I remember the woman who didn't speak.
She came to the restaurant every day. The same time. The same clothes. A gray sweater. Too big. The sleeves were rolled up. Her hands were thin. The fingers were long. The nails were short. She wore no rings. She carried a bucket. A rag. She cleaned the floors. The tables. The kitchen. She worked fast. Silent. She finished. She left. She didn't look at anyone. She didn't say anything. Her name was Iryna. From Ukraine. Kyiv. I knew because Xiao Liu told me. He knew because he asked. No one else asked.
I remember the first time I heard her voice.
It was late. The restaurant was empty. Lin was in the front. Master Zhang had left. Xiao Liu was in the basement. I was in the kitchen. Washing the last dishes. She was there. Cleaning the floor. Her bucket was by the sink. Her rag was in her hand. She was on her knees. Scrubbing. The floor was old. The tiles were cracked. The grout was gray. She scrubbed. Hard. Fast. Her hands were red. The knuckles were white.
I was drying a plate. I put it down. I watched her. She didn't see me. She scrubbed. Her hair was falling from her scarf. Gray. A few black strands. She was not old. Not young. Her face was thin. Her eyes were tired. She scrubbed.
I said her name. "Iryna."
She stopped. She looked up. Her eyes were brown. Dark. Like the river in my city. The Jialing. Brown. Fast. Carrying things. Her eyes were carrying something. I didn't know what.
"I have a sister," I said. In English. I didn't know Ukrainian. I didn't know Russian. I knew English. My English was good. I was going to be a translator. Before. "She is younger. She is in school."
She looked at me. She didn't speak.
"I send her money," I said. "Every month. For her school. For her food. For her clothes."
She was still looking at me. Her hands were still. The rag was in her fingers. Wet. The floor was wet. The light was dim.
"You have children?" I asked.
She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "A daughter." Her voice was low. Cracked. Like she hadn't used it for a long time. "In Kyiv. She is sixteen. She wants to go to university."
She looked down at the floor. The wet tiles. The gray grout.
"I send her money," she said. "Every month. For her school. For her food. For her clothes."
She went back to scrubbing. I went back to the dishes. The water was cold. My hands were cold. The cracks were open. I washed. I dried. I stacked. She scrubbed. The kitchen was quiet. Only the sound of water. The sound of the rag on the tiles. The sound of our breathing.
I remember the day I helped her send money.
She came to me. After work. The restaurant was closing. Lin was counting money. Master Zhang was gone. Xiao Liu was upstairs. I was in the kitchen. Drying the last plate.
She was standing by the door. Her bucket was in her hand. Her rag was in the bucket. She was looking at me.
"You speak English," she said.
I nodded.
"You write letters?"
I nodded.
She took something from her pocket. A piece of paper. Folded. Small. She opened it. Her hands were shaking. The paper was old. Worn. The edges were soft. There was writing on it. Ukrainian. I couldn't read it.
"My sister," she said. "In Lviv. She helps. She sends money to my daughter. But she is old. She has no money. She has nothing."
She put the paper on the counter. She pointed to an address. "This is my daughter. In Kyiv. She lives with my mother. My mother is old. She has no money. She has nothing."
She looked at me. Her eyes were brown. Dark. Carrying something.
"I work here," she said. "I wash floors. I clean. I have no papers. I cannot go to the bank. I cannot send money."
She put her hand on the counter. Her fingers were thin. The nails were short. The knuckles were white.
"You speak English," she said. "You write letters. You can help me."
I looked at the paper. The address. The words I couldn't read. I thought about my sister. In Chongqing. The letters I sent. The money I sent. The words I wrote. "I am fine. I am working. I am sending money. I will come back." I didn't know if I would come back. But I wrote it. Every month. Because my sister needed to believe it.
"Yes," I said. "I can help."
I remember the first letter I wrote for her.
We sat in the kitchen. The lights were off. Only the small lamp over the stove was on. Iryna was across from me. Her hands were on the table. Her fingers were thin. Her nails were short. She was looking at the paper. The blank paper. The pen was in my hand.
"What do you want to say?" I asked.
She was quiet for a long time. The lamp was dim. The kitchen was dark. The water in the pipes was running. Low. Far away.
"Tell her I am well," she said. Her voice was low. "Tell her I work. Tell her I have money. Tell her she can go to university. Tell her I will send more. Tell her to study hard. Tell her I am proud."
She stopped. Her hands were on the table. Her fingers were moving. Small movements. Like she was writing. Like she was writing her own letter. In her head. In her language.
"Tell her I will come back," she said. "Tell her I will come back soon."
She looked at me. Her eyes were brown. Dark. Carrying something.
"I will come back," she said. "I will. When she is in university. When she has her degree. When she is a doctor. She wants to be a doctor. She will be a doctor. Then I will come back."
I wrote the words. In English. The address was in Ukrainian. I copied it. Carefully. The letters were strange. Cyrillic. I had seen them before. In Russian class. Before. I was going to be a translator. Before.
I folded the paper. I put it in an envelope. I gave it to her.
She held it. Her hands were shaking. She put it in her pocket. Close to her. Close to her heart.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was low. Cracked. Like she hadn't used it for a long time. "Thank you."
I remember the letters after.
Every month. She came to me. After work. When the kitchen was empty. When the lights were off. She brought the money. Folded. Small. In her pocket. She put it on the table. Her hands were shaking. She gave me the address. The same address. The words I couldn't read.
I wrote the letter. The same words. "I am well. I am working. I have money. Study hard. I am proud. I will come back soon." The same words. Every month. Because her daughter needed to believe them.
