Bitter Melon (35 page)

Just then, Mrs. Tai enters from the back. She is unaware of what happened just moments ago. “Fei Ting,” she says cheerfully, “you must be excited about college!”

“No, not really,” I say. I project my voice to speech level so that everyone can hear. “Originally, I was looking forward to going to Scripps, but my mother threw away my acceptance package to make me think that I got rejected.”

Their jaws all drop simultaneously.

“I’m sure it was an accident,” Nellie suggests. “Your mommy must have thought it was something else.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I reply, “because when I brought it up, she slapped me hard across the face.”

Now other customers are staring at me.

“I got scholarships to relieve her burden,” I announce to everyone in the bakery. “I even worked a summer job to pay for airfare and my books. But she stole my money and my plane ticket and refuses to give them back to me.”

The other customers look away or walk away from me like I’m crazy. I endure this discomfort the way I endure Mom’s insults. The only pleasure I get is seeing Mom look down, helpless and ashamed. What is she going to do, hit me in public?

I pick a table near the front window and sit down, pretending not to notice people’s reactions to me. Nellie grabs my
gai mei bao
, and she, Theresa, and Mom join me. Nellie and Theresa eat quickly, making themselves look busy. Mom just stares at her bun. I ignore mine and gaze nonchalantly out the window.

After Nellie is done licking her fingers and picking up crumbs, she says to me, “Fei Ting, eat your bun.”

“I would love to but I can’t,” I say. “My mother will call me lazy and ugly.” I push the bun towards Nellie. “Here, you eat.” With hesitation, Nellie wraps up the bun to go.

“Well, let’s hurry,” Nellie says. “The jewelry shop will open soon.”

Immediately, I get up and walk to the door first. Instead of holding the door for my mother, I let it swing back in her face, walking away as if she doesn’t exist. Nellie catches up to me. “Fei Ting, please stop! This is cruel,” she hisses.

“Tell her that the next time she beats me with a sharp object,” I say.

As we wait for the bus, I never stand less than a few feet away from my mother. On the bus, Mom spots a vacant double seat and sits down. Rather than sit next to her, I pick an empty single seat a few rows up. In contrast, Nellie and Theresa sit side by side in one of the double seats. I do not allow myself to see their expressions.

We get off at Union Square in Downtown and connect to the 30 Stockton bus to cross the long, dark, echoey tunnel into Chinatown. Union Square has theaters and department store window displays. Each window looks like an inviting make-believe world. Chinatown, on the other hand, is lined with pavement littered with dirt, trash, fresh spit, and old wads of chewing gum. Honking horns and loud talking people litter the air the way the trash litters the streets. The crowds of people
form conflicting currents of foot traffic that push me this way and that.

When we get to the jewelry shop on Stockton Street, the storeowner, Mr. Wong, greets Mom. Mom pastes on a big smile and introduces me as her daughter, the winner of the Chinese American Association speech contest. Doesn’t he remember seeing me on Channel 26? Mom asks him. Mr. Wong covers his confusion with feigned recognition. Of course he remembers me. What a smart girl I am. Just lucky, Mom says. Instead of nodding and smiling, denying my excellence, I turn away and walk to the opposite side of the room. I focus my eyes on the loud red carpet, the garish gold accents throughout the shop, and the sparkle of gold and gems in the display case. Mom explains that I graduated at the top of my class, that I deserve a pretty necklace as a reward. Mr. Wong heartily agrees. I roll my eyes.

As Mom and Mr. Wong peruse the jewelry, I peruse the jade bracelets from several feet away. They come in different shades and marbled combinations of green, violet, white, and brown. They also come in different sizes, from adult to infant. I remember my childhood bracelet and the way Mom left it on me until it threatened to crush my growing wrist. Suddenly, that too takes on symbolic significance. How many other ways has she harnessed me, hindering my growth?

“Fei Ting, look at this one,” Mom says. She is holding up a twenty-four-karat gold necklace with a jade pendant. “What do you think?”

Her voice is too kind, almost pleading. In return, I shrug, looking bored.

Mom smiles a polite, fragile smile for Mr. Wong. “Come over here and try it,” she says to me, the way lenient parents coax tantruming toddlers.

I walk towards her, but I make each step look like an inconvenience.

Mom holds the pendant up to my face. “It’s Gwun Yum. Remember Gwun Yum?” This Gwun Yum is the highest quality jade, bright green, like a traffic light. I am mesmerized by its greenness for a moment before I recover my composure.

“I’m allergic to gold,” I tell her.

“But Theresa’s wearing one, see?”

Across the way, Nellie is trying on a twenty-four-karat necklace. She holds one up for Theresa to try on, but Theresa shakes her head. She looks like she’s trying not to cry.

“I’m not Theresa,” I say.

Despite my protestations, Mom clasps it at the back of my neck and turns me to face the little mirror on the glass display case.

“Isn’t that pretty?” Mom says.

I see my own reflection in the mirror, with Gwun Yum perched an inch below the space between my collarbones. I remember the last time I wore her image around my neck, when Theresa lent me hers for good luck during my first competition. She would never behave this way. I can’t bring myself to think about what she might be thinking now. Above
Gwun Yum, I see my face. Its expression looks pouty, selfish, cruel … ugly.

“You’re so lucky to have such a generous mother,” Mr. Wong says. He probably feels contempt for me for not being more respectful. But I don’t let him shame me. He’s not morally superior. He just wants to make a sale and I am merely his obstacle.

“Do you like it?” Mom asks me.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“Mommy will buy it for you, okay?”

“With what, the money you stole from me?” I say. “I would much rather you spend it on my education than on a piece of jewelry.”

