Nights When Nothing Happened: A Novel

by Simon Han Narrated by James Chen

Overview

Named a Best Book of the Year by Time, The Washington Post, and Harper's Bazaar

“A tender, spiky family saga about love in all its mysterious incarnations.” -Lorrie Moore, author of A Gate at the Stairs and Birds of America

“Absolutely luminous . . . Weaves the transience of suburbia between the highs and lows of a family saga . . . Shocks, awes, and delights.” -Bryan Washington, author of Memorial

From the outside, the Chengs seem like so-called model immigrants. Once Patty landed a tech job near Dallas, she and Liang grew secure enough to have a second child, and to send for their first from his grandparents back in China. Isn't this what they sacrificed so much for? But then little Annabel begins to sleepwalk at night, putting into motion a string of misunderstandings that not only threaten to set their community against them but force to the surface the secrets that have made them fear one another. How can a man make peace with the terrors of his past? How can a child regain trust in unconditional love? How can a family stop burying its history and forge a way through it, to a more honest intimacy?

Nights When Nothing Happened is gripping storytelling immersed in the crosscurrents that have reshaped the American landscape, from a prodigious new literary talent.

Editorial Reviews

JANUARY 2021 - AudioFile

Narrator James Chen transports listeners to a quiet Dallas suburb in Han’s literary fiction debut. Patty and Liang Cheng came to the U.S. from China and achieved the American dream in a short time. But several misunderstandings caused by their daughter, Annabel, suddenly turn their lives upside down. Chen’s voice is smooth and pleasant—his speed and rhythm jibe with the laid-back pace of the story. At some point, though, listeners may think that there’s nothing happening as the conflict the immigrant family experiences unfolds ever so gradually. Be assured that persevering listeners of insightful stories are in for a treat. A.C. © AudioFile 2021, Portland, Maine

From the Publisher

Praise for Nights When Nothing Happened:

“A deeply affecting portrait of one family’s immigrant experience—and the toll that the American Dream takes on those who chase it.” —Harper's Bazaar

“How does a family find its footing after it leaves home for good?. . . . Rendered in a series of quick brush strokes, as if in a Raymond Carver story. . . . [and] seen from the shifting perspectives of mother, father, daughter and son—each fully, empathetically rendered. . . . this novel reminds us what it’s like navigating a foreign country. . . . Much to admire.” —The New York Times Book Review

“Entirely worth the investment . . . . Han’s expansive sympathy and twilight lyricism make Nights When Nothing Happened a poignant study of the immigrant experience. This is an author who understands on a profound level the way past trauma interacts with the pressures of assimilation to disrupt a good night’s sleep, even a life.” —The Washington Post

“Searing . . . .Han asks a timeless yet urgent question: Is it possible to feel truly safe in a place that wasn’t made for you?” —Time

“[A] dazzling debut . . . . In this subtle but deeply felt story, Han elegantly takes aim at suburban racism, generational trauma, and the secrets we keep from one another in order to stay afloat.” —Esquire

“Nights When Nothing Happened is very much about the private, shadowy parts of ordinary lives, but Han's evocative writing is anything but ordinary. . . . a brief novel best read slowly, so one can savor the resonance and originality Han wrings from the quotidian. . . . Han's gift at zeroing in on matters of the conflicted heart is its own reward.” —NPR 

“Han writes with sublime suspense. . . . [he] has a keen ability to write of not only the subtleties of the disappointments and loneliness that can be found within families, but also of how the specific and often unsubtle threats of American oppression, especially against perceived outsiders, can seep into the immigrant’s most intimate familial relationships.” —San Francisco Chronicle

“Elegant, elegiac. . . . Han’s creation of the Chengs is remarkable for his refusal to make them into heroic figures. He is bold enough to portray them, with great understanding and tenderness, as no one other than the striving, anxious, imperfect humans that they are.” —The Dallas Morning News

“Han excels at depicting bright, bland Plano, a suburb of ‘sprinkler-fed grass,’ ‘vanilla-scented pine cones,’ and ‘oven mitts and motion sensors.’ Even in carefully planned, hermetically sealed Plano, there's no controlling the cascade of events that ensue when a wild child is unleashed in a community that does not understand her family.”  —Star Tribune

“Outstanding. . . the suspense building is masterful. . . . It is not a happy family story, but it is nonetheless a satisfying one, full of introspection, the fragility created by self-doubt realistically depicted.” – Southern Review of Books

“Brings texture, nuance, and subtlety to the reductionist condescension of the 'model minority' trope.” —The Millions

“Han displays incredible range as a novelist, oscillating between honest, almost tangibly real scenes, opaque dreams and refractive memories. . . . . [his] prose is vivid yet restrained, and his characters are multidimensional and alive. Emotionally resonant and packed with nuance, this is an exemplary debut novel.” —BookPage (starred review)

“Han expertly shifts the ground under the narrative, constantly shaking the snow globe to nudge the reader's perspective away from the familiar. . . . . [the] characters are authentic, vulnerable, and utterly convincing, delivering one dynamite novel. An astutely realized portrait of the collateral damage wrought by the pursuit of the American dream.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred)

