Searching for Sylvie Lee by Jean Kwok Read Free Book Online

need you here.”
    At this, Amy’s jaw slackened. “Are you crazy? She doesn’t need to change my diaper.”
    “I can pay for the tickets,” I said, even though in my head, I watched the figures dwindle in my savings account.
    But Ma was already shaking her head, always the peacemaker, her own needs buried under a mountain of obligation. “No, I must work. You go, Sylvie.”
    “She has the right to see her mother,” I said, facing Pa. I was not afraid of him, not like Ma and Amy. My own guilt at neglecting Ma’s feelings built up in me like hot air, egging me on. Pa was so unfair, so old-fashioned and sexist. My voice rose. “Why are you stopping her?”
    A dark streak of red raced up his rigid neck, the strained tendons prominent. “You have no respect,” he ground out.
    “No, stop,” Ma said, stepping between us with fluttering hands. She spoke so quickly, I could barely make out the words. “No matter, no matter. I not go. I not want to. Sylvie, please stop. Please.” She was almost in tears, a pale pink flush drowning her eyes.
    I watched her with sharp and painful pity and sighed, my anger deflating like a pricked balloon. How could I ever convince Pa if Ma insisted on fighting against herself? I turned to Amy. “Do you want to come?”
    Amy, so much like Ma, had eaten from frightened hare meat. Her eyes enormous behind her thick lenses, she said, “A foreign country? Thanks, but I haven’t even been anywhere else in the U.S.—unless you count Hoboken. Strange language, weird food, terrorists . . . I’ll stay right here.”
    “You need to expand your horizons.”
    “I like my boundaries just where they are, thank you very much,” Amy said, and that was the end of our discussion. Secretly, I was relieved. I would be able to return alone.
    The flight attendant’s voice came on through the intercom, telling us to get ready for departure, first in English, then in Dutch. I felt her words sink into my bones. The engines roared and we took off.

Chapter 7
    Amy
    Wednesday, May 4
    I spend the entire flight counting the number of rows to the emergency exit in case we crash, not only due to fear but out of loyalty to Sylvie. The plane is too hot. The huge, heavy man next to me keeps claiming the armrest with his plump elbow and I decide to cede him this battle, scrunching myself as small as possible in my seat. I’m thankful I have the window. I’m so worried about Sylvie that I don’t have much anxiety left to wonder if we’ll crash. Any terrorists can wait until after I find out what happened to my sister. I’m too nervous to sleep, even when they turn off the lights. There’s a wide selection of movies available in the screen built into the back of the seat in front of me, but they all seem to revolve around murder or sex. Finally, I plug my headphones in and tune in to the music station, trying to relax. The constant hum and vibration of the engines makes me feel nauseous, and that giant man looms beside me. It’s like there’s no way out. I don’t have enough air. But I can’t panic. Sylvie needs me. I breathe shallowly for hours in the dark.
    After what feels like an eternity, the lights come back on and the flight attendants hand out cardboard boxes filled with our prepackaged breakfasts: a flat container of blueberry yogurt, a little closed cup of orange juice, plastic utensils so we can’t attack anyone, and a cold turkey and cheese sandwich on hard bread, plus coffee or tea. I ask for tea. I’m already vibrating with tension, lack of sleep, and fear; I don’t need much caffeine. The man next to me has slept soundly with his special neck pillow and now stretches. Since he’s awake, I slide open the window shade and a shaft of the bright morning sunlight slices into the dark cabin like a knife.
    Below me, I spot flat, inscrutable postage-stamped parcels in various shades of green, pieced together like a puzzle, lit up here and there by geometric slashes of brilliant orange, white, and