Bitter Melon (18 page)

“Theresa is such a talented cook and so helpful too,” Mom says.

“She’s useful for something,” Nellie says.

“Much more useful than my daughter,” Mom says as she chomps through her orange slice. “She never helps at all around the kitchen, can’t cook a single thing.”

I boil with indignation. Every time I’ve offered to help, she has shooed me away, and now she is accusing me of not helping.

“Practice makes perfect,” Nellie says in English. Then she says to me in Chinese, “Just keep following your mommy and don’t worry, you’ll be a great cook.”

“What’s the point?” Mom says. “She only fills her head with book smarts, but she has no practical talent.”

“She has more talent than you realize, right, Fei Ting?” Nellie smiles at me and waggles her eyebrows up and down. “One day, she might surprise you.”

Theresa and I shrink a few inches into our seats, but Mom doesn’t seem to notice.

“If I let her in the kitchen, she’d probably start a fire and burn the place down,” Mom says. “That’s why I want her to be a doctor, because she probably wouldn’t be good at anything else and she’s not pretty. Who would want to marry someone like that?”

“She might have trouble finding a husband, not because she’s too stupid but because she’s too smart,” Nellie insists. “Most men can’t handle a woman who is more accomplished than he is. Right, Fei Ting?” Again she beams at me. This is too much. The sad thing is she genuinely believes that she’s being subtle.

Quickly, Theresa gathers the dishes and leaves the room. She nearly trips over her own feet. Once in the kitchen, she turns on the faucet and begins washing the dishes.

“Wah, so helpful!” Mom says. Then she turns to me. “See what a good daughter Theresa is? Follow her example and you will be
dai sek.” “Dai sek”
means “lovable,” or “deserving of love.”

“The truth is Theresa can learn a lot from Fei Ting.” Nellie
winks at me again. Then she changes the subject. “How did Fei Ting do on her report card?” she asks Mom.

My heart jumps to my throat.

“What report card?” Mom looks puzzled.

“Gracie! Are you getting absentminded like me?” Nellie says. “Report cards came in two days ago, remember?” Clearly, Mom does not remember. “My Theresa went down from an A to an A-minus in English. How did Fei Ting do?”

Mom looks at me. I look at my lap. That subtle mistake gives me away instantly.

“I don’t know,” Mom says. “How did you do, Fei Ting?”

“I did okay,” I say. I hear Theresa turn off the water in the kitchen.

“She’s so modest, always hiding her accomplishments from others,” Nellie says.

“Either that or she is hiding how much she didn’t accomplish,” Mom says.

Without warning, Mom walks to the couch in the living area, where my backpack is. She picks up my backpack and unzips it. After some fumbling, she takes out the report card and opens it. Nellie walks over to Mom and peeks over her shoulder.

“All As!” Nellie cheers.

Nellie is just scanning the letter grades. But Mom’s eyes are examining every detail. “What’s speech?” she asks. “And where’s calculus?” She flips over the report card, in case calculus is written on the back. But there is no calculus back there, just her forged signature at the bottom. Mom blinks for a moment,
confused, like maybe she indeed signed the card and has gone senile. For confirmation, she looks at me. The expression on my face answers her question.

Mom walks towards me. Her right hand, which is still holding the report card, swings at me and whips me across the face. The report card makes the sound of thunder against my ear. My neck cracks as my head turns from the impact. A second later, my cheek stings and grows hot, swollen, and tingly. I resist the urge to rub my cheek. That will only make her hit me harder.

Through the kitchen doorway, I see that Theresa’s head is bowed, and her eyes are glued to the sink. In contrast, Nellie’s eyes widen with alarm, like two spotlights. Her clownish smiling lips morph into an
O
of surprise at Mom’s reaction.

“Gracie! Don’t be so hard on Fei Ting!” she cries. “Wait here.” She waddles to Theresa’s room. Moments later, she returns, holding my trophy. “Look. She won this at a speech competition.” The brassy trophy catches the light, and for a split second, I am blinded by its brightness.

Nellie hands the trophy to Mom, who is once again confused. Nellie is hoping that my success will soften Mom’s anger. I am hoping so too. But my hopes prove futile. As Mom scrutinizes the trophy, I can almost see the images in her mind flashing behind her eyes like a slide show, documenting every moment I was not home and not accounted for. With each passing second, her frozen expression thaws, giving way to a steely stare.

“So all this time you’ve been working so hard on calculus, hah?” Mom says. Venom drips from the word
calculus
. “To win
this award, you must have put in a lot of time practicing. Is this why you weren’t at Princeton Review on the day of the earthquake? How many other classes did you miss?”

I don’t answer, hoping that her question is rhetorical.

“How many!” My ears pop from the shrillness of her voice.

One thing I should know by now: if I answer her questions, she’ll be angry that I gave the wrong answer, but if I don’t answer, she’ll be mad that I ignored the question.

“Two,” I say.

Then she lunges towards me. Instinctively, I crouch down and shield my body with my arms as Mom beats me with the trophy.

“Put your arms down! Stand up straight!” Mom screams. But I’m unable to will myself to bring my arms down. Though the trophy is hollow and made of plastic, its sharpness and hardness penetrate my elbows, forearms, and hands.

That’s when Nellie races to Mom and grabs her arms. “Stop, Gracie! It’s okay!”

“No, it’s not okay!”

