it. The receptionist ushers me into a room full of desks with computers. A man who looks to be in his forties sits at one. To my surprise, he appears Chinese, but I dare not ask.
He rises. “I’m David Chen. We’re a start-up specializing in building websites for small businesses. Do you know what the important elements of a good website are?”
The interview begins. He seems satisfied with my answers until he asks, “Why do you seek a position in my company?”
Duh. Because you put an ad in the San Francisco Chronicle. “I’m graduating this spring and need a job to support myself,” I said.
“You are an international student. Do you need our sponsorship for a work visa?”
“Yes.”
His brows squeeze together. “That’ll be an extra burden.”
My throat tightens. I force myself to ask, “Could you please at least consider it?”
“I’m afraid not. Also, if we sponsor you, we’ll be obligated to keep you even when business is slow. Not a good policy.”
The room feels stifling. My eyelids burn. I need to get out before my disappointment overwhelms me. “Thank you anyway for interviewing me.”
“Wait.” David Chen gestures at me to sit down, eyes on my resume. “Hua Fei, you graduated from People’s University in Beijing? I’m from Beijing too. Considering we are from the same country and city, I’ll give you a one-month trial. How about a salary of $2000 for this month, hours 8-5, Monday through Friday? If your work is satisfactory, I’ll hire you and do the sponsorship.”
I cannot believe my ears. “Thank you! May I leave early on Mondays and Wednesdays? I have classes at UOP from 6-9.”
He frowns. “For a new hire, you have a lot of demands. Ok, you can leave early if you make up the hours on other days. Can you start next Monday?”
Of course I can start Monday. He introduces me to the other employees, all male, except the receptionist. Most of them are young, around my age.
I have a job! I sing along with the radio all the way back to Stockton. The sun radiates blessings, and the roadside grass greets me with luxuriant green loveliness.
Commuting to San Jose from Stockton turns out to be harder than I imagined. I beg Lao Zhang to let me borrow his car for a month. On Monday, I leave Stockton at six. Big mistake. I meet horrific traffic. By the time I open the office door, the clock points at nine. David’s face darkens, especially after I explain I need to get off work at four. “So you come late and leave early?”
“I told you I have a six o’clock class.”
He scowls but does not say anything further.
On Tuesday morning, I leave home at 5:30 and enter the office at 8:30.
“You need to be here on time,” David says.
“I’m sorry.” I suppress my tears. “I’ll try harder.”
I remain at work until 7:30, making up the hours I missed on Monday, and also trying to make good progress on the project David has assigned me to show my dedication. By the time I return to Stockton, the sky has turned pitch black. I collapse on the sofa. It has been only two days, and I am already exhausted. How will I keep this up? I want to go to bed, but my stomach is growling, and my homework awaits me, as do the papers to grade for Dr. Green’s MIS class.
On the kitchen table sit two covered bowls. A note, in Lan’s beautiful handwriting, reads, “I’ll be in class. I’ve prepared dinner for you since you’ll be tired after a long day. Hope my cooking isn’t too bad.”
My suppressed tears flood down my cheeks. Their saltiness mixes with the delicious sweet and sour pork and the tender green spinach Lan has cooked for me. She has been like a sister and so supportive. Just for her sake, I cannot give up.
By the time I finish my homework and half of Dr. Green’s papers, it is already past midnight. I have to go to bed.
On Wednesday morning, I leave at 5:00 and arrive at 8:15. Still late. On Thursday, I start at 4:30 a.m. For the first time, I arrive early, at 7:45. Immersed in my work, the day disappears quickly. At 8:00 p.m., I put a final touch on the website I have designed for a clothing store and send the link to David. This whole week, David’s face clouds when he sees me. I hope this website will increase his confidence in employing me.
After I reach home and devour the dinner Lan has prepared for me, I dive into grading. By the time I go to bed, it is 1:30 a.m., and not a soul stirs in the whole world.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Friday morning. The alarm jolts me from peaceful slumber. My hand pushes the snooze button. Beep! Beep! It wakes me up again. Let me throw it out of the window. But my subconscious mind summons David Chen’s unhappy face. Suddenly wide awake, I jump out of bed, dress, and run out of the door. Darn! 5:10. If I don’t arrive at the office on time, I may not have a job anymore. I see Grandma’s cataract-filled eyes looking at me with sadness.