“In this exemplary debut, Han explores childhood trauma and the impact words and silence can have on both building and harming relationships. He writes with sensitivity and tenderness, allowing his fully fleshed-out characters to take on lives of their own and tell their heartbreaking perspectives directly to readers. Readers will be gripped by this beautiful debut.” —Booklist

“A tender, spiky family saga about love in all its mysterious incarnations. Simon Han is a wonderfully adventurous and sensitive writer.” —Lorrie Moore, author of A Gate at the Stairs and Birds of America

“In this beautiful, unsettling novel, Simon Han captures the state of being awake and yet asleep, of belonging and yet not, of waiting for the moment when the world opens up. He reveals how fragile we are, and what it takes to survive. An unbelievable debut.” —Kevin Wilson, author of Nothing to See Here
 
“Simon Han explores the desire to belong—to a marriage, a family, a community, a country. Nights When Nothing Happened is about how we use words and silences to connect and to wound, and how we make sacrifices for those we love. It broke my heart and gave me hope, all at the same time.” —Angie Kim, author of Miracle Creek

“Absolutely luminous. Han weaves the transience of suburbia between the highs and lows of a family saga, illustrating what a parent owes a child, what a child owes their parents, and what simply cannot be repaid. His novel shocks, awes, and delights.” —Bryan Washington, author of Memorial

“Achingly tender and emotionally devastating. A stunning debut that will stay with me.” —Charles Yu, author of Interior Chinatown

“In his beautifully written debut novel, Simon Han takes a keen look at immigration, family and love. Insightful and poignant.” —Jean Kwok, author of Searching for Sylvie Lee 

“Simon Han's suburban Dallas is every bit as haunting, and haunted, as John Cheever's Westchester County, illuminating the liminal spaces between American Dream and American nightmare. At the end of every quiet cul-de-sac lie equal parts beauty and madness.” —Tony Earley, author of Jim the Boy and Mr. Tall

 

Library Journal

06/01/2020

In an anticipated debut from Chinese-born, Texas-raised Han—he's won numerous fellowships and been published in venues from Guernica to Electric Literature—the Dallas-based Chengs are finally established enough to send for their son, still in China with his grandparents. But then little daughter Annabel starts sleepwalking, and the habit escalates dangerously to reveal family secrets and raise the question of trust.

JANUARY 2021 - AudioFile

Narrator James Chen transports listeners to a quiet Dallas suburb in Han’s literary fiction debut. Patty and Liang Cheng came to the U.S. from China and achieved the American dream in a short time. But several misunderstandings caused by their daughter, Annabel, suddenly turn their lives upside down. Chen’s voice is smooth and pleasant—his speed and rhythm jibe with the laid-back pace of the story. At some point, though, listeners may think that there’s nothing happening as the conflict the immigrant family experiences unfolds ever so gradually. Be assured that persevering listeners of insightful stories are in for a treat. A.C. © AudioFile 2021, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

★ 2020-08-19
In Han’s remarkable debut, a misunderstanding gathers enough velocity to almost shatter the nucleus of a Chinese immigrant family in 2003 Texas.

With its motion sensors and automatic sprinklers, the Dallas suburb of Plano seems like a high-resolution version of the all-American town. Scratch the veneer, though, and you’ll see turmoil beneath the gloss. The newly arrived Chengs are a barely functional family unit. They’re not just strangers in a new land—they’re practically strangers to each other. Eleven-year-old Jack is just coming to know his family after having spent his formative years with his grandparents in Tianjin, China. Looking to pursue a doctorate in physics, Patty, Jack's mother, had emigrated first, and Liang, her photographer husband, followed shortly after. Patty’s dreams of higher education were aborted when research funding ran out and she was forced to take up work for Texas Semiconductor. After a few years, the couple saved enough money to bring Jack over. In the meantime, Annabel was born. Jack’s 6-year-old sister is a firecracker who exerts her will to ruinous effect at Plano Star Care. Lacking his wife’s pluck, Liang too has challenges to overcome: his insecurities about hailing from peasant stock and an anemic photography business. Han expertly shifts the ground under the narrative, constantly shaking the snow globe to nudge the reader's perspective away from the familiar. The restrained prose is all the more effective as it releases a Molotov cocktail during a singular moment when Jack’s desire to establish a place in his family clashes with his father’s shaky societal standing. Han’s characters are authentic, vulnerable, and utterly convincing, delivering one dynamite novel.

An astutely realized portrait of the collateral damage wrought by the pursuit of the American dream.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940177709291
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	11/17/2020
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Nights When Nothing Happened
 
Late August and early September were the long days of learning. The locker-lined walls of Fillmore Middle School penned Jack in, while his sister’s school, Plano Star Care, shuttled its students on field trips ambitious even for the gifted. During her third week of kindergarten, after a visit to the JFK assassination museum, Annabel used a word she’d never used before: fascinating. “They got video,” she told their mother as the two of them sat at the kitchen table, tearing the ends off green beans. “Fascinating.”