I put the money in the envelope. I put the letter in the envelope. I sealed it. I took it to the post office. The woman behind the counter knew me. She didn't ask questions. She took the envelope. She weighed it. She put a stamp on it. She put it in the bin. I watched it fall. Into the bin. With the other letters. Going to other places. Other countries. Other people. Waiting.
I went back to the restaurant. I told Iryna. "It is sent." She nodded. She did not smile. But her eyes were different. Not carrying. Something else. Something lighter.
I remember the day she told me about her husband.
It was late. The restaurant was closing. The lights were off. The kitchen was dark. We were sitting at the table. The small lamp was on. Iryna was across from me. Her hands were on the table. Her fingers were thin. Her nails were short.
"He was a worker," she said. "In the factory. In Kyiv. He worked there all his life. He was a good worker. A good man."
She looked at her hands. Her fingers were moving. Small movements.
"When the factory closed, he did not know what to do. He had been there since he was young. Since before we married. Since before our daughter was born. It was his life. The factory. The work. The men he worked with. It was everything."
She stopped. Her hands were still.
"He started to drink. At first, a little. Then more. Then every day. He could not find work. There was no work. He sat at home. He drank. He waited. For the factory to open. For the work to come back. It did not come back."
She looked at me. Her eyes were brown. Dark. Carrying something.
"He died," she said. "One night. He was drinking. He fell. He did not wake up."
She was quiet for a long time. The lamp was dim. The kitchen was dark. The water in the pipes was running. Low. Far away.
"He did not want to die," she said. "He wanted to work. He wanted to be a good man. A good father. But there was no work. There was no factory. There was nothing."
She put her hands in her lap. She looked at the table. The wood was old. Dark. The lamp was dim.
"I came here," she said. "To work. To send money. For my daughter. For her future. He would want that. He would want her to be a doctor. He would want her to have a life. A good life."
She stood up. She put her hands in her pockets. She walked to the door. She stopped. She turned.
"Thank you," she said. "For the letters. For the money. For helping."
She opened the door. The air was cold. The sky was dark. She walked away. I sat in the kitchen. The lamp was dim. The water in the pipes was running. I thought about her husband. The factory. The work. The drinking. The fall. The not waking up. I thought about my father. The noodle stand. The coughing. The hospital. The bed. The not waking up. I thought about the words I wrote in the letters. "I will come back soon." I didn't know if I would come back. I didn't know if she would come back. But we wrote it. Because our daughters needed to believe it.
I remember the day she was gone.
I came to work. The kitchen was loud. Master Zhang was at the stove. Xiao Liu was wiping tables. Lin was in the front. I went to the sink. The water was cold. I put my hands in. I washed. I dried. I stacked. Iryna did not come.
I asked Xiao Liu. "Iryna?"
He shook his head. "She was taken. This morning. The police. They came to her room. They took her."
I stood at the sink. The water was cold. My hands were in it. I could not feel them. They were numb.
"She had no papers," Xiao Liu said. "No papers. They sent her back. To Ukraine."
He went back to his tables. I stood at the sink. The water ran. The dishes came. I washed. I dried. I stacked. My hands moved. They did not feel. I thought about the letters. The envelopes. The post office. The woman behind the counter. The bin. The letters falling. Going to other places. Other countries. Other people. Waiting. I thought about her daughter. In Kyiv. Sixteen. Wanting to be a doctor. Waiting for a letter. Waiting for money. Waiting for her mother to come back. I thought about the words I wrote. "I am well. I am working. I have money. Study hard. I am proud. I will come back soon." The words were not true. Not anymore.
I remember the last letter.
I wrote it that night. In the basement. The light was dim. The bulb buzzed. Old Li was asleep. His cigarettes were on the bed. The smoke was in the walls. Xiao Liu was in his bed. His back was to me. I had a piece of paper. A pen. I knew the address. I knew the words. I wrote them. The same words. "I am well. I am working. I have money. Study hard. I am proud. I will come back soon."
I folded the paper. I put it in an envelope. I put the envelope in my pocket. The next day, I went to the post office. The woman behind the counter knew me. She did not ask questions. I gave her the envelope. She weighed it. She put a stamp on it. She put it in the bin. I watched it fall. With the other letters. Going to other places. Other countries. Other people. Waiting.
I walked back to the restaurant. The street was wet. The sky was gray. The old town was there. The colored houses. Red. Yellow. Blue. The cobblestones were black. Shining. I thought about Iryna. On the train. Going back to Kyiv. To her daughter. To her mother. To the city. The factory. The empty factory. The apartment. The room where her husband died. I thought about her daughter. Waiting. At the station. For her mother to come back. I thought about the letter. In the bin. With the other letters. Going to other places. Other countries. Other people. Waiting. I thought about the words. "I will come back soon." I didn't know if she would come back. I didn't know if she would see her daughter. I didn't know if her daughter would become a doctor. I didn't know anything. But I wrote the words. Because she needed them to be true. Because her daughter needed them to be true. Because sometimes, the words are all we have.
I remember the words she taught me.
Not with her voice. With her hands. Scrubbing the floor. Red. Cracked. Carrying the bucket. Carrying the rag. Carrying the money. Folded. Small. In her pocket. Carrying the letters. To her daughter. To her mother. To the city. To the factory. To the man who fell and did not wake up. Carrying the words. "I am well. I am working. I have money. Study hard. I am proud. I will come back soon." The words were not true. But she carried them. Across the border. Across the city. Across the years. To her daughter. Who was waiting. Who was studying. Who would become a doctor. Who would have a life. A good life. Because her mother carried the words. Every month. From the kitchen. From the floor. From the cold water. From the hands that were red. Cracked. From the silence. From the not speaking. She carried them. And I wrote them. That was all I could do.