At 7:15, I veer onto the 84. Thankfully, traffic is moving. I may make it after all. My eyelids feel heavy. How I wish I could sleep, even for a few minutes. I pinch my thigh. It hurts but removes some sleepiness.
Bang! I jolt in my seat. My eyes fly open. Where am I? Oh, No! I have fallen asleep behind the wheel. My car has run into the bottom of the hill, off the side of the freeway. Panic rattles me as I turn the ignition to restart the car. Nothing. I have ruined it.
Heart thumping, fear gripping my shoulders, I push the door open and walk to the front of the Corolla. The lights are broken. In fact, the whole right side is caved in, gaping at me like an open accusing eye.
Darkness envelops me, as though the universe has turned into a black hole. I want to disappear into the bottomless abyss like a speck of dirt. I trudge to the back of the car and sink into the grass near the road. Vehicles whiz by. No one pays attention. It doesn’t matter. They can run over me. My job, future, everything is ruined. How can I continue living if I have destroyed this precious car Lao Zhang has kindly lent me, how can I live if I have spoiled my chance of the only job I could get, and how will I even go home if this car won’t run?
I cover my face and sob. I don’t care anymore. Let me just die like this.
How long have I sat and cried? One hour, two hours? When I raise my head again, fewer cars travel the road. My foggy eyes glimpse the green grass and trees down the other side of the road. A valley. If I had driven toward that side, even if I hadn’t been hit by an oncoming vehicle, I would have rolled down the hill and been killed instantly. Should I be grateful I have bumped into a hill rather than dropped down a slope? Maybe being killed would be better than this hopeless misery.
Vaguely, I feel someone tapping my shoulder. I turn and see a woman, who looks to be in her fifties, standing next to me. She appears tall and slim in her white shirt, azure blazer, and dark trousers. I stand up abruptly, dropping my purse on the ground.
She helps me pick up the scattered contents. Her hand lingers on a CD cover. “Su Rui, my favorite singer. Are you Chinese?”
“Yes, I am. Are you?”
She nods and switches to Mandarin. “Accidents are not uncommon. Why are you crying?”
Her words make my tears flow afresh. Somehow, I feel I can pour my heart out to her. I tell her everything, ending with, “Now you see, I don’t have anything left. My life is over.”
She laughs. “No, it isn’t. Let’s solve your problems one by one. First, we need to get your car into a repair shop. Do you have a triple A card?”
“What’s that?”
Her lips curve upward. The wrinkles around her eyes deepen. I never realized wrinkles could make a woman look so beautiful. “That’s the first thing you need after getting your license. Never mind, I’ll call a driver to tow your car. I just bought a cell phone last week. Second, did you say the man you work for, David Chen, is from Beijing?”
“He says he is.”
“That’s not how he should treat a fellow Chinese. He knows you live in Stockton, you’re still taking classes, and yet he requires you to be in San Jose at eight and work forty hours a week? That’s insensitive, to put it mildly.”
“But that’s the company schedule,” I blurt out. “I can’t expect special treatment, especially since I’m new.”
She lowers her head and purses her lips. After a while, she looks at me fully. “With your computer background and expected MBA, if you don’t mind a non-profit, maybe you can work for me. I have an office in Pleasanton. We focus on advocating for immigrant rights. Before you finish your school, maybe you can work from home, and come to the office once or twice a week to meet with me.”
My eyes open wide. “Really? And you’ll sponsor for a work visa?”
“I have to interview you first. Let’s do that in my office after we get your car into a garage. We’ll figure out how to get you home later. As for the visa, some employers make it sound like a big deal. It’s not. If I find you satisfactory after the interview, we can do that.”
I cannot believe this is real. “Why are you so kind to me?”
She looks thoughtful. “When I first stopped, it was because I couldn’t pass a young woman crying on the roadside without asking why. But after listening to your story, I see myself in you. Thirty years ago, I was in a desperate situation myself.”
I nod. “Do you think I can be like you one day?”
“Of course,” she says. “We all need help once in a while, but you can achieve your goals if you set your mind to them. I had car trouble too when I first started. One day I got off work and a tire exploded, stranding me in a bad neighborhood. A Chinese woman came to my rescue and saved my life. Now anytime I help others, I’m paying her back.”
Spring has finally arrived in my life. A beautiful one.