In the adjoining living room, the TV in front of Jack announced the latest scandal in the Catholic Church. Numbers were thrown out. Twelve. Eighty-four. Five hundred and fifty-two. These were scary numbers, the steely eyed commentator stated. Before the commercial break, she promised that they would return to the war coverage.

“He was in the car,” Annabel said. “And the car had no roof. And his head went blam! Like when Daddy dropped the watermelon. Me and Elsie watched fourteen times.”

“Háizi!” his mother said. “Where were your teachers?”

“Around,” Annabel said. “And then we went to the Grassy Knoll. That’s where the video happened. Elsie told me she saw blood on the road.”

Elsie was Annabel’s new best friend. A day earlier, his sister had boasted about Elsie’s dream to hurl herself from the monkey bars so she could break her arm and get a cast littered with drawings and signatures. His mother shushed her now as she’d shushed her then, but Annabel pressed on. “The head,” she said, “the head went blam-blam-blam. All the way to China! Blam!” She snapped the green beans in half—blam!—then in fourths—blam!

“Stop!” his mother said, but Jack didn’t know if she was talking about the JFK story or the green beans. “Stop—wǒde mā ya—stop!”

Jack turned around from the couch: his father was draping a giant forearm around Annabel’s neck. He had Jack’s sister pinned against the chair, his forearm pressing down on her throat as Annabel’s hands flailed in the air. His father grinned and Annabel laughed and his mother laughed and the TV commercial behind Jack laughed, too. He should have laughed, laughed at the silly game his father and sister liked to play.

His father brought his arm back to his side. He scratched his ass with his oven mitt. At his photography studio he slung around long-nosed cameras heavier than babies, while at home he sported an apron of Monet’s water lilies, nearly small enough to serve as a bib. When he smiled he shut his eyes, lost in some distant pleasant thought. His mother laughed when she was happy and frowned when she was upset, but in the five years Jack had known his father, mannequin’s faces had proven easier to read.

“You got to be scarier!” Annabel said. “It’s in the eyes, Daddy!” She stood up on her chair and, without warning, socked his father’s belly. For every action, Jack had learned, there is an equal and opposite reaction. What would it feel like to punch his father in the stomach? When Annabel tired of punching, she plopped back down with the flair of a wounded TV wrestler and plucked the end off a green bean. His mother told her not to put it in her mouth. His father returned to the kitchen, cracking his back on the way. His game was a success. For the time being, Annabel had forgotten about John F. Kennedy’s head.

At Jack’s school the next day, his safety was not a game. Preparing for a potential intruder was no laughing matter. Lock the classroom door. Close the blinds. Turn off the lights. Coach Becker, his health teacher and a demonstrative door locker, twisted the switch as if in slow motion, which led to a resounding, foreboding click. “Push the desks against the door,” Coach Becker said. “Sit in the corner. Now.” When Marco Martinez tittered, Coach Becker ordered him out into the open center of the classroom, to do thirty-five push-ups. Jack looked on with the rest of the class without saying a word. Marco lived across the street and had beaten Jack in sixteen straight games of Clue, but when it came to push-ups there was no need to count. The boy weighed nearly two Jacks and couldn’t get his hips off the ground. He heaved. His eyes, pooled with sweat, implored Coach Becker for mercy. Kill me, he must have been thinking. I want to die! It was better that Marco wasn’t allowed to say it.

When he got home, Jack told Annabel about the drill. “Guess what? We practiced hiding from school shooters. Marco Martinez barfed.” She ate his stories up, with the serious fascination children reserve for adults crying in public, or animals mating. “Oh, I never saw a real shooter,” she said.

“That’s enough,” their father said, herding them to the refrigerator for ice cream.
Annabel refused to sleep by herself again that night. To release herself to sleep was to allow Māma and Daddy to abandon her to a dark and dangerous world. One parent tucking her in was no longer enough. Her wailing reminded Jack of his first months in America, when his father’s nightmares had kept him awake. They lived in a one-bedroom in East Plano then, an apartment half the size of his grandparents’. Think of it like another plane ride, his mother told him. A means to an end, not a place to call home. But from the mattress in the living room, Jack could spy, past the bent plastic of a window blind, switchgrass taller than him. Beyond that, the illuminated sign of a dry cleaner that had been in business for more years than he’d been alive. There was a story in the loose spring by his foot, the stain under one corner of the mattress. A chapter he was living, even as his parents prepared for the next one. When his father sometimes yelled out from his parents’ bedroom in the middle of the night, he did not utter a word, in any language, that Jack could understand. He could only hear his mother on the other side of the door, pleading for him to stop.

Now Jack left the door to his room open and listened as his mother assured Annabel, the way she’d assured Jack in those first months, that there was nothing to see. Nothing under Annabel’s bed, nothing in the closet, nothing in the mirror, nothing in Daddy’s hands, nothing in Daddy’s head. Annabel pecked a cheek that was nothing more than a surface for her lips to touch. She took a gulp of nothing air. When she finally stopped crying, there was no sound of footsteps shuffling back downstairs. No reason for his parents to take their leave. The only way Jack could imagine their bodies fitting on his sister’s bed was with his mother’s elbows prodding Annabel and half of his father’s body splayed over the side.

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