Bitter Melon (36 page)

We finally approach the airport signs that say
ARRIVALS
and
DEPARTURES
. Theresa steers into the departures area and pulls up to the curb. She reaches into her purse, takes out a thick wad of cash, and tucks it into my jacket pocket.

“It should be enough for a plane ticket and cab,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, “for all the things you shouldn’t have done.”

I take one last look at her long face and crescent eyes, which remind me of the moon. I take a mental photograph of the green pendant that sits right below her collarbone, resting on her pink angora sweater.

“Good luck, Frances,” Theresa says. Then she turns away from me, directing her gaze to the road ahead of her.

I exit the station wagon and step onto the curb. All around me, people are rushing back and forth while dragging their suitcases. Horns honk. Engines rev and idle. People shout. A sharp whistle slices the air. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke fills my nostrils and lungs. My heart starts racing. Can I do this?

Then I take a deep breath and gather my energy. I assume my speech posture, spine erect and shoulders back, and I march into the airport.

A few hours later, I step off the plane in the Ontario airport. Outside, the first thing I notice is the blue sky. The bright light and intense heat are dizzying. The hot sun bakes my cold skin. I close my eyes and turn my face to the sun for a moment to soak up its rays before hailing a cab.

F
EBRUARY
1991

Though the temperature has cooled down, it is still sunny and warm, about seventy-five degrees. I am finishing up my campus tour. After the crowd thanks me and disperses, I check my watch and notice how tan my arm has become. To remind myself of how I used to look, I peel back my wristband, revealing a strip of white skin made even whiter by the caramel brown next to it.

On the way to the cafeteria, I pass a long row of orange trees and admire the mountains, which were invisible until winter, when the smog cleared. I decide on the spur of the moment to stop by the mailroom first. In my cubbyhole is an envelope addressed to me. I am eager to open it, thinking that it is from Derek. Once I pick it up, however, I recognize right away my mother’s lean, sharply slanted handwriting. My heart starts pounding.

Nervously, I walk back to my room, squeezing the envelope with my fingers, trying to make out its contents. I imagine a letter several pages long. I hear Mom’s voice, sharp as her penmanship, reciting this imaginary letter. She complains about how much she is suffering. She tells me that this is all my fault. Mentally, I prepare a defiant response.

Then again, maybe it’s not an angry letter. My mother’s
imaginary voice takes on a pleading tone. Again, she tells me how much she is suffering, but this time she says that she needs me. She begs me not to turn my back on her again. Her voice breaks into sobs. The ink on the letter bleeds and runs where her tears fall. I picture her doubled over, clenching her stomach, which is bloated with spasms. My defiance deflates.

By the time I’ve reached my dorm, I’ve imagined half a dozen bad letters and am drenched in sweat. I hold the envelope up to the window the way a farmer holds an egg up to the light, but it’s a security envelope and does not reveal what’s inside. Which of my imaginary letters does this letter most resemble? Am I better off opening it or throwing it away?

Finally, I open it.

It is a shiny red envelope with gold Chinese brushstroke characters. Inside the red envelope are ten crisp hundred-dollar bills folded in half.

Why? What for?

Then it hits me. It’s Chinese New Year. I completely forgot.

Every New Year’s Eve, we would wash our hair and eat a big fancy meal at Auntie Nellie’s. On New Year’s Day, we would eat vegetarian food and abstain from washing our hair. On the day after New Year’s, we would eat another elaborate nonvegetarian meal similar to that of New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t until the third day that we were permitted to wash our hair again.

Another New Year’s practice was the giving and receiving of
laycee
, or lucky money in red envelopes. Older and married people would give
laycee
to younger and unmarried people. The
cash was always crisp and new, never old and wrinkly. Each couple would give two envelopes, one for each spouse. I always got two envelopes from Nellie, but Mom would only give me one. She refused to pretend that my father had anything to give to me. But she always made a point of giving me twice the amount that Nellie gave me. Looking back, I think that was her way of showing that she was compensating for my father’s absence, to prove that I wasn’t being cheated.

Ms. Taylor always emphasized the power of words and the importance of having a voice in society. For Mom, money was her voice, her words. As I hold these crisp bills in my hand, their fresh ink filling my nostrils, I wonder: what is my mother saying to me? Is this another ploy, or is Mom being conciliatory? Should I accept her money or should I throw it back in her face? Should I do nothing or should I acknowledge her gift, and if I should acknowledge it, how? Via a letter? A phone call? What should I say to her? What would she say back to me?

I don’t have the answers to these questions. But I do know one thing: no matter what, I will finish my education here. In the worst-case scenario, Mom could take me down a few notches, even reduce me to tears, but she cannot take me back to where I was a year ago.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, repeating this promise to myself. Then I dial my mother’s number, which is seared into my memory, like her voice.

She picks up after the first ring. She doesn’t say hello or ask who it is. She doesn’t need to. She knows it’s me.

I am very grateful to Stephen Barbara, my agent, who is the greatest advocate, teacher, and friend a writer could ever have.

I am also thankful for Elizabeth Law, my editor, whose intuitive and insightful comments pushed my manuscript to the highest level. Her brilliance, enthusiasm, tact, and sense of humor made the revision process illuminating and fun.

Terry Wolverton has shepherded this book from its inception. She has taught me everything I know about writing and being a writer. Her influence over the years has also made me a better teacher and person.

My classmates in Terry’s class, One Page at a Time, patiently slogged through numerous drafts of this book. I am so thankful for their friendship and critiques.

Thanks to the PEN Emerging Voices Program, through which I developed the early drafts of this book, and to Leslie Schwartz, my PEN EV mentor, for her generosity, support, and meticulous attention to detail.

Christine Lee and Barbara Willson were my go- to people whenever I had questions about Chinese culture and speech competition respectively.

This book could not have been finished without a mom’s best
friend: child care. And for that great gift, I have to thank Katie Leigh Webb, Karen Chow, Hugh Kunkel, Walter Snow, and Christine Lee.

And finally, I must thank my husband, Eddie Nishi. Eddie was the one who told me that I should be a writer. He encouraged me to leave my full-time job and, later, supported my decision to work part-time so I would have more time to write. He sacrificed many evenings and weekends to watch our son so I could complete my revisions. Without him, I would have never become a writer and this book would not exist.

CARA CHOW was born in Hong Kong and grew up in the Richmond district of San Francisco, where
Bitter Melon
is set. She was a PEN Emerging Voices Fellow and currently lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband and son.