“She’s just a girl. She might get hurt,” Nellie pleads.

“Hurt? I want her to die!”

“That’s enough, Gracie.”

“No! It’s never enough!”

The trophy hovers an inch this way and an inch that way as Nellie and Gracie struggle back and forth.

“Tell Mommy you’re sorry,” Nellie says to me. “Hurry, beg for her forgiveness.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Beg more. Kneel,” Nellie says.

I get down on my knees. Though my legs are shaking, I fight to keep my back straight. A slouchy posture would only incense Mom more. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was wrong to lie.”

“See how sorry she is?” Nellie says to Mom. “She’s on her knees, worshipping you. How can you hit a child who is this sorry? I’m begging you as your sister to stop.”

Finally, Mom’s grip on the trophy relaxes, and Nellie snatches it from her hands. Mom gazes down at me. “Do you really mean it?”

Nellie peers at me from behind Mom and nods her head.

“Yes,” I say, pretending not to see Nellie.

“Then say it,” Mom says.

Didn’t I just say it? What else does she want me to say? I look to Nellie for suggestions, but she keeps nodding encouragingly, which offers me no answers.

“I … shouldn’t have lied. I apologize.” Maybe “apologize” will sound more satisfying than “sorry.”

“Say ‘I’m sorry, Mommy,’ “Mom says.

“I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“And what do you deserve?” Mom says.

What’s the right answer? I deserve nothing? I deserve to be punished? One wrong move and we could revert back to the beating. “Um …”

“Do you deserve to be yelled at?” Mom says, prompting me.

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you deserve to be beaten?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“And do I deserve a daughter like you?”

If I say no, would she interpret that as meaning that she deserves better or that she deserves worse?

“Do I deserve better?” Mom says.

“Yes,” I say, eager to get this over with. Then I correct myself. “Yes, Mommy.”

Mom looks satisfied. “Just remember,” she says, “you can improve yourself and make yourself into the daughter I deserve.”

“Good, good, good.” Nellie rushes to me to help me off my knees. “Everything is okay now. Mommy isn’t mad anymore. Right, Mommy?”

Mom ignores Nellie. “I have to wake up at three a.m.,” she says. “Because of Fei Ting, my stomach hurts, and I won’t be able to sleep at all. Then I’ll be tired and upset all day tomorrow as I work.”

“Well, we shouldn’t keep you from sleeping,” Nellie says with forced cheerfulness.

Nellie drives us home. Then she and Theresa walk Mom and me up the stairs. As soon as Mom and I enter our apartment, Nellie and Theresa turn to go.

I walk with them to the gate, as if I could follow them home. I want to beg them to stay awhile longer. I’m afraid of what Mom will do once they’re gone. But I don’t dare ask them to stay, not after what they’ve been through. Just by intervening as much as she did, Nellie already crossed the line. The proper thing to do would have been to mind her own business and not interfere, even agree with Mom and side against me. By trying to stop Mom from beating me, Nellie insinuated that Mom’s choice was wrong. That is the worst offense of all, to accuse a parent of being wrong. The parents must always be right; otherwise they lose face. And by losing face, they lose their authority in the family.

Before closing the gate behind her, Nellie grabs my hand and squeezes it. “She didn’t mean it,” she whispers. “It’s because she loves you so much that she gets this upset. So be good and don’t upset her anymore.” Nellie points to her heart. “I know that inside, you’re a good girl.” I watch Nellie and Theresa disappear into their car and down the street. I am left alone, weak and unprotected.

When I return to our apartment, Mom makes her way into the bedroom. “Ingrate,” she mutters as she slams the door behind her. How many times I’ve wished that I had my own room. Now I will have to spend the whole night just a few feet above her body, where her anger and judgments reside, as if she is a fire and I am a roast pig being turned on a skewer above the flames.

I stand outside the door, afraid to enter the bedroom, while my toes turn to ice on the linoleum floor. After about fifteen
minutes, when my feet have grown numb, I tentatively open the door. Mom is snoring softly. Thank goodness. I carefully climb up the ladder to the top bunk, trying not to make a noise. A couple of times, I cause a creak and break out in sweat, afraid that Mom will wake up and hit me all over again. Fortunately, she doesn’t wake and I make it to bed safely. I pull the blankets up to my face and feel their softness against my lips.

After losing Derek, I consoled myself with speech. I vowed to hold on to it with all my might. But now it seems that even that is slipping from my grasp, in spite of my best efforts. How foolish I was to think that I could outsmart Mom. It is like swimming against a riptide, climbing out of quicksand, or hanging on to a pole in the midst of a hurricane. You can fight nature for only so long before you are swallowed by it.

It is the day after my mother beat me with my trophy. I slow my steps as I approach the locker room. Theresa always gets there before I do. Normally, this is our meeting spot, where we gossip and chat before class. But after being beaten by my mother right in front of her, I can barely face her.

Theresa is quietly placing her books into her bag. Her movements seem particularly somber.

“Hi,” I say, trying to sound normal, as I turn my combination lock.

“Hi.” She waits for me as I unload my books. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Mom gave me a real tongue-lashing last night. She almost didn’t let me compete this Friday. She was afraid that speech was causing me to go evil. But once she blew off some steam, she changed her mind. At least I didn’t get hit or anything.”

Then Theresa asks the inevitable question. “What are you going to do about this Friday?”

I know what I must do—even if Ms. Taylor hates me for it.