Mr. Wong’s smile disappears. Quickly, he recovers and nods at Mom, the one holding the purse strings. Mom tries to smile back, though her effort is strained. Then Mom pulls out hundred-dollar bills to pay for the necklace. Is it the money she stole from my account? This thought burns my chest like a branding iron.

“All that cash, gone just like that,” I say. “Do you know how many hours I had to work to earn all that? You must not know the value of money.” I relish turning Mom’s own words against her.

Mr. Wong takes out a pink silk pouch with elaborate embroidery to package the necklace, but Mom stops him. “Fei Ting, don’t you want to wear this home?” She’s almost begging me now.

“No thanks,” I say as I walk out the door. I let it close before Mom can follow. She hurries to catch up with me, but I do not
wait for her. Instead, I keep a steady pace, staying a few feet in front of her, as if she has nothing to do with me.

There are groups of old people walking side by side, some friends and some couples, wearing dark silk vests, with their backs hunched over and their hands clasped behind their backs. Immigrant mothers have infants tied to their fronts or backs in cloth bundles. Adult and teenage children are walking with their mothers and grandmothers, guiding them gently by the arm as if their mothers were frail and might fall. Theresa walks with Nellie in this way. They are just a couple of feet behind Mom. Only I am walking alone.

As we board the Stockton bus, Nellie grabs my wrist and hisses, “Fei Ting, stop!” She tugs on my hand, urging me to go sit with my mother. I wrench my hand from her and pick a solitary seat far away. Finally,
she
is following
me
. I am breaking her.
How does it feel?
I think as I watch her hunch over, clutching her stomach.

Before entering the tunnel to Downtown, the bus pauses. Through the window, I see an elderly woman sitting on the street. Her thin white hair is cut in a bob, like Mom’s. She is wearing a black Chinese jacket, just like the one worn by Popo in her photo, only this woman’s jacket is faded and tattered. Her skin is littered with age spots, and the creases on her face remind me of the skin of an elephant. She looks straight at me. Her old brown eyes have faded to blue. She has no teeth, except for a few gold ones. She reaches out her hand to me, as if begging for help.

She is all alone, with no one to help her. Does she have children? Did they leave her too?

The bus starts up again. We enter the tunnel, leaving the woman behind. I sternly remind myself that if Mom had the upper hand, she would not be merciful towards me. I crush any seed of compassion that might germinate.

Once we pass the tunnel into Union Square, I step off the bus without waiting for Mom, as if the bus could carry her away and it wouldn’t be my concern. Mom follows me passively, like a stray puppy.

We transfer to the Balboa bus. Finally, Nellie and Theresa exit at the 30th Avenue stop. Theresa runs home with her hand over her mouth while Nellie chases after her, huffing and puffing. Seeing Theresa this distraught sends a sour pain through my chest, but I force myself to endure it. I exit at the 32nd Avenue stop and let the door close on Mom’s face. The moment we walk through the front door at home, Mom’s shell of dignity collapses. Sobs escape from her as she hunches over, with one arm clasping her belly and the other grabbing the doorknob for support.

“You’re killing me,” she says between sobs. She slowly sinks to the floor until she is kneeling. “You are my life,” she says. “I have given you everything. What more do you want?”

“I want my money back,” I say. “I want to leave.”

Mom sobs some more.

“Now,” I say.

“I can’t. All the money is in the bank.”

“Write me a check.”

“But you have no account.”

“I’ll get a new one.” Without her name on it.

“How will you get a plane ticket with no cash and no bank account?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Weakly, Mom pulls her checkbook out of her purse and writes me a check. I make sure it is the right amount, and it is, down to the penny.

“Everything I did, I did for you,” she says.

“No,” I say. “You did it for yourself.”

Mom looks at me, her eyes wide with confusion. “Aren’t the two the same?” she says.

I stuff my backpack with my clothes and toiletries. Whatever doesn’t fit I decide to leave behind. It seems hypocritical to accuse Mom of stealing my money and then take her suitcase without her permission. Of course, she could argue that I shouldn’t be taking my backpack or my clothes, for that matter, because she paid for those too. A half hour later, I am ready to go. My plan is to take the bus and the BART to the airport and to purchase a plane ticket there. I don’t know exactly how I will buy the ticket, but I hope that if I ask the right person, I can figure it out.

I put on my jacket and backpack and head for the door. Mom
is lying on the couch, clutching her stomach. She looks wilted and trampled upon, very much like she did when I came back from my first speech competition. I feel my mother’s helplessness like an octopus arm wrapping around me. I feel her hold tightening, cutting off my circulation. Without looking at her, without saying good-bye, I walk out, tearing myself away from her, away from this apartment, until the part of me that she is holding on to snaps off. Though it hurts, though I bleed, I continue down the stairs to the security gate.

To my surprise, I find Theresa standing outside the gate, peering in. The fog outside is so thick that the water droplets dot her jacket and hair like glitter. Her car is illegally parked behind her.

Without words, we climb into her car.

As Theresa drives me through Golden Gate Park, I watch the fog accumulate on the windshield until Theresa has to turn on the wipers.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Don’t thank me,” Theresa replies. “If I had driven you to the airport when you asked me to, you’d be at Scripps now, and none of this—” Her voice catches. She swallows to regain her composure. “Come to think of it, if I hadn’t helped you with speech in the first place, you wouldn’t have gotten close to Ms. Taylor and she wouldn’t have persuaded you to apply to Scripps.”

It is amazing how that first day in Ms. Taylor’s class changed the course of my life.

“Theresa, do you regret helping me?” I immediately regret asking this.

Theresa sighs. “I shouldn’t have helped you with speech. I shouldn’t have helped you with Derek. And I shouldn’t be driving you to the airport.”

We are silent for the rest of the drive. As we approach the 280 freeway, I hear echoes of my speech.