“Oh,” she says. “You don’t want me to meet her.”
“I do, it’s just,” you say. “She’s not the easiest—”
“It’s fine, Will. I get it.” And she does. Karen doesn’t let you ruin things. She understands your anxiety. She waits until you’re ready for them to meet.
When you do introduce them, your mother doesn’t say much. She smiles warmly, shakes her hand. Speaks some Taiwanese to her. Karen answers back. In Taiwanese. Karen says something about you that you don’t quite understand. Your mom laughs. They both turn and look at you, smiling. What the hell is happening? This is not the way things are supposed to go. This is supposed to be when things fall apart but instead they are doing the opposite.
And then you stop being dead.
END ROMANTIC MONTAGE
BLACK AND WHITE
POST-DEATH
NOTICE OF REINSTATEMENT
RE: WILLIS WU
This is to confirm completion of the mandatory forty-five (45) day silent period following your most recent death event. You may now resume activities. Please note that by re-entering the system, you hereby acknowledge and agree to waive any and all status or other accumulated benefits you may have accrued pre-death. No continuity with any previous role will be recognized.
—CENTRAL CASTING
You share the news with Karen. This should be a good thing. For you to be back at work, with more purpose, more money to spend on dates. To save toward a future. You celebrate together over beer and noodles.
You start working again. Same shit jobs, but now you have confidence. Now you have Karen. You start doing better. Still bit parts, but the bits are slightly larger.
You climb the ladder. Again.
Generic Asian Man Number Three, Two, One.
Karen’s career continues on its ascent as well—a higher, faster arc than yours. That doesn’t bother you. You’re happy for her. You are. You know she’s destined for bigger things than you. Dating someone more successful than you comes with the territory of being who you are—there are more roles for Karen. Apples and oranges. Doesn’t bother you in the least.
You see each other less. Twice a week becomes once, becomes once every other week. You talk but you don’t.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Where have you been?”
“Working.”
“Okay.”
“A lot.”
“Do they not give you breaks?”
“I have to focus on my career.”
You do. And Karen supports you. Her support gives you even more confidence which leads to even more work which leads to more confidence. No more Generic—now you’re a guest star again. There’s something about you that’s different. They can see it, whoever they are that make these decisions. You’ve got that intangible something now. That’s what they tell you. Guest star, guest star, guest star, and then next thing you know, you’re recurring. You’re on the verge of something, a big break. You can feel it. And then it happens for you. A meeting with the director.
He tells you: All these years. Ever since you were a boy. What have you dreamed of? He tells you it’s right there. You’re so close. Just keep working. Any day now.
You can’t believe the news. Kung Fu Guy. Any day now.
The plan is to share the news with Karen over dinner. But then she shares her news first. A baby.
“A what?” you say.
“A baby. You know, one of those small humans. You’re not happy?”
“Of course I am,” you say. “It’s just, I don’t know. I can’t see myself that way. I’m a Special Guest Star. I’m doing better than I ever have, but I still don’t make enough to support a family.”
“News flash. I’m doing pretty well myself.”
“Oh I know you are.”
“I don’t know what that means, and we should talk about that later. But for now, I just want to ask, why are you ruining this moment, Willis?”
“Oh my God,” you say. You are ruining this moment. You’re an idiot. “I’m so sorry.” You kiss Karen’s face and neck and face again, you hold her tight then get worried you’re holding her too tight. You take out your stash of envelopes and make a decent pile of tens and twenties and you buy a tiny ring and you get down on one knee and you ask her to marry you. She says yes.
The two of you get married at the courthouse. You have a new resolve, throwing yourself into work. She wonders aloud where you’ll all live. Chinatown? In the SRO?
A month. Two months. A trimester. Another. Then one more. Then:
You’re parents.
You hold your daughter in your arms. She looks at you and you know that she came from somewhere else, somewhere beyond your comprehension, the little tiny interior space you’ve been living in, inside your own dumb head. You know she is an alien from another planet here to save you. A being from some faraway land. She takes one look at you and you know that she knows things about you and you know things about yourself that you didn’t before. You have been a father for approximately ten seconds and you know for certain that you will never be the same.
You and Karen name her Phoebe.
Karen and Phoebe and you, in the SRO. You can’t raise this kid here, you think. But for the time being, until you make it, it’ll have to do. All of you in the room on eight. Cozy. Noisy. The sounds of the building traveling up the central column. Hot garbage wafting up in thermal waves. The baby crying through the night, the neighbors banging on your floor and ceiling. You do the cop show. As Ethnic Recurring. The hours are longer but the envelopes are fatter. You are on the verge. Again. Like you have been for a while.
You come home one day and Karen’s making noises at the baby. The evening switch-off—she hands the baby to you, gets ready to go to her job now.
“I have big news,” she says, her back turned, getting dressed for work. She’s uncharacteristically nervous. You can hear it in her voice.
“Okay,” you say, “let’s hear it.” You don’t know why you said it like that. That starts things off on the wrong note already. Karen knows this is going to be weird, and on some level, so do you.
“My own show,” she says. “A huge role. I’m playing a young mother.” For once it’s about her, as it should be. Breathless, it all comes tumbling out, the responsibility, how important the role is, the anchor of the story. She can’t contain herself.